Freed (Fifty Shades as Told by Christian #3) - E.L. James Page 0,95

on the bed, and around her ankle there’s a silver ankle chain.

“Very nice.” I run my fingers over the little bells that hang from the chain. They have a sweet, delicate chime, but the chain doesn’t hide the faint red line from the cuff yesterday.

The mark I left on her.

Hell.

“And this.” She holds out a wrapped gift box, a little too eagerly—to distract me, I think. Of course, she’s bought me something, and my mood switches to curious delight.

“For me?” The package is surprisingly heavy. Sitting down beside her, I give it a quick shake. Grinning, I clasp her chin and kiss her. “Thank you.”

“You haven’t opened it yet.”

“I’ll love it, whatever it is. I don’t get many presents.”

“It’s hard to buy you things. You have everything.”

“I have you.”

“You do.” She smiles.

I unwrap the paper to find a digital SLR camera. “A Nikon?”

“I know you have your compact digital camera, but this is for…portraits and the like. It comes with two lenses.”

Portraits?

Where is she going with this?

My anxiety returns in full force, prickling my scalp.

“Today in the gallery you liked the Florence D’elle photographs. And I remember what you said in the Louvre. And, of course, there were those other photographs.” Her voice drops.

Oh good God. I don’t want to talk about them!

“I thought you might, um, like to take pictures of me.”

“Pictures? Of you?”

She nods, blinking, her uncertainty obvious, and I examine the box, playing for time. It’s a state-of-the-art camera, a thoughtful gift from my thoughtful wife, but it makes me uncomfortable. Really uncomfortable

Why does she think I want to photograph her naked?

That isn’t my life anymore.

I look up at her. “Why do you think I want this?” I whisper.

A frisson of alarm crosses her face. “Don’t you?” she asks.

No, Ana. You’ve got this all wrong.

Suddenly, I see it clearly: my old life and my new one careening together like a car crash and inflicting untold damage. Those photographs were fundamentally to protect me—to protect my position and my family. I have to make her understand that I don’t need this from her…but I don’t want to hurt her feelings.

Try the truth, Grey. Communicate.

“For me, photos like those have usually been an insurance policy, Ana.”

And for your pleasure, Grey. Yes. It felt intimate, but deep down I knew I was safe viewing my subject through a lens. I was always at a remove; the camera put a wall between me and my sub, even though it was a thrill to capture them in the most intimate poses.

Fuck. Shame washes over me, and I’m in the confessional spilling my darkest secrets. “I know I’ve objectified women for so long.”

Ana tucks her hair behind her ear, and looks as confounded as I feel. “And you think taking pictures of me is objectifying me?” she whispers.

I close my eyes. What is happening here?

Why wouldn’t I do this with her?

“I’m so confused,” I murmur.

“Why do you say that?” she asks gently.

Opening my eyes, I look down at her wrist, which still bears the marks that I left on her. I’m trying to protect her from my old life. And this is what I do?

How can I keep her safe, when I can’t even keep her safe from me?

“Christian, these don’t matter.” She holds up her hand so the welt is on show. “You gave me a safe word. Shit—yesterday was fun. I enjoyed it. Stop brooding about it. I like rough sex, I’ve told you that before.” She sounds panicked. “Is this about the fire? Do you think it’s connected somehow to Charlie Tango? Is this why you’re worried? Talk to me, Christian, please.”

Don’t frighten her further, Grey.

She frowns. “Don’t overthink this, Christian.” She reaches for the box, opens it, and removes the camera. Switching it on, she takes the lens cap off, and raises the Nikon to her face, pointing it at me.

I loathe having my photograph taken. The last time I did it willingly was at the wedding, and before that it was for her, not so long ago, at The Heathman. That was before my life changed irrevocably. Before I knew her. She presses the button and holds it, taking a burst of photographs.

“I’ll objectify you, then,” she mutters. And once more I know she’s laughing at me, and not putting up with my bullshit. She edges closer, still looking at me through the lens. One, two, three, she takes several photos. She pokes her tongue between her teeth as she snaps each one, but I know she’s unaware