Текст книги "Fifty Shades Freed"

Автор книги: Erika Leonard James

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“Please call me Ana.”

“Mrs. Grey, I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing that.”

Oh! Why must everything change just because I have a ring on my finger?

“Would you like to run through the menus for the week?” she asks, looking at me expectantly.

Menus?

“Um . . .” This is not a question I have ever anticipated being asked.

She smiles. “When I first worked for Mr. Grey, every Sunday evening I would run through the menus for the upcoming week with him and list anything he

might need from the grocery store.”

“I see.”

“Shall I take those for you?”

She holds out her hands for my clothes.

“Oh . . . um. Actually I haven’t finished with these.” And they are hiding the bowl with the butt plug in! I turn crimson. It’s a wonder I can look Mrs. Jones in the

eye. She knows what we do—she cleans the room. Jeez, it’s just weird having no privacy.

“When you’re ready, Mrs. Grey. I’d be more than happy to run through things with you.”

“Thank you.” We are interrupted by an ashen-faced Sawyer who stalks out of Christian’s study and briskly crosses the great room. He gives us both a brief nod,

not looking either of us in the eye, and slinks into Taylor’s study. I’m grateful for his intervention as I don’t wish to discuss menus or butt plugs with Mrs. Jones

right now. Offering her a brief smile, I scurry back to the bedroom. Will I ever get used to having domestic staff at my beck and call? I shake my head . . . one day,

maybe.

I dump Christian’s shoes on the floor and my clothes on the bed, and take the bowl with the butt plug into the bathroom. I eye it suspiciously. It looks innocuous

enough, and surprisingly clean. I don’t want to dwell on that, and I wash it quickly with soap and water. Will that be enough? I’ll have to ask Mr. Sexpert if it

should be sterilized or something. I shudder at the thought.

I like that Christian has turned the library over to me. It now houses an attractive white wooden desk I can work at. I take out my laptop and check my notes on the

five manuscripts I read on honeymoon.

Yep, I have everything I need. Part of me dreads going back to work, but I can never tell Christian that. He’d seize on the opportunity to make me quit. I remember Roach’s apoplectic reaction when I told him I was getting married and to whom, and how, shortly afterward, my position was confirmed. I realize now it

remember Roach’s apoplectic reaction when I told him I was getting married and to whom, and how, shortly afterward, my position was confirmed. I realize now it

was because I was marrying the boss. The thought is unwelcome. I am no longer acting commissioning editor—I am Anastasia Steele, Commissioning Editor.

I haven’t yet plucked up the courage to tell Christian that I am not going to change my name at work. I think my reasons are solid. I need some distance from

him, but I know there will be a fight when he finally realizes that. Perhaps I should discuss this with him tonight.

Sitting back in my chair, I start my final chore of the day. I glance at the digital clock on my laptop, which tells me it’s seven in the evening. Christian still hasn’t

emerged from his study, so I have time. Taking the memory card out of the Nikon camera, I load it into the laptop to transfer the photographs. As the pictures

upload, I reflect on the day. Is Ryan back? Or is he still on his way to Portland? Has he caught up with the mystery woman? Has Christian heard from him? I want

some answers. I don’t care that he’s busy; I want to know what’s going on, and I suddenly feel a tad resentful that he’s keeping me in the dark. I rise, intending to

go and confront him in his study, but as I do the photos from the last few days of our honeymoon pop up onscreen.

Holy crap!

Picture after picture of me. Asleep, so many of me asleep, my hair over my face or fanned out across the pillow, lips parted . . . shit—sucking my thumb. I

haven’t sucked my thumb for years! So many photos. I had no idea he’d taken these. There are a few candid long shots, including one of me leaning over the rail of

the yacht, staring moodily into the distance. How did I not notice him taking this? I smile at the photos of me curled up beneath him and laughing—my hair flying

as I struggle, fighting his tickling, tormenting fingers. And there’s the one of him and me on the bed in the master cabin that he took at arm’s length. I am cuddled on

his chest and he gazes at the camera, young, wide-eyed . . . in love. His other hand cups my head, and I am smiling like a love-struck fool, but I cannot take my

eyes off Christian. Oh, my beautiful man, his ruffled just-fucked hair, his gray eyes glowing, his lips parted and smiling. My beautiful man who cannot bear to be

tickled, who could not bear to be touched just a short while ago, yet now he tolerates my touch. I must ask him if he likes it, or whether he lets me touch him for my

pleasure rather than his.

I frown, gazing down at his image, suddenly overwhelmed by my feelings for him. Someone out there wants to harm him—first Charlie Tango, then the fire at

GEH, and that damned car chase. I gasp, putting my hand to my mouth as an involuntary sob escapes. Abandoning my computer, I leap up to find him—not to

confront him now—just to check that he’s safe.

Not bothering to knock, I barge into his study. Christian is sitting at his desk and talking on the phone. He looks up in surprised annoyance, but the irritation on

his face disappears when he sees it’s me.

“So you can’t enhance it further?” he says, continuing his phone conversation, though he doesn’t take his eyes off me. Without hesitation, I walk around his desk,

and he turns in his chair to face me, frowning. I can tell he’s thinking what does she want? When I crawl onto his lap, his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. I put my

arms around his neck and cuddle into him. Gingerly, he puts his arm around me.

“Um . . . yes, Barney. Could you hold one moment?” He cups the phone against his shoulder.

“Ana, what’s wrong?”

I shake my head. Tipping my chin up, he gazes into my eyes. I pull my head free from his hold, tuck it beneath his chin, and curl up smaller on his lap. Bemused,

he wraps his free arm more tightly around me and kisses the top of my head.

“Okay, Barney, what were you saying?” He continues, wedging the phone between his ear and his shoulder, and taps a key on his laptop. A grainy black and

white CCTV image appears on the screen. A man with dark hair wearing pale coveralls comes on the screen. Christian presses another key, and the man walks

toward the camera, but with his head bowed. When the man is closer to the camera, Christian freezes the frame. He’s standing in a bright white room with what

looks like a long line of tall black cabinets to his left. This must be GEH’s server room.

“Okay Barney, one more time.”

The screen springs to life. A box appears around the head of the man in the CCTV footage and suddenly we zoom in. I sit up, fascinated.

“Is Barney doing this?” I ask quietly.

“Yes,” Christian answers. “Can you sharpen the picture at all?” he says to Barney.

The picture blurs, then refocuses moderately sharper of the man consciously gazing down and avoiding the CCTV camera. As I stare at him, a chill of

recognition sweeps up my spine. There is something familiar in the line of his jaw. He has scruffy short black hair that looks odd and unkempt . . . and in the newly

sharpened picture, I see an earring, a small hoop.

Holy crap! I know who it is.

“Christian,” I whisper. “That’s Jack Hyde.”

“You think?” Christian asks, surprised.

“It’s the line of his jaw.” I point at the screen. “And the earrings and the shape of his shoulders. He’s the right build, too. He must be wearing a wig—or he’s cut

and dyed his hair.”

“Barney, are you getting this?” Christian puts the phone down on his desk and switches to hands-free. “You seem to have studied your ex-boss in some detail,

Mrs. Grey,” he murmurs, sounding none too pleased. I scowl at him, but I’m saved by Barney.

“Yes, sir. I heard Mrs. Grey. I’m running face recognition software on all the digitized CCTV footage right now. See where else this asshole—I’m sorry ma’am

–this man has been within the organization.”

I glance anxiously at Christian, who ignores Barney’s expletive. He’s studying the CCTV picture closely.

“Why would he do this?” I ask Christian.

“Why would he do this?” I ask Christian.

He shrugs. “Revenge, perhaps. I don’t know. You can’t fathom why some people behave the way they do. I’m just angry that you ever worked so closely with

him.” Christian’s mouth presses into a hard, thin line and he encircles my waist with his arm.

“We have the contents of his hard drive, too, sir,” Barney adds.

“Yes, I remember. Do you have an address for Mr. Hyde?” Christian says sharply.

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Alert Welch.”

“Sure will. I’m also going to scan the city CCTV and see if I can track his movements.”

“Check what vehicle he owns.”

“Sir.”

“Barney can do all this?” I whisper.

Christian nods and gives me a smug smile.

“What was on his hard drive?” I whisper.

Christian’s face hardens and he shakes his head. “Nothing much,” he says, tight-lipped, his smile forgotten.

“Tell me.”

“No.”

“Was it about you, or me?”

“Me.” He sighs.

“What sort of things? About your lifestyle?”

Christian shakes his head and puts his index finger against my lips to silence me. I scowl at him. But he narrows his eyes, and it’s a clear warning that I should

hold my tongue.

“It’s a 2006 Camaro. I’ll send the license details to Welch, too,” Barney says excitedly from the phone.

“Good. Let me know where else that fucker has been in my building. And check this image against the one from his SIP personnel file.” Christian gazes at me

skeptically. “I want to be sure we have a match.”

“Already done, sir, and Mrs. Grey is correct. This is Jack Hyde.”

I grin. See? I can be useful. Christian rubs his hand down my back.

“Well done, Mrs. Grey.” He smiles and his earlier rancor forgotten. To Barney he says, “Let me know when you’ve tracked all his movements at HQ. Also

check out any other GEH property he may have had access to, and let the security teams know so they can make another sweep of all those buildings.”

“Sir.”

“Thanks, Barney.” Christian hangs up.

“Well, Mrs. Grey, it seems that you are not only decorative, but useful, too.” Christian’s eyes light up with wicked amusement. I know he’s teasing.

“Decorative?” I scoff, teasing him back.

“Very,” he says quietly, pressing a soft, sweet kiss on my lips.

“You’re much more decorative than I am, Mr. Grey.”

He grins and kisses me more forcefully, winding my braid around his wrist and wrapping his arms around me. When we come up for air, my heart is racing.

“Hungry?” he asks.

“No.”

“I am.”

“What for?”

“Well—food actually, Mrs. Grey.”

“I’ll make you something.” I giggle.

“I love that sound.”

“Of me offering you food?”

“You giggling.” He kisses my hair then I stand.

“So what would you like to eat, Sir?” I ask sweetly.

He narrows his eyes. “Are you being cute, Mrs. Grey?”

“Always, Mr. Grey . . . Sir.”

He smiles a sphinxlike smile. “I can still put you over my knee,” he murmurs seductively.

“I know.” I grin. Placing my hands on the arms of his office chair, I lean down and kiss him. “That’s one of the things I love about you. But stow your twitching

palm—you’re hungry.”

He smiles his shy smile and my heart clenches. “Oh, Mrs. Grey, what am I going to do with you?”

“You’re going to answer my question. What would you like to eat?”

“Something light. Surprise me,” he says, mirroring my words from the playroom earlier.

“I’ll see what I can do.” I sashay out of his study and into the kitchen. My heart sinks when I see Mrs. Jones is there.

“Hello, Mrs. Jones.”

“Mrs. Grey. Are you ready for something to eat?”

“Um . . .”

She is stirring something in a pot on the stove that smells delicious.

“I was going to make subs for Mr. Grey and me.”

She pauses for a heartbeat. “Sure,” she says. “Mr. Grey likes French bread—there is some in the freezer cut to sub length. I’d be happy to make it for you,

ma’am.”

“I know. But I’d like to do this.”

“I understand. I’ll give you some room.”

“What are you cooking?”

“This is a bolognaise sauce. It can be eaten anytime. I’ll freeze it.” She smiles warmly and turns the heat right down.

“Um—so what does Christian like in a, um . . . sub?” I frown, struck by what I’ve just said. Does Mrs. Jones understand the inference?

“Mrs. Grey, you could put just about anything in a sandwich, and as long as it’s on French bread, he’ll eat it.” We grin at each other.

“Okay, thank you.” I skip to the freezer and find the French bread cut to size in Ziplock bags. I place two of them on a plate, pop them into the microwave, and

set it to defrost.

set it to defrost.

Mrs. Jones has disappeared. I frown as I return to the fridge to search for ingredients. I suppose it will be up to me to set the parameters by which Mrs. Jones and

I will work together. I like the idea of cooking for Christian on the weekends. Mrs. Jones is more than welcome to do it during the week—the last thing I’ll want to

do when I come home from work is cook. Hmm . . . a bit like Christian’s routine with his submissives. I shake my head. I mustn’t overthink this. I find some ham in

the fridge, and in the crisper a perfectly ripe avocado.

As I am adding a touch of salt and lemon to the mashed avocado, Christian emerges from his study with the plans for the new house in his hands. He puts them

on the breakfast bar, saunters toward me, and wraps his arms around me, kissing my neck.

“Barefoot and in the kitchen,” he murmurs.

“Shouldn’t that be barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen?” I smirk.

He stills, his whole body tensing against me. “Not yet,” he declares, apprehension clear in his voice.

“No! Not yet!”

He relaxes. “On that we can agree, Mrs. Grey.”

“You do want kids though, don’t you?”

“Sure, yes. Eventually. But I’m not ready to share you yet.” He kisses my neck again.

Oh . . . share?

“What are you making? Looks good.” He kisses me behind my ear, and I know it’s to distract me. A delicious tingle travels down my spine.

“Subs.” I smirk, recovering my sense of humor.

He smiles against my neck and nips my earlobe. “My favorite.”

I poke him with my elbow.

“Mrs. Grey, you wound me.” He clutches his side as if in pain.

“Wimp,” I mutter disapprovingly.

“Wimp?” he utters in disbelief. He slaps my behind, making me yelp. “Hurry up with my food, wench. And later I’ll show you how wimpy I can be.” He slaps

me playfully once more and goes to the fridge.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” he asks.

“Please.”

Christian spreads Gia’s plans out over the breakfast bar. She really has some spectacular ideas.

“I love her proposal to make the entire downstairs back wall glass, but . . .”

“But?” Christian prompts.

I sigh. “I don’t want to take all the character out of the house.”

“Character?”

“Yes. What Gia is proposing is quite radical, but . . . well . . . I fell in love with the house as it is . . . warts and all.”

Christian’s brow furrows as if this is anathema to him.

“I kind of like it the way it is,” I whisper. Is this going to make him mad?

He regards me steadily. “I want this house to be the way you want. Whatever you want. It’s yours.”

“I want you to like it, too. To be happy in it, too.”

“I’ll be happy wherever you are. It’s that simple, Ana.” His gaze holds mine. He is utterly, utterly sincere. I blink at him as my heart expands. Holy cow, he really

does love me.

“Well”—I swallow, fighting the small knot of emotion that catches in my throat—“I like the glass wall. Maybe we could ask her to incorporate it into the house a

little more sympathetically.”

Christian grins. “Sure. Whatever you want. What about the plans for upstairs and the basement?”

“I’m cool with those.”

“Good.”

Okay . . . I steel myself to ask the million-dollar question. “Do you want to put in a playroom?” I feel the oh-so-familiar flush creep up my face as I ask.

Christian’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Do you?” he replies, surprised and amused at once.

I shrug. “Um . . . if you want.”

He regards me for a moment. “Let’s leave our options open for the moment. After all, this will be a family home.”

I’m surprised by the stab of disappointment I feel. I guess he’s right . . . although when are we going to have a family? It could be years.

“Besides, we can improvise.” He smirks.

“I like improvising,” I whisper.

He grins. “There’s something I want to discuss.” Christian points to the master bedroom, and we start a detailed discussion on bathrooms and separate walk-in

closets.

When we finish, it’s nine thirty in the evening.

“Are you going back to work?” I ask as Christian rolls up the plans.

“Not if you don’t want me to.” He smiles. “What would you like to do?”

“We could watch TV.” I don’t want to read, and I don’t want to go to bed . . . yet.

“Okay,” Christian agrees willingly, and I follow him into the TV room.

We have sat here three, maybe four times total, and Christian usually reads a book. He’s not interested in television at all. I curl up beside him on the couch,

tucking my legs beneath me and resting my head against his shoulder. He switches on the flat-screen television with the remote and flicks mindlessly through the

channels.

“Any specific drivel you want to see?”

“You don’t like TV much, do you?” I mutter sardonically.

He shakes his head. “Waste of time. But I’ll watch something with you.”

“I thought we could make out.”

He whips his face to mine. “Make out?” He gazes at me as if I’ve grown two heads. He stops the endless flicking, leaving the TV on an over lit Spanish soap

opera.

“Yes.” Why is he so horrified?

“Yes.” Why is he so horrified?

“We could go to bed and make out.”

“We do that all the time. When was the last time you made out in front of the TV?” I ask, shy and teasing at the same time.

He shrugs and shakes his head. Pressing the remote again, he flicks through another few channels before settling on an old episode of The X-Files.

“Christian?”

“I’ve never done that,” he says quietly.

“Never?”

“No.”

“Not even with Mrs. Robinson?”

He snorts. “Baby, I did a lot of things with Mrs. Robinson. Making out was not one of them.” He smirks at me and then narrows his eyes with amused curiosity.

“Have you?”

I flush. “Of course.” Well kind of . . .

“What! Who with?”

Oh no. I do not want to have this discussion.

“Tell me,” he persists.

I gaze down at my knotted fingers. He gently covers my hands with one of his. When I glance up at him, he’s smiling at me.

“I want to know. So I can beat whoever it was to a pulp.”

I giggle. “Well, the first time . . .”

“The first time! There’s more than one fucker?” He growls.

I giggle again. “Why so surprised, Mr. Grey?”

He frowns briefly, runs a hand through his hair, and looks at me as if seeing me in a completely different light. He shrugs. “I just am. I mean—given your lack of

experience.”

I flush. “I’ve certainly made up for that since I met you.”

“You have.” He grins. “Tell me. I want to know.”

I gaze into patient gray eyes, trying to gauge his mood. Is this going to make him mad, or does he genuinely want to know? I don’t want him sulking . . . he’s

impossible when he’s sulking.

“You really want me to tell you?”

He nods slowly once, and his lips twitch with an amused, arrogant smile.

“I was briefly in Vegas with Mom and Husband Number Three. I was in tenth grade. His name was Bradley, and he was my lab partner in physics.”

“How old were you?”

“Fifteen.”

“And what’s he doing now?”

“I don’t know.”

“What base did he get to?”

“Christian!” I scold—and suddenly he grabs my knees, then my ankles, and tips me up so I fall back on to the couch. He slides smoothly on top of me, trapping

me beneath him, one leg between mine. It’s so sudden that I cry out in surprise. He grabs my hands and raises them above my head.

“So, this Bradley—did he get to first base?” he murmurs, running his nose down the length of mine. He plants soft kisses at the corner of my mouth.

“Yes,” I murmur against his lips. He releases one of his hands so that he can clasp my chin and hold me still while his tongue invades my mouth, and I surrender

to his ardent kissing.

“Like this?” Christian breathes when he comes up for air.

“No . . . nothing like that,” I manage as all the blood in my body heads south.

Releasing my chin, he runs his hand down over my body and back up to my breast.

“Did he do this? Touch you like this?” His thumb skims over my nipple, through my camisole, softly, repeatedly, and it hardens under his expert touch.

“No.” I writhe beneath him.

“Did he get to second base?” he murmurs in my ear. His hand moves down across my ribs, past my waist to my hip. He takes my earlobe between his teeth and

gently tugs.

“No,” I breathe.

Mulder blurts from the television something about the FBI’s most unwanted.

Christian pauses, leans up, and presses mute on the remote. He gazes down at me.

“What about Joe Schmo number two? Did he make it past second base?”

His eyes are smoldering hot . . . angry? Turned on? It’s difficult to say which. He shifts to my side and slides his hand beneath my sweatpants.

“No,” I whisper, trapped in his carnal gaze. Christian smiles wickedly.

“Good.” His hand cups my sex. “No underwear, Mrs. Grey. I approve.” He kisses me again as his fingers weave more magic, his thumb skimming over my

clitoris, tantalizing me, as he pushes his index finger inside me with exquisite slowness.

“We’re supposed to be making out.” I groan.

Christian stills. “I thought we were?”

“No. No sex.”

“What?”

“No sex . . .”

“No sex, huh?” He withdraws his hand from my sweatpants. “Here.” He traces my lips with his index finger, and I taste my slick saltiness. He pushes his finger

into my mouth, mirroring what he was doing a moment earlier. Then shifts so he’s between my legs, and his erection pushes against me. He thrusts, once, twice,

and again. I gasp as the material of my sweatpants rubs in just the right way. He pushes once more, grinding into me.

“This what you want?” he murmurs and moves his hips rhythmically, rocking against me.

“Yes.” I moan.

His hand moves back to concentrate on my nipple once more and his teeth scrape along my jaw. “Do you know how hot you are, Ana?” His voice is hoarse as

he rocks harder against me. I open my mouth to articulate a response and fail miserably, groaning loudly. He captures my mouth once more, tugging at my bottom

lip with his teeth before plunging his tongue into my mouth again. He releases my other wrist and my hands travel greedily up his shoulders and into his hair as he

kisses me. When I pull on his hair, he groans and raises his eyes to mine.

“Ah . . .”

“Ah . . .”

“Do you like me touching you?” I whisper.

His brow furrows briefly as if he doesn’t understand the question. He stops grinding against me. “Of course I do. I love you touching me, Ana. I’m like a starving

man at a banquet when it comes to your touch.” His voice hums with passionate sincerity.

Holy cow . . .

He kneels between my legs and drags me up to haul off my top. I’m naked beneath. Grabbing the hem of his shirt, he yanks it over his head and tosses it on the

floor, then pulls me onto his kneeling lap, his arms clasped just above my behind.

“Touch me,” he breathes.

Oh my . . . Tentatively I reach up and brush the tips of my fingers through the smattering of chest hair over his sternum, over his burn scars. He inhales sharply

and his pupils dilate, but it’s not with fear. It’s a sensual response to my touch. He watches me intently as my fingers float delicately over his skin, first to one nipple

and then the other. They pucker beneath my caress. Leaning forward, I plant soft kisses on his chest, and my hands move to his shoulders, feeling the hard, sculptured lines of sinew and muscle. Jeez . . . he’s in good shape.

“I want you,” he murmurs and it’s a green light to my libido. My fingers move into his hair, pulling his head back so I can claim his mouth, fire licking hot and

high in my belly. He groans and pushes me back onto the couch. He sits up and rips off my sweatpants, undoing his fly at the same time.

“Home run,” he whispers, and swiftly he fills me.

“Ah . . .” I groan and he stills, grabbing my face between his hands.

“I love you, Mrs. Grey,” he murmurs and very slowly, very gently, he makes love to me until I come apart at the seams, calling his name and wrapping myself

around him, never wanting to let him go.

I lay sprawled on his chest. We’re on the floor of the TV room.

“You know, we completely bypassed third base.” My fingers trace the line of his pectoral muscles.

He laughs. “Next time, Mrs. Grey.” He kisses the top of my head.

I look up to stare at the television screen where the end credits for The X-Files play. Christian reaches for the remote and switches the sound back on.

“You liked that show?” I ask.

“When I was a kid.”

Oh . . . Christian as a kid . . . kickboxing and X Files and no touching.

“You?” he asks.

“Before my time.”

“You’re so young.” Christian smiles fondly. “I like making out with you, Mrs. Grey.”

“Likewise, Mr. Grey.” I kiss his chest, and we lie silently watching as The X-Files finish and the commercials come on.

“It’s been a heavenly three weeks. Car chases and fires and psycho ex-bosses notwithstanding. Like being in our own private bubble,” I mutter dreamily.

“Hmm,” Christian hums deep in his throat. “I’m not sure I’m ready to share you with the rest of the world yet.”

“Back to reality tomorrow,” I murmur, trying to keep the melancholy from my voice.

Christian sighs and runs his other hand through his hair. “Security will be tight—” I put my finger over his lips. I don’t want to hear this lecture again.

“I know. I’ll be good. I promise.” Which reminds me . . . I shift, propping myself up on my elbows to see him better. “Why were you shouting at Sawyer?”

He stiffens immediately. Oh shit.

“Because we were followed.”

“That wasn’t Sawyer’s fault.”

He gazes at me levelly. “They should never have let you get so far in front. They know that.”

I blush guiltily and resume my position, resting on his chest. It was my fault. I wanted to get away from them.

“That wasn’t—”

“Enough!” Christian is suddenly curt. “This is not up for discussion, Anastasia. It’s a fact, and they won’t let it happen again.”

Anastasia! I am Anastasia when I am in trouble just like at home with my mother.

“Okay,” I mutter, placating him. I don’t want to fight. “Did Ryan catch up with the woman in the Dodge?”

“No. And I’m not convinced it was a woman.”

“Oh?” I look up again.

“Sawyer saw someone with their hair tied back, but it was a brief look. He assumed it was a woman. Now, given that you’ve identified that fucker, maybe it was

him. He wore his hair like that.” The disgust in Christian’s voice is palpable.

I don’t know what to make of this news. Christian runs his hand down my naked back, distracting me.

“If anything happened to you . . . ,” he murmurs, his eyes wide and serious.

“I know,” I whisper. “I feel the same about you.” I shiver at the thought.

“Come. You’re getting cold,” he says, sitting up. “Let’s go to bed. We can cover third base there.” He smiles a lascivious smile, as mercurial as ever, passionate,

angry, anxious, sexy—my Fifty Shades. I take his hand and he pulls me to my feet, and without a stitch on, I follow him through the great room to the bedroom.

The following morning, Christian squeezes my hand as we pull up outside SIP. He looks very much the powerful executive in his dark navy suit and matching tie,

and I smile. He’s not been this smart since the ballet in Monaco.

“You know you don’t have to do this?” Christian murmurs. I am tempted to roll my eyes at him.

“I know,” I whisper, not wanting Sawyer and Ryan to overhear me from the front of the Audi. He frowns and I smile.

“But I want to,” I continue. “You know this.” I lean up and kiss him. His frown doesn’t disappear. “What’s wrong?”He glances uncertainly at Ryan as Sawyer

climbs out of the car. “I’ll miss having you to myself.”

I reach up to caress his face. “Me, too.” I kiss him. “It was a wonderful honeymoon. Thank you.”

“Go to work, Mrs. Grey.”

“You, too, Mr. Grey.”

Sawyer opens the door. I squeeze Christian’s hand once more before I climb out onto the sidewalk. As I head into the building, I give him a little wave. Sawyer

holds open the door and follows me in.

“Hi, Ana.” Claire smiles from behind the reception desk.

“Claire, hello.” I smile back.

“You look wonderful. Good honeymoon?”

“The best, thank you. How’s it been here?”

“The best, thank you. How’s it been here?”

“Old man Roach is the same, but security has been stepped up and our server room is being overhauled. But Hannah will tell you.”

Sure she will. I give Claire a friendly smile and head to my office.

Hannah is my assistant. She is tall, slim, and ruthlessly efficient to the point that sometimes I find her a little intimidating. But she’s sweet to me, in spite of the

fact that she’s a couple of years older. She has my latte waiting—the only coffee I let her get for me.

“Hi, Hannah,” I say warmly.

“Ana, how was your honeymoon?”

“Fantastic. Here—for you.” I pop the small bottle of perfume I bought for her onto her desk, and she claps her hands with glee.

“Oh, thank you!” she says enthusiastically. “Your urgent correspondence is on your desk, and Roach would like to see you at ten. That’s all I have to report for

now.”

“Good. Thank you. And thanks for the coffee.” Wandering into my office, I rest my briefcase on my desk and gaze at the piled up letters. Jeez, I have a lot to do.

Just before ten there’s a timid tap on my door.

“Come in.”

Elizabeth looks around the door. “Hi, Ana. I just wanted to say welcome back.”

“Hey. I have to say, reading through all this correspondence, I wish I was back in the South of France.”

Elizabeth laughs, but her laughter is off, forced, and I cock my head to one side and gaze at her like Christian does to me.

“Glad you’re back safely,” she says. “I’ll see you in a few minutes at the meeting with Roach.”

“Okay,” I murmur, and she shuts the door behind her. I frown at the closed door. What was that about? I shrug it off. My e-mail pings—it’s a message from