Freed (Fifty Shades as Told by Christian #3) - E.L. James Page 0,60

have thought after all the noise of this evening—the bars, the night club, the casino floor—I would welcome some quiet.

But no.

The silence is oppressive, and it’s making me melancholy.

Fuck this.

I stalk over to the piano, lift the lid, and settle onto the stool. Taking a moment to gather my thoughts, I place my hands on the keys, enjoying the grounding feel of the ivory beneath my fingertips. I begin to play the first piece that comes to mind; the Bach-Marcello, and I’m soon lost in the morose melody that perfectly reflects my mood. The second time through the composition I’m distracted by a noise.

“Shh…”

I look up, and Ana is standing by the kitchen counter, swaying slightly. She’s carrying her strappy high heels in one hand and she’s wearing what looks like a plastic tiara that may have perched on the top of her head at one time, but is now looking decidedly lopsided. A sash with the word bride in an elaborate serif hangs over her shimmering black dress. She has her index finger at her lips.

She is without doubt the most beautiful girl in the world.

And I’m delighted she’s home.

Behind her, Sawyer and Reynolds are stony-faced. Rising from the stool, I tip my chin at them in thanks. They smile as one and leave us.

Ana turns and stumbles a little to watch them leave. “Bye!” she almost shouts, and waves them away with a wide sweep of her arm.

She’s clearly intoxicated.

Turning back to face me, she rewards me with the biggest, warmest, most drunken smile and stumbles toward me. “Mr. Christian Grey!”

I catch her before she falls and fold her into my arms, and she gazes up at me with unfocused joy. Her expression feeds my soul. “Miss Anastasia Steele. How lovely to see you. Did you have fun?”

“The best!”

“Please tell me you had something to eat.”

“Yes! Food has been eaten.” She drops her shoes and they clatter on the floor, while she winds her arms around my neck.

“Can I fix your crown?” I try to straighten her tiara.

“You fixed my crown long ago,” she slurs.

What?

“You have the most beautiful mouth.” She runs her index finger shakily over my lips.

“Do I?”

“Hmm…yes. You do things to me with that mouth.”

“I like doing things to you with my mouth.”

“Shall we do it now?” Her unfocused gaze moves from my mouth to my eyes.

“Tempting though that sounds, I’m not sure that’s a good idea right now.”

She sways a little and I tighten my hold on her. “Dance with me,” she mumbles, grinning up at me. She lets her hands run down my jacket lapels, and tugs me closer so I feel her down the length of my body.

“We should put you to bed.”

“I wanna dance…with you,” she whispers, and offers me her lips.

“Ana,” I warn, tempted to carry her to bed, but I’m enjoying the feel of her in my arms and the way she’s imploring me with her big blue eyes. “Okay. What would you like to dance to?” I’m feeling indulgent.

“Muuuusic.”

I laugh, a little exasperated, and move us over to the kitchen counter, where I pick up the remote and press play. Moby’s “Bodyrock” starts over the sound system. It’s one of my favorites from my youth, but a bit frenetic for now. I skip the track and Nina Simone’s “My Baby Just Cares for Me” echoes through the room.

“This?” I state in response to Ana’s inebriated smile.

“Yes.” She throws her head and arms back with such enthusiasm that I almost drop her.

“Shit. Ana!” I’m glad I have my arm around her waist, otherwise she’d be sprawled on the floor. She starts to stagger and I wonder if she’s going to pass out, then realize she’s attempting to dance.

Whoa.

I clamp my arms around her. I’ve never danced with someone as inebriated as Ana. She is all arms and legs and unpredictable spins.

It’s an education.

I try to take both her hands and lead her around the room, in a semblance of a dance—that’s more a jig—so it’s not entirely successful. It’s unsettling.

Suddenly she stops and clutches her head. “Oh. The room is spinning.”

Oh no. “I think we should go to bed.”

She looks up at me between her fingers. “Why? What are you going to do?”

Is she flirting or is this a serious question?

“Let you sleep,” I reply, deadpan.

She makes a face, which I interpret as disappointment, but, taking her hand, I guide her back to the kitchen counter. From the cupboard I grab a glass and fill it with water. “Drink