Freed (Fifty Shades as Told by Christian #3) - E.L. James Page 0,180

work off the calories from the chocolate mousse.”

Kate stands up. “Coming?” she asks Elliot.

“Let me watch you,” he says.

“I’m going to burn some calories,” Ana says, then leans down so I get a glimpse of some fine cleavage, and she whispers, “You can watch me.”

“Don’t bend over,” I warn.

“Okay.” She stands upright quickly and grabs my shoulder.

Shit. I reach up to support her as she sways, but I don’t think she notices. She’s dizzy or drunk or both. “Perhaps you should have some more water,” I offer.

Perhaps I should take her home.

“I’m fine. These seats are low and my heels are high.” She smiles, and Kate takes her hand as they head onto the dance floor.

I’m not sure how I feel about this.

Kate hugs Ana.

And then they both start to move.

Mia is…well, Mia. I’m used to watching her lost in her own world, dancing around the room. She rarely keeps still.

Kavanagh can dance.

And so can my wife. She sets the dance floor alight, in that scrap of material she calls a dress. Legs, back, ass, hair: she’s letting loose in a most provocative way.

She closes her eyes and surrenders herself to the thumping beat.

Fuck. My mouth dries as I watch her move.

In my previous life, I enjoyed watching dancing like this, but it was always in the privacy of my apartment, and always at my command. I run my thumb over my bottom lip and shift in my chair as my body responds to my wife. Maybe I could persuade Ana to do this at home. For my eyes only. The lyrics of the song are apt.

Damn, you’s a sexy bitch.

As the music pulses through the club, more and more people crowd onto the dance floor. I glance at Elliot, who grins back at me, and we both laugh. “This is a good game,” I mutter.

“Sure is.” His grin is wicked, and I know exactly what he’s thinking.

Dirty dog.

“You did it,” I say over the thumping music.

“What?”

“Proposed. In public.”

“Yeah. It was a now-or-never moment.”

“Happy?”

He nods, beaming. “Very.”

I glance back at Ana just in time to see a haystack of a man looming over her, and Ana smacking him across his face.

What the fuck?

Adrenaline courses through my veins, followed closely by a rage that’s baying for blood. Springing up from my seat, I knock over my beer, but I don’t give a shit.

Did he put his hands on my wife?

I’m going to fucking kill him.

At lightning speed I weave through the throng as Ana looks around frantically. I’m here, baby. Slipping my arm around her waist, I move her to my side. The motherfucker in front of her is half a head taller than me, and too broad, like he’s overdone the steroids. He’s young. And stupid. “Keep your fucking hands off my wife.”

“She can take care of herself,” he shouts.

I hit him. Hard. An uppercut to his chin.

And he drops to the floor.

Stay down, asshole.

I’m wound so tight, every sinew and muscle on high alert.

I’m ready. Bring it.

“Christian, no!” Ana moves in front of me and I’m vaguely aware of the panic in her voice. “I already hit him,” she shouts, her hands pushing at my chest. But I don’t take my eyes off the cocksucker on the floor. He scrambles hastily to his feet, and I feel another hand tighten around my arm. I tense, ready to hit that person, too.

It’s Elliot.

The haystack holds up his palms in defeat. “Take it easy, okay? Didn’t mean any harm.” He moves away, tail between his legs, and I have to quell the urge to follow him and teach him some fucking manners. My heart is pounding to the same beat that’s shaking the room. I hear it, the blood thumping against my eardrums.

Or is it the music? I don’t know.

Elliot eases his hold on me and finally lets go.

I’m frozen. In place. Battling to stay afloat and not descend into the abyss.

I take a deep breath, and finally look down at Ana. Her arms are around my neck, her eyes wide and fearful.

Shit. “Are you okay?” I ask.

“Yes.” She slides her hands from my neck to my chest, her eyes searing my soul. She’s scared.

For me?

For her?

For the haystack?

“Do you want to sit down?” I ask.

Ana shakes her head. “No. Dance with me.”

She wants to dance? Now?

I remain impassive as I fight to bring my fury under control, my mind replaying the last fifteen seconds in a loop.

“Dance with me,” she says again, pleading. “Dance. Christian, please.” She takes my hands