Freed (Fifty Shades as Told by Christian #3) - E.L. James Page 0,100

I kick us away from the small pontoon and wrap my arms and clamp my thighs around Ana. She inserts the ignition key, presses the start button, and the engine powers into life with a gutsy roar. “Ready?” she shouts.

“As I’ll ever be.”

Slowly, she opens up the accelerator and the Jet Ski glides away from the ship.

Steady, Ana.

I tighten my hold on her as Ana increases our speed and we shoot across the water. “Whoa!” I shout, but it doesn’t stop her. She leans forward, taking me with her, and speeds toward the open sea, then veers toward the shore, where the runway at Nice airport juts out into the Mediterranean.

“Next time we do this we’ll have two Jet Skis,” I shout.

That would be fun. Racing together.

Ana soars across the waves. We bounce a little, as it’s choppier on the water today with the brisk summer breeze. As she nears the shore, a plane flies overheard. The noise is deafening.

Shit.

Ana swerves suddenly. I shout, but I’m too late, and we’re both bucked off the craft and into the Mediterranean. The water closes over my head, into my eyes and my mouth, but I kick up and surface immediately, shaking my head and looking for Ana. The Jet Ski bobs, lifeless and harmless, not far from us, and Ana is wiping the water from her eyes. I swim toward her, relieved she’s surfaced. “You okay?” I ask when I get close.

“Yes,” she croaks. And she’s grinning from ear to ear.

Why is she smiling? She just catapulted us into the cold sea.

I pull her into my wet embrace and hold her face between my palms, checking to see that she wasn’t hit by the Jet Ski.

“See, that wasn’t so bad!” she gushes, and I know she’s okay.

“No, I guess it wasn’t. Except I’m wet.”

“I’m wet, too.”

“I like you wet.” I leer at her.

“Christian!” She admonishes me for my lewd look, and I can’t help myself. I kiss her.

No.

I consume her. We’re both winded when I pull away.

“Come. Let’s head back. We have to shower. I’ll drive.” I swim over to the Jet Ski, vault onto it, and pull her up behind me.

“Was that fun, Mrs. Grey?”

“It was. Thank you.”

“No, thank you. Shall we go home now?”

“Yes. Please.”

Anastasia is sipping champagne and reading off her iPad as we sit in the Concorde lounge at Heathrow and wait for our connecting flight to Seattle. This is one of the things I loathe about traveling on a scheduled flight: the waiting. But Ana seems happy enough. Occasionally, from the corner of my eye, I notice her surreptitious glances in my direction.

Inside, I’m dancing. I love that she’s watching me.

I’m reading the Financial Times. It makes for sober reading. The global markets are still skittish in the wake of the recent budget deficit issues and Black Monday. The dollar is sinking. Also there’s an article on whether the rich should pay more tax; Warren Buffett seems to think we should, and maybe he’s right.

Ana takes a photograph, with the flash on, surprising me. I blink the blur of the bright lights out of my eyes and watch as she switches the flash off.

“How are you, Mrs. Grey?” I ask.

“Sad to be going home.” She pouts. “I like having you to myself.”

I take her hand and kiss her knuckles in turn. “Me, too,” I whisper.

“But?” she asks.

Damn. She heard my unspoken doubt. Her eyes narrow, shrewd and interrogative. She’s not going to let this go until I tell her. I sigh. “I want this arsonist caught and out of our lives.”

“Oh.”

Exactly.

“I’ll have Welch’s balls on a platter if he lets anything like that happen again.” My tone sounds cold and sinister, even to me.

But this has gone on too long. We need to catch the fucker.

Ana gapes at me, then raises the camera and takes a quick shot. “Gotcha.”

I smile, relieved that she’s lightened the mood. “I think it’s time to board our flight. Come.”

“Sawyer, can we go through the front?” I ask, and he pulls the Audi up to the curb outside Escala. Taylor climbs out and opens my door. Ana is fast asleep.

“Thanks, Taylor,” I say as I stretch my legs. “It’s good to be back.”

“It is, sir.”

“I’ll wake Ana.” Opening her door, I lean over her. “Hey, sleepyhead, we’re home.” I unbuckle her seat belt.

“Hmm,” she hums, and I lift her into my arms. “Hey, I can walk,” she grumbles sleepily.

Oh, no, baby. “I need to carry you over the threshold.”

She puts her arms