Fifty Shades Freed (64 page)

“He obviously adores you, darling.”

“And I adore him.”

“Make sure you tell him. Men need to hear that stuff just like we do.”

I insist on going to the airport with Mom and Bob to say good-bye. Taylor follows in the R8, and Christian drives the SUV. I’m sorry they can’t stay longer, but they have to get back to Savannah. It’s a tearful good-bye.

“Take good care of her, Bob,” I whisper as he hugs me.

“Sure will, Ana. And you look after yourself.”

“Will do.” I turn to my mother. “Good-bye, Mom. Thank you for coming,” I whisper, my voice hoarse. “I love you so much.”

“Oh my darling girl, I love you, too. And Ray will be fine. He’s not ready to shuffle off his mortal coil just yet. There’s probably a Mariners game he can’t miss.”

I giggle. She’s right. I resolve to read the sports pages of the Sunday newspaper to Ray that evening. I watch her and Bob climb the steps into the GEH jet. She gives me a tearful wave, then she’s gone. Christian wraps his arm around my shoulder.

“Let’s head back, baby,” he murmurs

“Will you drive?”

“Sure.”

When we return to the hospital that evening, Ray looks different. It takes me a moment to realize that the suck and push of the ventilator has vanished. Ray is breathing on his own. Relief floods through me
.
I stroke his stubbly face, and taking out a tissue to gently wipe, the spittle from his mouth.

Christian stalks off to find Dr. Sluder or Dr. Crowe for an update, while I take my familiar seat beside his bed to keep a watchful vigil.

I unfold the sports section of the Sunday
Oregonian
and conscientiously begin reading out the report about the Sounders soccer game against Real Salt Lake. By all accounts, it was a wild game, but the Sounders were defeated by an own goal from Kasey Keller. I grip Ray’s hand firmly in mine as I read it through.

“And the final score, Sounders 1, Real Salt Lake 2.”

“Hey, Annie, we lost? No!” Ray rasps, and he squeezes my hand.

Daddy!

Tears stream down my face. He’s back. My daddy is back.

“Don’t cry, Annie.” Ray’s voice is hoarse. “What’s happening?”

I take up his hand in both of mine and cradle it against my face. “You’ve been in an accident. You’re in the hospital in Portland.”

Ray frowns, and I don’t know if it’s because he’s uncomfortable with my uncharacteristic display of affection, or that he can’t remember the accident.

“Do you want some water?” I ask, though I’m not sure if I’m allowed to give him any. He nods, bewildered. My heart swells. I stand up and lean over him, kissing his forehead. “I love you, Daddy. Welcome back.”

He waves his hand, embarrassed. “Me, too, Annie. Water.” I run the short distance to the nurses’ station.

“My dad—he’s awake!” I beam at Nurse Kellie, who smiles back.

“Page Dr. Sluder,” she says to her colleague and hurriedly makes her way around the desk.

“He wants water.”

“I’ll bring him some.”

I skip back to my father’s bed, I feel so light-hearted. His eyes are closed when I reach him, and I immediately worry that he’s slipped back into a coma.

“Daddy?”

“I’m here,” he mutters and his eyes flutter open as Nurse Kellie appears with a jug of ice chips and a glass.

“Hello, Mr. Steele. I’m Kellie, your nurse. Your daughter tells me you’re thirsty.”

In the waiting room, Christian is staring fixedly at his laptop, deep in concentration. He glances up when I close the door.

“He’s awake,” I announce. He smiles, and the tension around his eyes vanishes. Oh . . . I hadn’t noticed before. Has he been tense all this time? He sets his laptop aside, stands, and embraces me.

“How is he?” he asks as I wrap my arms around him.

“Talking, thirsty, bewildered. He doesn’t remember the accident at all.”

“That’s understandable. Now that he’s awake, I want to get him moved to Seattle. Then we can go home, and my mom can keep an eye on him.”

Already?

“I’m not sure he’s well enough to be moved.”

“I’ll talk to Dr. Sluder. Get her opinion.”

“You miss home?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“You haven’t stopped smiling,” Christian says as I pull up outside the Heathman.

“I’m very relieved. And happy.”

Christian grins. “Good.”

The light is fading, and I shiver as I step out into the cool, crisp evening and hand my key to the parking valet. He’s eyeing my car with lust, and I don’t blame him. Christian puts his arm around me.

“Shall we celebrate?” he asks as we enter the foyer.

“Celebrate?”

“Your dad.”

I giggle. “Oh, him.”

“I’ve missed that sound.” Christian kisses my hair.

“Can we just eat in our room? You know, have a quiet night in?”

“Sure. Come.” Taking my hand, he leads me to the elevators.

“That was delicious,” I murmur with satisfaction as I push my plate away, replete for the first time in ages. “They sure know how to make a fine tarte Tatin here.”

I am freshly bathed and wearing only Christian’s T-shirt and my panties. In the background, Christian’s iPod is on shuffle and Dido is warbling on about white flags.

Christian eyes me speculatively. His hair is still damp from our bath, and he’s wearing just his black T-shirt and jeans. “That’s the most I’ve seen you eat the entire time we’ve been here,” he says.

“I was hungry.”

He leans back in his chair with a self-satisfied smirk and takes a sip of his white wine. “What would you like to do now?” His voice is soft.

“What do you want to do?”

He raises an eyebrow, amused. “What I always want to do.”

“And that is?”

“Mrs. Grey, don’t be coy.”

Reaching across the dining table, I grasp his hand, turn it over, and skim my index finger over his palm. “I’d like you to touch me with this.” I run my finger up his index finger.

He shifts in his chair. “Just that?” His eyes darken and heat at once.

“Maybe this?” I run my finger up his middle finger and back to his palm. “And this.” My nail traces his ring finger. “Definitely this.” My finger stops at his wedding ring. “This is very sexy.”

“Is it, now?”

“It sure is. It says
this man is mine
.” And I skim the small callous that has already formed on his palm beneath the ring. He leans forward and cups my chin with his other hand.

“Mrs. Grey, are you seducing me?”

“I hope so.”

“Anastasia, I’m a given.” His voice is low. “Come here.” He tugs my hand, pulling me onto his lap. “I like having unfettered access to you.” He runs a hand up my thigh to my behind. He grasps the nape of my neck with his other hand and kisses me, holding me firmly in place.

He tastes of white wine and apple pie and Christian. I run my fingers through his hair, holding him to me while our tongues explore and curl and twist around each other, my blood heating in my veins. We’re breathless when Christian pulls away.

“Let’s go to bed,” he murmurs against my lips.

“Bed?”

He pulls back further and tugs my hair so I am looking up at him. “Where would you prefer, Mrs. Grey?”

My inner goddess stops stuffing her face with tarte Tatin. I shrug, feigning indifference. “Surprise me.”

He smirks. “You’re feisty this evening.” He runs his nose along mine.

“Maybe I need to be restrained.”

“Maybe you do. You’re getting mighty bossy in your old age.” He narrows his eyes, but can’t disguise the latent humor there.

“What are you going to do about it?” I challenge.

His eyes glitter. “I know what I’d like to do about it. Depends if you’re up to it.”

“Oh, Mr. Grey, you’ve been very gentle with me these last couple of days. I’m not made of glass, you know.”

“You don’t like gentle?”

“With you, of course. But you know . . . variety is the spice of life.” I bat my lashes at him.

“You’re after something less gentle?”

“Something life-affirming.”

He raises his brows in surprise. “Life-affirming,” he repeats, astonished humor in his voice.

I nod. He gazes at me for a moment. “Don’t bite your lip,” he whispers then rises suddenly with me in his arms. I gasp and grab his biceps, fearful that he’ll drop me. He walks over to the smallest of the three couches and deposits me on to it.

“Wait here. Don’t move.” He gives me a brief hot, intense look and turns on his heel, stalking toward the bedroom. Oh . . . Christian barefoot. Why are his feet so hot? He’s back a few moments later, taking me by surprise as he leans over me from behind.

“I think we’ll dispense with this.” He grabs my T-shirt and drags it over my head, leaving me naked except for my panties. He pulls my ponytail back and kisses me.

“Stand up,” he orders against my lips and releases me. I comply immediately. He lays a towel out on the sofa.

Towel?

“Take your panties off.”

I swallow but do as I’m told, discarding them by the sofa.

“Sit.” He grabs my ponytail again and pulls my head back. “You’ll tell me to stop if this gets too much, yes?”

I nod.

“Say it.” His voice is stern.

“Yes,” I squeak.

He smirks. “Good. So, Mrs. Grey . . . by popular demand, I’m going to restrain you.” His voice drops to a breathless whisper. Desire streaks through my body like lightning simply at those words. Oh, my sweet Fifty—on the sofa?

“Bring your knees up,” he commands softly. “And sit right back.”

I rest my feet on the edge of the sofa, my knees up in front of me. He reaches for my left leg, and taking the belt from one of the bathroom robes, he ties one end above my knee.

“Bathrobes?”

“I’m improvising.” He smirks again and fastens the slipknot above my knee and ties the other end of the soft belt around the finial at the back corner of the sofa, effectively parting my legs.

“Don’t move,” he warns and repeats the process with my right leg, tying the second cord to the other finial.

Oh my . . .
I am sitting up, splayed out on the sofa, legs spread wide.

“Okay?” Christian asks softly, gazing down at me from behind the sofa.

I nod, expecting him to tie my hands, too. But he refrains. He bends and kisses me.

“You have no idea how hot you look right now,” he murmurs and rubs his nose against mine. “Change of music, I think.” He stands and strolls casually over to the iPod dock.

How does he do this? Here I am, trussed up and horny as hell, while he’s so cool and calm. He’s just in my field of vision, and I watch the flex and pull of the muscles of his back under his T-shirt as he changes the song. Immediately, a sweet, almost childlike female voice starts to sing about watching me.

Oh, I like this song.

Christian turns and his eyes lock on mine as he moves around to the front of the sofa and sinks gracefully to his knees in front of me.

Suddenly, I feel very exposed.

“Exposed? Vulnerable?” he asks with his uncanny ability to voice my unspoken words. His hands are on his knees. I nod.

Why doesn’t he touch me?

“Good,” he murmurs. “Hold out your hands.” I can’t look away from his mesmerizing eyes as I do what he asks. Christian pours a little oily liquid onto each palm from a small clear bottle. It’s scented—a rich, musky, sensuous scent that I can’t place.

“Rub your hands.” I squirm beneath his hot, heavy gaze. “Keep still,” he warns.

Oh my.

“Now, Anastasia, I want you to touch yourself.”

Holy cow.

“Start at your throat and work down.”

I hesitate.