Текст книги "Fifty Shades Freed"

Автор книги: Erika Leonard James

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

“I’ll objectify you then,” I murmur, pressing the shutter again. On the final still his lips twitch almost imperceptibly. I press again, and this time he smiles . . . a

small smile, but a smile nevertheless. I hold down the button once more and see him physically relax in front of me and pout—a full-on, posed, ridiculous, “Blue

Steel” pout, and it makes me giggle. Oh, thank heavens. Mr. Mercurial is back—and I’ve never been so pleased to see him.

“I thought it was my present,” he mutters sulkily, but I think he’s teasing.

“Well, it was supposed to be fun, but apparently it’s a symbol of women’s oppression.” I snap away, taking more pictures of him, and watch the amusement

grow on his face in super close-up. Then his eyes darken, and his expression changes to predatory.

“You want to be oppressed?” he murmurs silkily.

“Not oppressed. No,” I murmur back, snapping again.

“I could oppress you big time, Mrs. Grey,” he threatens, his voice husky.

“I know you can, Mr. Grey. And you do, frequently.”

His face falls. Shit. I lower the camera and stare at him.

“What’s wrong, Christian?” My voice oozes frustration. Tell me!

He says nothing. Gah! He’s so infuriating. I lift the camera to my eye again.

“Tell me,” I insist.

“Nothing,” he says and abruptly disappears from the viewfinder. In one swift, smooth move, he sweeps the camera box onto the cabin floor, grabs me and pushes

me down onto the bed. He sits astride me.

“Hey!” I exclaim and take more photographs of him, smiling down at me with dark intent. He grabs the camera by the lens, and the photographer becomes the

subject as he points the Nikon at me and presses the shutter down.

“So, you want me to take pictures of you, Mrs. Grey?” he says, amused. All I can see of his face is his unruly hair and a broad grin on his sculptured mouth.

“Well, for a start, I think you should be laughing,” he says, and he tickles me ruthlessly under my ribs, making me squeal and giggle and squirm beneath him until I

“Well, for a start, I think you should be laughing,” he says, and he tickles me ruthlessly under my ribs, making me squeal and giggle and squirm beneath him until I

grasp his wrist in a vain attempt to make him stop. His grin widens, and he renews his efforts while snapping pictures.

“No! Stop!” I scream.

“Are you kidding?” he growls and puts the camera down beside us so that he can torture me with both hands.

“Christian!” I splutter and gasp my laughing protest. He has never ever tickled me before. Fuck—stop! I thrash my head from side to side, trying to wiggle out

from under him, giggling and pushing both of his hands away, but he’s unrelenting—grinning down at me, enjoying my torment.

“Christian, stop!” I plead and he stops suddenly. Grabbing both of my hands, he holds them down on either side of my head while looming over me. I am

panting and breathless with laughter. His breathing mirrors mine, and he gazes down at me with . . . what? My lungs stop functioning. Wonder? Love? Reverence?

Holy cow. That look!

“You. Are. So. Beautiful,” he breathes.

I stare up at his dear, dear face bathed in the intensity of his gaze, and it’s as if he’s seeing me for the first time. Leaning down, he closes his eyes and kisses me,

enraptured. His response is a wake-up call to my libido . . . seeing him like this, undone, by me. Oh my. He releases my hands and curls his fingers around my head

and into my hair, holding me gently in place, and my body rises and fills with my arousal, responding to his kiss. And suddenly the nature of his kiss alters, no

longer sweet, reverential and admiring, but carnal, deep and devouring—his tongue invading my mouth, taking not giving, his kiss possessing a desperate needy

edge. As desire courses through my blood, awakening every muscle and sinew in its wake, I feel a frisson of alarm.

Oh, Fifty, what’s wrong?

He inhales sharply and groans. “Oh, what you do to me,” he murmurs, lost and raw. He moves suddenly, lying down on top of me, pressing me into the mattress

–one hand cupping my chin, the other skimming over my body, my breast, my waist, my hip, and around my behind. He kisses me again, pushing his leg between

mine, raising my knee, and grinding against me, his erection straining against our clothes and my sex. I gasp and moan against his lips, losing myself to his fervent

passion. I dismiss the distant alarm bells in the back of my mind, knowing that he wants me, that he needs me, and that when it comes to communicating with me,

this is his favorite form of self-expression. I kiss him with renewed abandon, running my fingers through his hair, fisting my hands, holding tight. He tastes so good

and smells of Christian, my Christian.

Abruptly, he stops, stands up, and pulls me off the bed so that I am standing in front of him, dazed. He undoes the button on my shorts and kneels quickly,

yanking them and my panties down, and before I can breathe again, I am back on the bed beneath him and he’s unbuttoning his fly. Holy cow, he’s not taking off

his clothes or my T-shirt. He holds my head and with no preamble whatsoever he thrusts himself inside me, making me cry out—more in surprise than anything else

–but I can still hear the hiss of his breath forced through his clenched teeth.

“Yessss,” he hisses close to my ear. He stills, then swivels his hips once, pushing deeper, making me groan.

“I need you,” he growls, his voice low and husky. He runs his teeth along my jaw, nipping and sucking, and then he’s kissing me again, hard. I wrap my legs

and arms around him, cradling and holding him hard against me, determined to wipe out whatever’s worrying him, and he starts to move . . . move like he’s trying

to climb inside me. Over and over, frantic, primal, desperate, and before I lose myself in the insane rhythm and pace he’s setting, I briefly wonder once more what’s

driving him, worrying him. But my body takes over, obliterating the thought, climbing and building so I am awash with sensation, meeting him thrust for thrust.

Listening to his harsh breathing, labored and fierce at my ear. Knowing that he’s lost in me . . . I groan loudly, panting. It’s so erotic—his need for me. I am

reaching . . . reaching . . . and he’s driving me higher, overwhelming me, taking me, and I want this. I want this so much . . . for him and for me.

“Come with me,” he gasps, and he rears up over me so I have to break my hold around him.

“Open your eyes,” he orders. “I need to see you.” His voice is urgent, implacable. My eyes flicker open momentarily, and the sight of him above me—his face

taut with ardor, his eyes raw and glowing. His passion and his love is my undoing, and on cue I come, throwing my head back as my body pulses around him.

“Oh, Ana,” he cries and he joins my climax, driving into me, then stilling and collapsing onto me. He rolls over so that I’m sprawled on top of him, and he’s still

inside me. As I surface from my orgasm and my body steadies and calms, I want to make some quip about being objectified and oppressed, but hold my tongue,

uncertain of his mood. I glance up from Christian’s chest to examine his face. His eyes are closed and his arms are wrapped around me, clinging tight. I kiss his

chest through the thin fabric of his linen shirt.

“Tell me, Christian, what’s wrong?” I ask softly and wait anxiously to see if even now, sated by sex, he’ll tell me. I feel his arms tighten around me further, but

it’s his only response. He’s not going to talk. Inspiration hits me.

“I give you my solemn vow to be your faithful partner in sickness and in health, to stand by your side in good times and in bad, to share your joy as well as your

sorrow,” I murmur.

He freezes. His only movement is to open wide his fathomless eyes and gaze at me as I continue my wedding vows.

“I promise to love you unconditionally, to support you in your goals and dreams, to honor and respect you, to laugh with you and cry with you, to share my

hopes and dreams with you, and bring you solace in times of need.” I pause, willing him to talk to me. He watches me, his lips parted, but says nothing.

“And to cherish you for as long as we both shall live.” I sigh.

“Oh, Ana,” he whispers and moves again, breaking our precious contact so that we’re lying side by side. He strokes my face with the back of his knuckles.

“I solemnly vow that I will safeguard and hold dear and deep in my heart our union and you,” he whispers, his voice hoarse. “I promise to love you faithfully,

forsaking all others, through the good times and the bad, in sickness or in health, regardless of where life takes us. I will protect you, trust you, and respect you. I

will share your joys and sorrows and comfort you in times of need. I promise to cherish you and uphold your hopes and dreams and keep you safe at my side. All

that is mine is now yours. I give you my hand, my heart, and my love from this moment on for as long as we both shall live.”

Tears spring to my eyes. His face softens as he gazes at me.

“Don’t cry,” he murmurs, his thumb catching and dispatching a stray tear.

“Why won’t you talk to me? Please, Christian.”

He closes his eyes as if in pain.

“I vowed I would bring you solace in times of need. Please don’t make me break my vows.”

He sighs and opens his eyes, his expression bleak. “It’s arson,” he says simply, and he looks suddenly so young and vulnerable.

Oh fuck.

“And my biggest worry is that they are after me. And if they are after me—” He stops, unable to continue.

“. . . They might get me,” I whisper. He blanches, and I know that I have finally uncovered the root of his anxiety. I caress his face.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

He frowns. “What for?”

“For telling me.”

He shakes his head and a ghost of a smile touches his lips. “You can be very persuasive, Mrs. Grey.”

“And you can brood and internalize all your feelings and worry yourself to death. You’ll probably die of a heart attack before you’re forty, and I want you

around far longer than that.”

“Mrs. Grey, you’ll be the death of me. The sight of you on the Jet Ski—I nearly had a coronary.” He flops back on the bed and puts his hand over his eyes, and I

“Mrs. Grey, you’ll be the death of me. The sight of you on the Jet Ski—I nearly had a coronary.” He flops back on the bed and puts his hand over his eyes, and I

feel him shudder.

“Christian, it’s a Jet Ski. Even kids ride Jet Skis. Can you imagine what you’ll be like when we visit your place in Aspen and I go skiing for the first time?”

He gasps and turns to face me, and I want to laugh at the horror on his face.

“Our place,” he says eventually.

I ignore him. “I’m a grown-up, Christian, and much tougher than I look. When are you going to learn this?”

He shrugs and his mouth thins. I decide to change the subject.

“So, the fire. Do the police know about the arson?”

“Yes.” His expression is serious.

“Good.”

“Security is going to get tighter,” he says matter-of-factly.

“I understand.” I glance down his body. He’s still wearing his shorts and his shirt, and I still have my T-shirt on. Jeez—talk about wham, bam, thank you ma’am.

The thought makes me giggle.

“What?” Christian asks, bemused.

“You.”

“Me?”

“Yes. You. Still dressed.”

“Oh.” He glances down at himself, then back at me, and his face erupts into an enormous smile.

“Well, you know how hard it is for me to keep my hands off you, Mrs. Grey—especially when you’re giggling like a schoolgirl.”

Oh yes—the tickling. Gah! The tickling. I move quickly so that I’m straddling him, but immediately understanding my evil intent, he grabs both of my wrists.

“No,” he says and he means it.

I pout at him but decide that he’s not ready for this.

“Please don’t,” he whispers. “I couldn’t bear it. I was never tickled as a child.” He pauses and I relax my hands so he doesn’t have to restrain me.

“I used to watch Carrick with Elliot and Mia, tickling them, and it looked like such fun, but I . . . I . . .”

I place my index finger on his lips.

“Hush, I know,” I murmur and plant a soft kiss on his lips where my finger has just been, then curl up on his chest. The familiar painful ache swells inside me,

and the profound sadness that I hold in my heart for Christian as a little boy seizes me once more. I know I would do anything for this man because I love him so.

He puts his arms around me and presses his nose into my hair, inhaling deeply as he gently strokes my back. I don’t know how long we lie there, but eventually I

break the comfortable silence between us.

“What is the longest you’ve gone without seeing Dr. Flynn?”

“Two weeks. Why? Do you have an incorrigible urge to tickle me?”

“No.” I chuckle. “I think he helps you.”

Christian snorts. “He should; I pay him enough.” He pulls my hair gently, turning my face to look up at him. I lift my head and meet his gaze.

“Are you concerned for my well-being, Mrs. Grey?” he asks softly.

“Every good wife is concerned for her beloved husband’s well-being, Mr. Grey,” I admonish him teasingly.

“Beloved?” he whispers, and it’s a poignant question hanging between us.

“Very much beloved.” I scoot up to kiss him, and he smiles his shy smile.

“Do you want to go ashore to eat, Mrs. Grey?”

“I want to eat wherever you’re happiest.”

“Good.” He grins. “Aboard it is where I can keep you safe. Thank you for my present.” He reaches over and grabs the camera, and holding it at arm’s length, he

snaps the two of us in our post tickling, postcoital, post confessional embrace.

“The pleasure is all mine,” I smile and his eyes light up.

We wander through the opulent, gilt splendor of the eighteenth century Palace of Versailles. Once a humble hunting lodge, it was transformed by the Roi Soleil into

a magnificent, lavish seat of power, but even before the eighteenth century ended it saw the last of those absolute monarchs.

The most stunning room by far is the Hall of Mirrors. The early afternoon light floods through windows to the west, lighting up the mirrors that line the east wall

and illuminating the gold leaf décor and the enormous crystal chandeliers. It’s breathtaking.

“Interesting to see what becomes of a despotic megalomaniac who isolates himself in such splendor,” I murmur to Christian as he stands at my side. He gazes

down and cocks his head to one side, regarding me with humor.

“Your point, Mrs. Grey?”

“Oh, merely an observation, Mr. Grey.” I wave my hand airily at the surroundings. Smirking, he follows me to the center of the room where I stand and gawk at

the view—the spectacular gardens reflected in the looking glass and the spectacular Christian Grey, my husband, reflected back at me, his gaze bright and bold.

“I would build this for you,” he whispers. “Just to see the way the light burnishes your hair, right here, right now.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “You

look like an angel.” He kisses me just below my earlobe, takes my hand in his, and murmurs, “We despots do that for the women we love.”

I flush at his compliment, smiling shyly, and follow him through the vast room.

“What are you thinking about?” Christian asks softly, taking a sip of his after-dinner coffee.

“Versailles.”

“Ostentatious, wasn’t it?” He grins. I glance around the more understated grandeur of the Fair Lady’s dining room and purse my lips.

“This is hardly ostentatious,” Christian says, a tad defensively.

“I know. It’s lovely. The best honeymoon a girl could want.”

“Really?” he says, genuinely surprised. And he smiles his shy smile.

“Of course it is.”

“Of course it is.”

“We’ve only got two more days. Is there anything you’d like to see or do?”

“Just be with you,” I murmur. He rises from the table, comes around, and kisses me on the forehead.

“Well, can you do without me for about an hour? I need to check my e-mails, find out what’s happening at home.”

“Sure,” I say brightly, trying to hide my disappointment that I’ll be without him for an hour. Is it freaky that I want to be with him all the time? My subconscious

presses her lips into a narrow, unattractive line and nods vigorously.

“Thank you for the camera,” he murmurs and heads for the study.

Back in our cabin I decide to catch up on my correspondence and open my laptop. There are e-mails from my mom and from Kate, giving me the latest gossip from

home and asking how the honeymoon is going. Well, great, until someone decided to burn down GEH Inc. . . . As I finish my response to my mom, an e-mail from

Kate hits my inbox.

From: Katherine L. Kavanagh

Date: August 17, 2011 11:45 PST

To: Anastasia Grey

Subject: OMG!!!!

Ana, just heard about the fire at Christian’s office.

Do you think it’s arson?

K xox

Kate is online! I jump on to my newfound toy—Skype messaging—and see that she’s available. I quickly type a message.

Oh no—I’m sure Christian doesn’t want this broadcast all over Seattle. I try my patented distract-tenacious-Kavanagh technique.

Trust Kate to be on the trail of this story. I roll my eyes and shut Skype down before Christian sees the chat. He wouldn’t appreciate the ex-Dom comment, and

I’m not sure he’s entirely ex . . .

I sigh loudly. Kate knows everything, since our tipsy evening three weeks before the wedding when I finally succumbed to the Kavanagh inquisition. It was a

relief to finally talk to someone.

relief to finally talk to someone.

I glance at my watch. It’s been about an hour since dinner, and I am missing my husband. I head back on deck to see if he’s finished his work.

I am in the Hall of Mirrors and Christian is standing beside me, smiling down at me with love and affection. You look like an angel. I beam back at him, but when I

glance into the looking glass, I’m standing on my own and the room is gray and drab. No! My head whips back to his face, to find his smile is sad and wistful. He

tucks my hair behind my ear. Then he turns wordlessly and walks away slowly, the sound of his footsteps echoing off the mirrors as he paces the enormous room to

the ornate double doors at the end . . . a man on his own, a man with no reflection . . . and I wake, gasping for air, as panic seizes me.

“Hey,” he whispers from beside me in the darkness, his voice filled with concern.

Oh, he’s here. He’s safe. Relief courses through me.

“Oh, Christian,” I mumble, trying to bring my pounding heartbeat under control. He wraps me in his arms, and it’s only then that I realize I have tears streaming

down my face.

“Ana, what is it?” He strokes my cheek, wiping away my tears, and I can hear his anguish.

“Nothing. A silly nightmare.”

He kisses my forehead and my tearstained cheeks, comforting me. “Just a bad dream, baby,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you. I’ll keep you safe.”

Drinking in his scent, I curl around him, trying to ignore the loss and devastation I felt in my dream, and in that moment, I know that my deepest, darkest fear

would be losing him.

I stir, instinctively reaching for Christian only to feel his absence. Shit! I wake instantly and look anxiously around the cabin. Christian is watching me from the

small, upholstered armchair by the bed. Stooping down, he places something on the floor, then moves and stretches out on the bed beside me. He’s dressed in his

cut-offs and a gray T-shirt.

“Hey, don’t panic. Everything’s fine,” he says, his voice gentle and soothing—like he’s talking to a cornered wild animal. Tenderly, he smooths the hair back

from my face and I calm immediately. I see him trying and failing to hide his own concern.

“You’ve been so jumpy these last couple of days,” he murmurs, his eyes wide and serious.

“I’m okay, Christian.” I give him my brightest smile because I don’t want him to know how worried I am about the arson incident. The painful recollection of

how I felt when Charlie Tango was sabotaged and Christian went missing—the hollow emptiness, the indescribable pain—keeps resurfacing; the memory nagging

me and gnawing at my heart. Keeping the smile fixed on my face, I try to repress it.

“Were you watching me sleep?”

“Yes,” he says gazing at me steadily, studying me. “You were talking.”

“Oh?” Shit! What was I saying?

“You’re worried,” he adds, his eyes filled with concern. Is there nothing I can keep from this man? He leans forward and kisses me between my brows.

“When you frown, a little V forms just here. It’s soft to kiss. Don’t worry baby, I’ll look after you.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about, it’s you,” I grumble. “Who’s looking after you?”

He smiles indulgently at my tone. “I’m big enough and ugly enough to look after myself. Come. Get up. There’s one thing I’d like to do before we head home.”

He grins at me, a big boyish yes-I’m-really-only-twenty-eight grin, and swats my behind. I yelp, startled, and realize that today we’re going back to Seattle and my

melancholy blossoms. I don’t want to leave. I’ve relished being with him 24-7, and I’m not ready to share him with his company and his family. We’ve had a

blissful honeymoon. With a few ups and downs, I admit, but that’s normal for a newly married couple, surely?

But Christian cannot contain his boyish excitement, and despite my dark thoughts, it’s infectious. When he rises gracefully off the bed, I follow, intrigued. What

has he got in mind?

Christian straps the key to my wrist.

“You want me to drive?”

“Yes.” Christian grins. “That’s not too tight?”

“It’s fine. Is that why you’re wearing a life jacket?” I arch my eyebrow.

“Yes.”

I can’t help my giggle. “Such confidence in my driving capabilities, Mr. Grey.”

“As ever, Mrs. Grey.”

“Well, don’t lecture me.”

Christian holds his hands up in a defensive gesture, but he’s smiling. “Would I dare?”

“Yes you would, and yes you do, and we can’t pull over and argue on the sidewalk here.”

“Yes you would, and yes you do, and we can’t pull over and argue on the sidewalk here.”

“Fair point well made, Mrs. Grey. Are we going to stand on this platform all day debating your driving skills or are we going to have some fun?”

“Fair point well made, Mr. Grey.” I grasp the handlebars of the Jet Ski and clamber on. Christian climbs on behind me and kicks us away from the yacht. Taylor

and two of the deckhands look on in amusement. Sliding forward, Christian wraps his arms around me and snuggles his thighs against mine. Yes, this is what I like

about this form of transport. I insert in the ignition key and push the start button, and the engine roars into life.

“Ready?” I shout to Christian over the noise.

“As I’ll ever be,” he says, his mouth close to my ear.

Gently, I pull on the lever and the Jet Ski moves away from the Fair Lady, far too sedately for my liking. Christian tightens his embrace. I pull on the gas some

more, and we shoot forward and I’m delighted when we don’t stall.

“Whoa!” Christian calls from behind, but the exhilaration in his voice is palpable. I speed past the Fair Lady toward the open sea. We’re anchored outside the

Port de Plaisance de Saint-Claude-du-Var, and Nice Côte d’Azur Airport is nestled in the distance, built into the Mediterranean, or so it seems. I’ve heard the odd

plane landing since we arrived last night. I decide we need to take a closer look.

We shoot toward it, skipping rapidly over the waves. I love this, and I’m thrilled Christian’s letting me drive. All the worry I’ve felt over the past two days melts

away as we skim toward the airport.

“Next time we do this we’ll have two Jet Skis,” Christian shouts. I grin because the thought of racing him is thrilling.

As we zoom over the cool blue sea toward what looks like the end of the runway, the thundering roar of a jet overhead suddenly startles me as it comes in to

land. It’s so loud I panic, swerving and hitting the throttle at the same time, mistaking it for a brake.

“Ana!” Christian shouts, but it’s too late. I’m catapulted off the side of the Jet Ski, arms and legs flailing, taking Christian with me in a spectacular splash.

Screaming, I plunge into the crystal blue sea and swallow a nasty mouthful of the Mediterranean. The water is cold this far from the shore, but I surface within a

split second, courtesy of my life jacket. Coughing and spluttering, I wipe the seawater from my eyes and look around for Christian. He’s already swimming toward

me. The Jet Ski floats inoffensively a few feet away from us, its engine silent.

“You okay?” His eyes are full of panic, as he reaches me.

“Yes,” I croak, but I cannot contain my elation. See, Christian? That’s the worst that can happen on a Jet Ski! He pulls me into his embrace, then grabs my head

between his hands, examining my face closely.

“See, that wasn’t so bad!” I grin as we tread water.

Eventually he smirks at me, obviously relieved. “No, I guess it wasn’t. Except I’m wet,” he grumbles, but his tone is playful.

“I’m wet, too.”

“I like you wet.” He leers.

“Christian!” I scold, trying for faux righteous indignation. He grins, looking gorgeous, then leans in and kisses me hard. When he pulls away, I’m breathless. His

eyes are darker, hooded and heated, and I’m warm in spite of the cold water.

“Come. Let’s head back. Now we have to shower. I’ll drive.”

We laze in the British Airways first class lounge at Heathrow in London, waiting for our connecting flight to Seattle. Christian is engrossed in the Financial Times.

I pull out his camera, wanting to take some photographs of him. He looks so sexy in his trademark white linen shirt and jeans, and his aviator specs tucked into the

V of his open shirt. The flash disturbs him. He blinks up at me and smiles his shy smile.

“How are you, Mrs. Grey?” he asks.

“Sad to be going home,” I murmur. “I like having you to myself.”

He clasps my hand and lifting it to his lips, grazes my knuckles with a sweet kiss. “Me too.”

“But?” I ask, hearing that small word unsaid at the end of his simple statement.

He frowns. “But?” he repeats disingenuously. I tilt my head to one side, gazing at him with the tell me expression I have been perfecting over the last couple of

days. He sighs, putting his newspaper down. “I want this arsonist caught and out of our lives.”

“Oh.” That seems fair enough, but I’m surprised by his bluntness.

“I’ll have Welch’s balls on a platter if he lets anything like that happen again.” A shiver runs down my spine at his menacing tone. He gazes at me impassively,

and I don’t know if he’s daring me to be flippant or what. I do the only thing I can think of to ease the sudden tension between us and raise the camera and snap

another photograph.

“Hey, sleepyhead, we’re home,” Christian murmurs.

“Hmm,” I mumble, reluctant to leave my tantalizing dream of Christian and me on a picnic blanket at Kew Gardens. I am so tired. Travelling is exhausting, even

in first class. We’ve been up for more than eighteen hours straight, I think—in my fatigue I’ve lost track. I hear my door open, and Christian is leaning over me. He

unbuckles my seat belt and lifts me into his arms, waking me.

“Hey, I can walk,” I protest sleepily.

He snorts. “I need to carry you over the threshold.”

I put my arms around his neck. “Up all thirty floors?” I give him a challenging smile.

“Mrs. Grey, I am very pleased to announce that you’ve put on some weight.”

“What?”

He grins. “So if you don’t mind, we’ll use the elevator.” He narrows his eyes at me, though I know he’s teasing.

Taylor opens the doors to the Escala lobby and smiles. “Welcome home Mr. Grey, Mrs. Grey.”

“Thanks, Taylor,” says Christian.

I give Taylor the briefest of smiles and watch him head back to the Audi where Sawyer waits at the wheel.

“What do you mean I’ve put on weight?” I glare at Christian. His grin broadens, and he clasps me closer to his chest as he carries me across the lobby.

“Not much,” he assures me but his face darkens suddenly.

“What is it?” I try to keep the alarm in my voice under control.

“You’ve put on some of the weight you lost when you left me,” he says quietly as he summons the elevator. A bleak expression crosses his face.

“You’ve put on some of the weight you lost when you left me,” he says quietly as he summons the elevator. A bleak expression crosses his face.

His sudden, surprising anguish tugs at my heart. “Hey.” I curl my fingers around his face and into his hair, pulling him toward me. “If I hadn’t gone, would you

be standing here, like this, now?”

His eyes melt, the color of a storm cloud, and he smiles his shy smile, my favorite smile. “No,” he says and steps into the elevator still holding me. He leans down

and kisses me gently. “No, Mrs. Grey, I wouldn’t. But I would know I could keep you safe, because you wouldn’t defy me.”

He sounds vaguely regretful . . . Shit.

“I like defying you.” I test the waters.

“I know. And it’s made me so . . . happy.” He smiles down at me through his bemusement.

Oh, thank heavens. “Even though I’m fat?” I whisper.

He laughs. “Even though you’re fat.” He kisses me again, more heated this time, and I fist my fingers in his hair, holding him against me, our tongues twisting in

a slow sensual dance with each other. When the elevator pings to a halt at the penthouse, we are both breathless.

“Very happy,” he murmurs. His smile is darker now, his eyes hooded and full of salacious promise. He shakes his head as if to recover himself and carries me

into the foyer.

“Welcome home, Mrs. Grey.” He kisses me again, more chastely this time, and gives me the patented-Christian-Grey-full-gigawatt smile, his eyes dancing with

joy.

“Welcome home, Mr. Grey.” I beam, my heart answering his call, brimming with my own joy.

I think Christian’s going to put me down, but he doesn’t. He carries me through the foyer, across the corridor, into the great room, and deposits me on the kitchen

island where I sit with my legs dangling. He retrieves two champagne flutes from the kitchen cupboard and a bottle of chilled champagne from the fridge—our

favorite Bollinger. He deftly opens the bottle, not spilling a drop, pours the pale pink champagne into each glass, and hands one to me. Taking up the other, he

gently parts my legs and moves forward to stand between them.

“Here’s to us, Mrs. Grey.”

“To us, Mr. Grey,” I whisper conscious of my shy smile. We clink glasses and take a sip.

“I know you’re tired,” he whispers, rubbing his nose against mine. “But I’d really like to go to bed . . . and not to sleep.” He kisses the corner of my mouth. “It’s