Freed (Fifty Shades as Told by Christian #3) - E.L. James Page 0,259

to join me. Ana perches between my legs and I start to brush through her wet hair.

I love combing out her hair.

It’s so soothing.

Soon, the only sound in our bedroom is the high-pitched whine of the hair dryer. Ana’s shoulders slump as she relaxes against me, and she’s quiet for a while.

“So, did Clark tell you anything else while I was unconscious?” Her words drag me from my absorbing task.

“Not that I recall.”

“I heard a few of your conversations.”

“Did you?” I stop brushing.

“Yes. My dad, your dad, Detective Clark, your mom.”

“And Kate?”

“Kate was there?”

“Briefly, yes. She’s mad at you, too.”

She jerks around. “Stop with the ‘Everyone is mad at Ana’ crap, okay?” Her tone is as high-pitched as the hair dryer.

“Just telling you the truth.” I shrug.

I’m still a little mad at you myself, Ana.

“Yes, it was reckless, but you know—your sister was in danger.”

“Yes. She was,” I murmur, as a bleak morbid fantasy of what could have happened plays out once more in my head.

Disarmed with a simple truth. Ana, you humble me at every turn.

I switch off the hair dryer and grasp her chin, gazing into clear but vibrant eyes, eyes I could drown in.

No. I’m not mad.

I’m in awe of my brave, brave woman.

She had the courage to save Mia.

“Thank you.” The words are inadequate. “But no more recklessness. Because next time, I will spank the living shit out of you.”

She sucks in a breath. “You wouldn’t!”

Oh, baby. My palm is twitching right now. “I would.” I can’t hold back my smug smile. “I have your stepfather’s permission.”

Ana’s pupils dilate, and her lips part.

And it’s there between us, that electricity that crackles invisibly—I feel it everywhere, and I know she does, too.

Ana. No.

Suddenly, she launches herself at me.

Fuck! Ana!

I catch her and twist so that we fall together on the bed, Ana in my arms.

But her face crumples in pain, and she gasps.

“Behave!” I growl, my tone harsher than I intend.

“Sorry.” She caresses my cheek and I take her hand and kiss her palm.

“Honestly, Ana, you really have no regard for your own safety.” I lift the hem of her T-shirt and rest my fingertips on her belly.

A thrill of the unknown sharpens all my senses.

There is life. Here. Inside her.

What did she say? Flesh of my flesh.

Our child.

“It’s not just you anymore,” I whisper, and skate my fingers across her taut, warm skin. Ana tenses beneath me, dragging air into her lungs. I know that sound. My eyes move to hers, and I lose myself in their fathomless blue depths.

It’s Ana’s desire. I feel it, too.

Our special alchemy.

But it’s impossible. She’s hurt. Reluctantly, I lift my fingertips from her skin, tug down her T-shirt, then tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear, because I still need to touch her. But I can’t give her what we both want. “No,” I breathe.

Ana’s face falls, her expression forlorn.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’ve seen the bruises. And the answer’s no.” I kiss her forehead and she squirms beside me.

“Christian,” she moans, needling me.

“No. Get into bed.” I sit up to remove myself from temptation.

“Bed?” She looks crestfallen.

“You need rest.”

“I need you.” The whine has gone, leaving only a husky come-on in her voice.

Closing my eyes, I shake my head at her audacity and my desire.

She’s hurt. I open my eyes and glare at her. “Just do as you’re told, Ana.”

“Okay,” she mutters, with an exaggerated pout that immediately lifts my spirits and makes me want to laugh.

“I’ll bring you some lunch.”

“You’re going to cook?” She blinks, incredulous.

“I’m going to heat something up. Mrs. Jones has been busy.”

“Christian, I’ll do it. I’m fine. Jeez, I want sex—I can certainly cook.” She struggles to sit up but winces.

Damn it! Ana!

“Bed!” I point at the pillow, all carnal thoughts banished.

“Join me.” She makes one last-ditch attempt.

I don’t know what’s gotten into her.

Not you recently, Grey.

“Ana, get into bed. Now.” I scowl.

She answers with a scowl of her own, stands, and drops her sweatpants to the floor in a dramatic gesture. In spite of her glower, she looks lovely. I hide my smile, and part of me is beyond pleased that she still wants me, after all that’s transpired over the last few days.

She loves me.

I draw back the duvet. “You heard Dr. Singh. She said rest.”

Still pouting, Ana complies, sliding into bed and folding her arms, conveying her frustration. I want to laugh, but I don’t think my mirth would be well received.

“Stay,” I order, and with the