Freed (Fifty Shades as Told by Christian #3) - E.L. James Page 0,98

remind her.

She’s wearing that smile—the one I stare at every day in my office. Is she laughing at me? No. I don’t think so. It’s her compassion. “I’m a grown-up, Christian, and much tougher than I look. When are you going to learn this?”

I shrug. She doesn’t look tough to me—not when I see her out cold on a sticky green rug.

“So, the fire. Do the police know about the arson?”

“Yes,” I respond.

“Good.”

“Security is going to get tighter,” I tell her.

“I understand.” Her eyes sweep down over my body, and suddenly her lips quirk up.

“What?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“Yes. You. Still dressed.”

“Oh.” I glance down. I’m still dressed. I grin when I look back at Ana and let her know how hard it is for me to keep my hands off of her, especially when she’s giggling.

Her eyes brighten immediately and she moves quickly, straddling me.

Shit. I grab her wrists, somehow knowing what she’s going to do.

“No,” I whisper, as the darkness makes an unwelcome return to my chest, ready to claw its way out. I take a deep breath. “Please don’t,” I plead. “I couldn’t bear it. I was never tickled as a child.” Ana puts her hands down and I continue, “I used to watch Carrick with Elliot and Mia, tickling them, and it looked like such fun, but I, I—”

She puts her finger on my lips. “Hush, I know.” She removes her finger and plants a sweet kiss in its place. Scooting down, she rests her cheek to my chest, and I hold her, pressing my nose into her hair. Her scent is soothing, mixed with the pungent fragrance of sex. We lie for several minutes in our calm after the storm, before she interrupts our quiet, comfortable silence. “What is the longest you’ve gone without seeing Dr. Flynn?”

“Two weeks. Why? Do you have an incorrigible urge to tickle me?”

“No.” She laughs. “I think he helps you.”

I snort. “He should. I pay him enough.” I stroke her hair and she turns her face to me. “Are you concerned for my well-being, Mrs. Grey?”

“Every good wife is concerned for her beloved husband’s well-being, Mr. Grey.”

“Beloved?” I whisper, wanting to say the word out loud, to hear it ring between us with all its significance.

“Very much beloved.” She leans up to kiss me.

It’s a relief that she knows the truth and yet she still loves me. My anxiety has evaporated, replaced by hunger. I smile down at her. “Do you want to go ashore to eat?”

“I want to eat wherever you’re happiest.”

“Good. Aboard is where I can keep you safe. Thank you for my present.” I reach for it and, turning it around, hold it at arm’s length and snap a picture of the two of us wrapped around each other.

We take coffee post-dinner inside the impressive dining room on the Fair Lady. “What are you thinking about?” I ask, as Ana looks wistfully out the window.

“Versailles.”

“Ostentatious, wasn’t it?”

Ana looks at our surroundings.

“This is hardly ostentatious,” I observe.

“I know. It’s lovely. The best honeymoon a girl could want.”

“Really?” I smile. Pleased.

“Of course it is.”

“We only have two more days. Is there anything you’d like to see or do?”

“Just be with you,” she says.

I rise and come around the table and drop a kiss on her forehead

“Well, can you do without me for about an hour? I need to check my e-mails, find out what’s happening at home.”

“Sure,” she says.

“Thank you for the camera.”

As I head into the study, I notice that for some reason, I’m feeling far more settled. Could it be the delicious dinner, the sex, or telling Ana about the arson? It could be a combination of all those. I pull my phone out of my pocket and notice a missed call from my dad.

“Son,” he says when he answers his phone.

“Hi, Dad.”

“How’s the South of France?”

“It’s great.”

“And Ana?”

“She’s great, too.” I can’t help my smile.

“You sound happy.”

“Yes. The only fly in the ointment is the fire.”

“Your mother told me about that. But not much damage, I hear.”

“No.”

“What’s the matter, Christian?” He adopts a serious tone, probably in response to my monosyllabic reply.

“It was arson.”

“Shit. Police involved?”

“Yes.”

“Good. This and your helicopter. It’s a lot to deal with.”

“Welch is on it. But we don’t have a clue who it might be. Have you noticed anything unusual?”

“No, I can’t say that I have. But I’ll keep a watchful eye.”

“Do,” I insist.

“Is the jet safe?” he asks.

“The Gulfstream? Yes. I think so.”

“Perhaps you should fly back commercial.”

Why?

“It’s just a thought. I don’t want to