FIFTY SHADES FREED PDF FREE ONLINE

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Fifty Shades Freed Pdf Free Online

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Download fifty shades freed from reading sanctuary in eBook pdf format. Read Online or download Fifty Shades Freed Novel. pdf Fifty Shades thtonmonnixilon.tk Go to PDF. Nov 26, Fifty Shades Freed CHAPTER 1. CHAPTER 1 thanks for sharing read fifty shades of gray books online free thtonmonnixilon.tk Reply. She is also the author of Fifty Shades Darker and Fifty Shades Freed. The author published an earlier serialized version of this story online with different .. When my hair is free of pins, he runs his fingers through it, gently massaging my.

Taking my hair, he carefully parts it into three strands, braids it slowly, and then fastens my hair tie to the end. He tugs my braid gently and leans down to my ear.

Moving suddenly, he grabs me by the waist, sits down on the bed, and yanks me across his knee so that I feel his erection pressed against my belly. He smacks my backside once, hard. Without taking his eyes off me, he gets up from the bed and gathers both sets of handcuffs.

He grasps my left leg and snaps one cuff around my ankle. Lifting my right leg, he repeats the process so I have a pair of handcuffs attached to each ankle. I can see nothing, all I can hear is my rapid breathing and the sound of the water lapping against the sides of the yacht as she bobs gently on the sea. I am so aroused. My left hand is tied to my left ankle, my right hand to the right leg. I cannot straighten my legs. Holy fuck. And all the air leaves my body.

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He grasps both of my heels and tips me back so that I fall backward on to the bed. I have no choice but to keep my legs bent. The cuffs tighten as I pull against them.

This feels weird—being trussed up and helpless— on a boat. He pulls my ankles apart, and I groan. I have no download to move my hips.

My feet are suspended. I cannot move. Holy shit. He pulls the strings on each side, and the scraps of material fall away. I am now naked and at his mercy. He kisses my belly, nipping my navel with his teeth. This is going to be tough. I had no idea. He traces soft kisses and little bites up to my breasts. I moan, pulling on my restraints. The metal bites into my skin. Biting, sucking, rolling my nipples between his fingers and thumbs, driving me wild.

His erection pushes against me. I pull helplessly on the cuffs, swamped by the sensation. He kisses me. His skilled tongue invades my mouth, tasting, exploring, dominating, but my tongue meets his challenge, writhing against his.

He tastes of cool gin and Christian Grey, and he smells of the sea. He grasps my chin, holding my head in place. He withdraws. Christian, please! I scream, tilting my head back, pulling on the restraints as he hits my sweet spot, and I am all sensation, everywhere—a sweet, sweet agony, and I cannot move. He stills then circles his hips, and the motion radiates deep inside me. I cry out in an incoherent wail.

Because I love you! Please, Christian. Tears spring to my eyes. This is too intense. I want. I am wrung ragged, tears streaming down my face—my body left pulsing and shaking. He clutches my head with one hand and my back with another, and he comes violently inside me while my insides continue to tremble with aftershocks. Christian tears off the blindfold and kisses me. He kisses my eyes, my nose, my cheeks.

He kisses away the tears, clutching my face in between his hands. Very gently, he lays me back on the bed and eases out of me. He climbs off the bed and undoes the handcuffs. I stretch out my legs.

Oh my, that feels good. I feel good. That was, without doubt, the most intense climax I have ever endured. I really must misbehave more often. A pressing need from my bladder wakes me. Where am I? Oh—the boat. I feel her pitch and roll, and hear the quiet hum of the engines. How odd. Christian is beside me, working on his laptop, casually dressed in a white linen shirt and chino trousers, his feet bare.

His hair is still wet, I presume from a shower. I can smell his body wash and his Christian smell. No amount of training with Claude could have prepared me for this afternoon. I rise gingerly, needing the bathroom. Grabbing my silk robe, I hastily put it on.

Why am I so shy? When I glance at him, he returns to his laptop, his brow furrowed. As I absentmindedly wash my hands at the vanity unit, recalling last night at the Casino, my robe falls open. I stare at myself in the mirror, shocked. Holy fuck! What has he done to me? I have hickeys! How did I not feel him doing this to me? I flush. The fact is I know exactly why—Mr.

Orgasmic was using his fine-motor sexing skills on me. My subconscious peers over her half-moon specs and tuts disapprovingly, while my inner goddess slumbers on her chaise longue, out for the count.

My wrists have a red welt around them from the handcuffs. I examine my ankles—more welts. I gaze at myself, trying to absorb how I look. My body is so different these days.

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My nails are manicured, my feet pedicured, my eyebrows threaded and beautifully shaped. How dare he mark me like this, like some teenager. I look like hell. Damn control freak.

I stalk out of the en suite bathroom and into the walk-in closet, carefully avoiding even a glance in his direction. Slipping out of my robe, I pull on my sweatpants and a camisole. I undo the braid, pick up a hairbrush from the small vanity unit, and brush out my tangles.

Am I okay? No, I am not okay. The thought is suddenly so infuriating. How dare he? I seethe as fury spikes through me. I can behave like an 37 P a g e Fifty Shades Freed adolescent, too! I storm out of our cabin and run upstairs and out on deck, stomping toward the bow. I need some space to calm down. The warm breeze carries the smell of the Mediterranean and the scent of jasmine and bougainvillea from the shore. The Fair Lady glides effortlessly through the calm cobalt sea as I rest my elbows on the wooden railing, gazing at the distant shore where tiny lights wink and twinkle.

I take a deep, healing breath and slowly begin to calm. Apt, huh? He stays silent as I turn and scowl at him, watching me with wide and wary eyes. You made your point on the beach. Very effectively, as I recall. I glare at him. Well, not this many, anyway. Christian gazes at me, his eyes not leaving my face his expression wary and uncertain. He steps closer and tentatively raises his hand to tuck my hair behind my ear.

Emotionally, Christian is an adolescent, Ana. He bypassed that phase in his life totally. His emotional world has to play catch- up. My heart thaws a little. He rests his hand over mine and smiles his shy smile. I would never have figured that, but then I constantly underestimate you. You always surprise me. I can throw and shoot straight, Mr. I smirk back, narrowing my eyes. Pulling me into an embrace, he buries his nose in my hair.

I wrap my arms around him, holding him close, and feel the tension leave his body as he nuzzles me. He does smell good, adolescent or not.

How can I resist him? I have my eyes closed and my head against his chest. All the. Suddenly he frowns and his eyes widen, his pupils dilating with alarm. Holy shit! Leaning over, I put my index finger over his lips. I was just curious. His look is wary, but after a moment he visibly relaxes, his relief evident.

I lean over to kiss the corner of his mouth. Will I ever understand this man? I see. He grins at me, looking far too knowing.

Will I always be on the back foot with Mr. He takes pity on me. Whatever you want, Christian. Put your theory to the test again? I shrug. Grabbing his glass of wine, he rises and holds his hand out to me. His iPod is in the speaker dock on the bureau. He switches it on and selects a song. Is this a Latin rhythm? Christian grins down at me and starts to move, sweeping me off my feet and taking me with him round the salon.

A man with a voice like warm melted caramel croons. He smiles down at me, his eyes filled with humor. Then he scoops me up and spins me under his arm. Robinson, the woman who taught him how to dance—and how to fuck. Reluctantly though, I have to admit—she was some teacher. He dips me low again and plants a swift kiss on my lips. Then he sings the words softly in my ear making me swoon. Christian, you had me at I do —two and half weeks ago. But I know this is his way of apologizing and making sure all is well between us after our spat.

Christian is nowhere to be seen. I stretch out and smile. I marvel what it is to go to bed with two different men—angry Christian and sweet letmemake-it-up-to-you-in-any-way-I-can Christian. I rise and head for the bathroom. Opening the door, I find Christian inside shaving, naked except for a towel wrapped around his waist. He turns and beams at me, not fazed that I am interrupting him. I have discovered that Christian will never lock the door if he is the only person in the room—the reason why is sobering, and not one I want to dwell on.

I love watching him shave. He pulls up his chin and shaves beneath it, taking long deliberate strokes, and I find myself unconsciously mirroring his actions. He turns and smirks at me, one half of his face still covered in shaving soap.

Oh, Christian, I could watch you for hours. He cannot keep his horrified amusement to himself. He sits up in bed in our suite at Browns Hotel near Piccadilly, switches on the bedside light and gazes down at me, his mouth a startled O. It must be midnight. He grabs my hand to stop me. I cover my face with my hands.

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Why am I so embarrassed? Why does he find this so funny? The humor in his expression has vanished, and he regards me cautiously. He stares at me, his eyes glowing—this time not with mirth at my folly, but with love. He leans down and kisses me tenderly. After a breathless moment, he pulls back and leans up on one elbow.

The humor is back. I cover myself, protecting my recently deforested area. He gives me a burning look that could light dry tinder, but before I combust, he bends and skims his lips down my naked belly directly to my sex. I squirm beneath him, reluctantly resigned to my fate.

What on earth is he doing? He returns moments later, carrying a glass of water, a mug, my razor, his shaving brush, soap, and a towel. He puts the water, brush, soap, and razor on the bedside table and gazes down at me, holding the towel. My subconscious slams down her Complete Works of Charles Dickens, leaps up from her armchair, and puts her hands on her hips.

Lift your hips. You are not shaving me. And, I know this part of your body better than you do. Of all the arrogant.

He snorts. He kisses my inner thigh. He grasps my left ankle and parts my legs, and the bed dips as he sits between my legs. The water in the glass must be hot. I squirm a little. It tickles. I like firsts. Here goes. It only takes a matter of minutes before he grabs the towel and wipes all the excess lather off me. I glance quickly down at my fingers.

Yes, it was. I had no idea that the absence of pubic hair could make such a difference. I push him gently toward the lone white stool in the bathroom. He sits down, gazing at me puzzled, and I take the razor from him. I lean down and kiss him. He hesitates. I shake my head slowly, deliberately, trying to look as serious as possible. He closes his eyes and shakes his head then tilts his head back in surrender.

My inner goddess flexes and stretches her arms outward, her fingers interlocked, palms out, limbering up. Tentatively I slide my hand into the damp hair at his forehead, gripping tightly to hold him still.

He clenches his eyes closed and parts his lips as he inhales. Very gently, I stroke his razor up from his neck to his chin, revealing a path of skin beneath the lather. Christian exhales. I steady myself with my hands on his upper arms.

He licks his lips nervously. No sunbathing today. I thought you might prefer that. My dad recommended we visit. There are some galleries there. I thought we could pick out some paintings or sculptures for the new house, if we find anything we like.

I lean back and gaze at him. How can I download art? I shake my head.

My dislike is irrational. Saint Paul de Vence is a medieval fortified hilltop village, one of the most picturesque places I have ever seen. I stroll arm in arm with Christian through the narrow cobbled streets, my hand in the back pocket of his shorts. We pass a tree-covered square where three old men, one wearing a traditional beret in spite of the heat, are playing boules.

There is so much to see— little alleys and passageways leading to courtyards with intricate stone fountains, ancient and modern sculptures, and fascinating little boutiques and shops. They make me think of the box of photographs I found in his closet, our closet. I wonder if he ever did destroy them. He takes my hand and we stroll to the next artist. Idly, I wonder if I should let him take photos of me after all. My inner goddess nods frantically with approval.

Where would you put them? Nice idea, Mrs. Five thousand euros each. I want to roll my eyes, but turn my attention back to the paintings.

Five thousand euros. He smiles lewdly at me. In one fluid move, he stands and bends over me, resting his hands on the arms of my chair. How rude. How can I resist? My heart starts pounding in anticipation. He leads me across the deck and through the doors into the plush, beautifully appointed main salon, along a narrow corridor, through the dining room, and down the stairs to the master cabin.

The cabin has been cleaned since this morning and the bed made. Christian releases my hand, pulls his T-shirt over his head, and tosses it onto a chair. He steps out of his flip-flops and removes his shorts and trunks in one graceful move.

Oh my. Will I ever tire of looking at him naked? He is utterly gorgeous and all mine. I am one lucky, lucky girl.

He grasps my chin, pulling slightly so that I stop biting my lip, and runs his thumb along my lower lip. He produces two pairs of metal handcuffs and an airline eye mask from the bottom drawer. I glance quickly and nervously at the bed.

Where the hell is he going to attach those? He turns and gazes steadily at me, his eyes dark and luminous. They can bite into the skin if you pull too hard. My mouth goes dry. Vaguely, I hope I never have to wear a pair of these for real. Christian is watching me intently. He holds out his palm, revealing a small metallic key. In fact, all sets. He strokes my cheek with his index finger, trailing it down to my mouth. He leans in as if to kiss me. He smiles. My heart starts pounding.

Shit … How can he do this with just words? It will be intense. Very intense, because I am not going to let you move. This sounds so hot. My breathing is too loud. Fuck, I am panting already. My eyes flick down to his arousal. Lift up your arms. He holds out his hand, and I give him back the handcuffs. He places both sets on the bedside table along with the blindfold and yanks the quilt off the bed, letting it fall to the floor. He gathers it into one hand and yanks gently so I step back against him.

Against his chest. Against his erection. I gasp as he pulls my head to one side and kisses my neck. What are we going to do about that? His soft languid kisses are driving me wild. He grins against my neck. You are ever the optimist. Taking my hair, he carefully parts it into three strands, braids it slowly, and then fastens my hair tie to the end. He tugs my braid gently and leans down to my ear. Moving suddenly, he grabs me by the waist, sits down on the bed, and yanks me across his knee so that I feel his erection pressed against my belly.

He smacks my backside once, hard. Without taking his eyes off me, he gets up from the bed and gathers both sets of handcuffs. He grasps my left leg and snaps one cuff around my ankle. Lifting my right leg, he repeats the process so I have a pair of handcuffs attached to each ankle.

He reaches down, lifts my chin, and plants a soft wet kiss on my lips before slipping the blindfold over my eyes. I can see nothing; all I can hear is my rapid breathing and the sound of the water lapping against the sides of the yacht as she bobs gently on the sea. I am so aroused … already. My left hand is tied to my left ankle, my right hand to my right leg.

I cannot straighten my legs.

Holy fuck. And all the air leaves my body. He grasps both of my heels and tips me back so that I fall backward on the bed. I have no choice but to keep my legs bent.

The cuffs tighten as I pull against them. He pulls my ankles apart, and I groan. I have no download to move my hips. My feet are suspended. I cannot move. He pulls the strings on each side, and the scraps of material fall away. I am now naked and at his mercy. He kisses my belly, nipping my navel with his teeth. This is going to be tough … I had no idea. He traces soft kisses and little bites up to my breasts.

I moan, pulling on my restraints. The metal bites into my skin. Biting, sucking, rolling my nipples between his fingers and thumbs, driving me wild. His erection pushes against me. I pull helplessly on the cuffs, swamped by the sensation.

He kisses me. His skilled tongue invades my mouth, tasting, exploring, dominating, but my tongue meets his challenge, writhing against his. He tastes of cool gin and Christian Grey, and he smells of the sea. He grasps my chin, holding my head in place. He withdraws. Christian, please! I scream, tilting my head back, pulling on the restraints as he hits my sweet spot, and I am all sensation, everywhere—a sweet, sweet agony, and I cannot move. He stills, then circles his hips, and the motion radiates deep inside me.

I cry out in an incoherent wail … this is too much. Because I love you!

Please, Christian. This is too intense. I am wrung ragged, tears streaming down my face—my body left pulsing and shaking. He clutches my head with one hand and my back with the other, and he comes violently inside me while my insides continue to tremble with aftershocks.

Christian tears off the blindfold and kisses me. He kisses my eyes, my nose, my cheeks. He kisses away the tears, clutching my face between his hands. Very gently, he lays me back on the bed and eases out of me. I mouth some wordless protest. He climbs off the bed and undoes the handcuffs.

I stretch out my legs. Oh my, that feels good. I feel good. That was, without doubt, the most intense climax I have ever endured. Hmm … a Christian Grey Fifty Shades punishment fuck. I really must misbehave more often.

Where am I? Oh—the boat. I feel her pitch and roll, and hear the quiet hum of the engines. How odd. Christian is beside me, working on his laptop, casually dressed in a white linen shirt and chino trousers, his feet bare.

No amount of training with Claude could have prepared me for this afternoon. I rise gingerly, needing the bathroom. Grabbing my silk robe, I hastily put it on. Why am I so shy? When I glance at him, he returns to his laptop, his brow furrowed. As I absentmindedly wash my hands at the vanity unit, recalling last night at the casino, my robe falls open.

I stare at myself in the mirror, shocked. Holy fuck! What has he done to me? I have hickeys! How did I not feel him doing this to me? I flush. The fact is I know exactly why—Mr. Orgasmic was using his fine-motor sexing skills on me. My subconscious peers over her half-moon specs and tuts disapprovingly, while my inner goddess slumbers on her chaise longue, out for the count.

I gape at my reflection. My wrists have red welts around them from the handcuffs. I examine my ankles—more welts. I gaze at myself, trying to absorb how I look. My body is so different these days. My nails are manicured, my feet pedicured, my eyebrows threaded and beautifully shaped. How dare he mark me like this, like some teenager. I look like hell. Damn control freak. I stalk out of the en suite bathroom and into the walk-in closet, carefully avoiding even a glance in his direction.

Slipping out of my robe, I pull on my sweatpants and a camisole. I undo the braid, pick up a hairbrush from the small vanity unit, and brush out my tangles. Am I okay? No, I am not okay. The thought is suddenly so infuriating. How dare he? I seethe as fury spikes through me.

I can behave like an adolescent, too! Stepping back into the bedroom, I hurl the hairbrush at him, turn, and leave—though not before I see his shocked expression and his lightning reaction as he raises his arm to protect his head so that the brush bounces ineffectively off his forearm and onto the bed. I storm out of our cabin, bolt upstairs and out on deck, fleeing toward the bow.

I need some space to calm down. The warm breeze carries the smell of the Mediterranean and the scent of jasmine and bougainvillea from the shore. The Fair Lady glides effortlessly through the calm cobalt sea as I rest my elbows on the wooden railing, gazing at the distant shore where tiny lights wink and twinkle. I take a deep, healing breath and slowly begin to calm.

Apt, huh? He stays silent as I turn and scowl at him, watching me with wide and wary eyes. You made your point on the beach. Very effectively, as I recall. I glare at him. Well, not this many, anyway. Christian gazes at me, his eyes not leaving my face, his expression wary and uncertain. Eventually, he sighs and holds his palms up in a resigned, conciliatory gesture.

He steps closer and tentatively raises his hand to tuck my hair behind my ear. He bypassed that phase in his life totally. His emotional world has to play catch-up. My heart thaws a little.

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He rests his hand over mine and smiles his shy smile. I would never have figured that, but then I constantly underestimate you. You always surprise me. I can throw and shoot straight, Mr. I smirk back, narrowing my eyes. Pulling me into an embrace, he buries his nose in my hair. I wrap my arms around him, holding him close, and feel the tension leave his body as he nuzzles me. He does smell good, adolescent or not. How can I resist him? I have my eyes closed and my head against his chest. All the … er … activity has given me an appetite.

We can dress how we like. Suddenly he frowns and his eyes widen, his pupils dilating with alarm. Leaning over, I put my index finger over his lips. I was just curious.

His look is wary, but after a moment he visibly relaxes, his relief evident. I lean over to kiss the corner of his mouth. I crack my spoon through the burned sugar crust of my dessert and shake my head. Will I ever understand this man? I see. He grins, looking far too knowing. Will I always be on the back foot with Mr. He takes pity on me. Whatever you want, Christian. Put your theory to the test again? I shrug. Grabbing his glass of wine, he rises and holds his hand out to me. His iPod is in the speaker dock on the dresser.

He switches it on and selects a song. Is this a Latin rhythm? Christian grins down at me and starts to move, sweeping me off my feet and taking me with him around the salon.

A man with a voice like warm melted caramel croons. Christian dips me low, and I yelp in surprise and giggle. He smiles, his eyes filled with humor. Then he scoops me up and spins me under his arm. Robinson, the woman who taught him how to dance—and how to fuck. Reluctantly though, I have to admit—she was some teacher.

He dips me low again and plants a swift kiss on my lips. Then he sings the words softly in my ear, making me swoon. But I know this is his way of apologizing and making sure all is well between us after our spat. Christian is nowhere to be seen. I stretch out and smile. I marvel at what it is to go to bed with two different men—angry Christian and sweet let-me-make-it-up- to-you-in-any-way-I-can Christian. I rise and head for the bathroom. Opening the door, I find Christian inside shaving, naked except for a towel wrapped around his waist.

He turns and beams, not fazed that I am interrupting him. I have discovered that Christian will never lock the door if he is the only person in the room—the reason is sobering, and not one I want to dwell on. I love watching him shave. He pulls up his chin and shaves beneath it, taking long deliberate strokes, and I find myself unconsciously mirroring his actions. Pulling my upper lip down just as he does, to shave his philtrum.

He turns and smirks at me, one half of his face still covered in shaving soap. Oh, Christian, I could watch you for hours. I purse my lips at him. He cannot keep his horrified amusement to himself. It must be midnight. He grabs my hand to stop me.

I cover my face with my hands. Why am I so embarrassed? Why does he find this so funny? The humor in his expression has vanished, and he regards me cautiously. He stares at me, his eyes glowing—this time not with mirth at my folly, but with love.

He leans down and kisses me tenderly. After a breathless moment, he pulls back and leans up on one elbow.

The humor is back. I cover myself, protecting my recently deforested area. He gives me a scorching look that could light dry tinder, but before I combust, he bends and skims his lips down my naked belly directly to my sex.

I squirm beneath him, reluctantly resigned to my fate. What on earth is he doing? He returns moments later, carrying a glass of water, a mug, my razor, his shaving brush, soap, and a towel. He puts the water, brush, soap, and razor on the bedside table and gazes down at me, holding the towel. My subconscious slams down her Complete Works of Charles Dickens, leaps up from her armchair, and puts her hands on her hips. Lift your hips. You are not shaving me. And I know this part of your body better than you do.

Of all the arrogant … true, he does—but still. He snorts. He kisses my inner thigh. He grasps my left ankle and parts my legs, and the bed dips as he sits between my legs. The water in the glass must be hot. I squirm a little. It tickles … but in a good way. I like firsts. Here goes. I glance quickly down at my fingers. Yes, it was. I had no idea that the absence of pubic hair could make such a difference. Hmm … payback time. He stares, not understanding.

I push him gently toward the lone white stool in the bathroom. Perplexed, he sits down, and I take the razor from him. I lean down and kiss him. He hesitates. I shake my head slowly, deliberately, trying to look as serious as possible.

He closes his eyes and shakes his head, then tilts it back in surrender. Tentatively I slide my hand into the damp hair at his forehead, gripping tightly to hold him still. He clenches his eyes closed and parts his lips as he inhales. Very gently, I stroke his razor up from his neck to his chin, revealing a path of skin beneath the lather.

Christian exhales. I steady myself with my hands on his upper arms. He licks his lips nervously. No sunbathing today. I thought you might prefer something else. My dad recommended we visit. There are some galleries there.

I thought we could pick out some paintings or sculptures for the new house, if we find anything we like. Art … he wants to download art. How can I download art? I shake my head.

My dislike is irrational. I stroll arm in arm with Christian through the narrow cobblestone streets with my hand in the back pocket of his shorts. We pass a tree- covered square where three old men, one wearing a traditional beret in spite of the heat, are playing boules. There is so much to see—little alleys and passageways leading to courtyards with intricate stone fountains, ancient and modern sculptures, and fascinating little boutiques and shops.

In the first gallery, Christian gazes distractedly at the erotic photographs in front of us, sucking gently on the arm of his aviator specs. They make me think of the box of photographs I found in his closet, our closet. I wonder if he ever did destroy them.

He takes my hand, and we stroll to the next artist. Idly, I wonder if I should let him take photos of me. The next display is by a female painter who specializes in still lifes—fruit and vegetables super close up and in rich, glorious color. Where would you put them?

Nice idea, Mrs.

Five thousand euros each. I want to roll my eyes, but turn my attention back to the paintings. Five thousand euros … jeez. Christian interrupts my reverie. His tone alarms me. He looks … guilty. His birth mom. He gazes at me, his expression unreadable. My heart leaps into my mouth. What do I say when he says things like this?

He regards me with uncertainty. I grasp his hand. Holy shit. Have I gone too far? Say something, Fifty—please. But he remains resolutely mute, gazing at me with fathomless gray eyes while the silence stretches between us.

He looks lost. He glances down at my hand on his and he frowns. He shakes his head, exhaling deeply. Have I overstepped the mark? I have no idea. I decide on the latter and follow him dutifully out of the restaurant. In the lovely narrow street, he takes my hand. I exhale, relieved, and shrug. The thought saddens me, and for the first time I wonder if it will ever be finished. Do I want him to change? No, not really—only insofar as I want him to feel loved.

I sigh heavily and hug him closer. Christian stops outside a small boutique selling fine jewelry and gazes in the window, then down at me. He grasps my free hand and runs his thumb across the faded red line of the handcuff mark, inspecting it. He twists so that my other hand is freed from his pocket. He clasps that hand, too, turning it gently over to examine my wrist. The platinum Omega watch he gave me at breakfast on our first morning in London obscures the red line. The inscription still makes me swoon.

I gaze down at the faint marks on my wrist. Then again, he can be savage sometimes. Releasing my left hand, he tilts my chin up with his fingers and scrutinizes my expression, his eyes troubled.

He pulls my hand to his lips and plants a soft apologetic kiss on the inside of my wrist. He fastens it around my wrist. I have never worn anything so expensive. It catches the afternoon light streaming through the boutique window and small sparkling rainbows dance off the diamonds all over the walls of the store.

Why does he need this? Does he feel guilty? About what? The marks? His birth mother? Not confiding in me? Oh, Fifty. Christian is brooding about something. I clasp his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. He glances at me before releasing my hand and caressing my knee. I tense with anticipation at the gentle touch of his fingers and my breath catches.

He chooses down, suddenly grasping my ankle and pulling my foot onto his lap. I swivel my backside so I am facing him in the back of the car. Would they mind? Could I be any happier? I want you too much to wait any longer. But okay—a month it is. The late afternoon sun has shifted, and I am under its full glare.

He smirks and in one swift move pulls my sun lounger into the shade of the parasol. Turn over. I want to do your back. Oh, Christian. I frown and he smirks. My inner goddess purrs. Maybe tonight we could do some kind of floor show for his eyes only. She smirks knowingly, arching a brow. I grin at the thought and drift back into my afternoon siesta. Et quelque chose a manger. Christian speaking fluent French wakes me. My eyelashes flutter in the glare of the sun, and I find Christian watching me while a liveried young woman walks away, her tray held aloft, her high blond ponytail swinging provocatively.

His shorts fall a little and hang. Christian takes his shorts off, stepping out of his flip-flops. I lose my train of thought. Put me down! He chuckles. I clasp my arms around his neck. He grins. He inhales sharply and leans back, eyes smoky but wary. The chill of the Mediterranean is soon forgotten as I wrap myself around my husband.

He wraps my ponytail around his wrist and tugs gently, tilting my head back, exposing my throat. He trails kisses from my ear down my neck. Christian pulls away and gazes down at me, his eyes warm, wanting, and amused. What sort of monster have I created? Would you have me any other way? But not right now. Not with an audience. Sure enough, several sunbathers on the beach have abandoned their indifference and now regard us with interest.

Suddenly, Christian grabs me around my waist and launches me into the air, letting me fall into the water and sink beneath the waves to the soft sand below. I surface, coughing, spluttering and giggling. I thought we were going to make love in the sea.

He bites his lower lip to stifle his amusement. I splash him, and he splashes me right back. Playful, tantalizing Fifty! I shield my eyes from the sun as I watch him go. While I swim back to the shore, I contemplate my options. At the sun loungers our drinks have arrived, and I take a quick sip of Coke. Christian is a faint speck in the distance. Put this in your pipe and smoke it. I shut my eyes and let the sun warm my skin. I beam at my husband. I am married. I am Mrs. Christian Grey. I am giddy with joy.

Holy crap. How does he do this, even here with all these people staring at us? I nod mutely. Jeez, I hope no one can hear us. Luckily Reverend Walsh has discreetly stepped back. I glance at the throng gathered in their wedding finery.

Who knew that even Elliot could scrub up so well? All wear huge, beaming smiles—except Grace, who weeps graciously into a dainty white handkerchief. I melt. He looks divine in a simple black tux with silver waistcoat and tie. Later the wedding party is in full swing. Carrick and Grace have gone to town.

They have the marquee set up again and beautifully decorated in pale pink, silver, and ivory with its sides open, facing the bay. We have been blessed with fine weather, and the late afternoon sun shines over the water. Ray and my mother are dancing and laughing with each other. I feel bittersweet watching them together. I hope Christian and I last longer.

Marry in haste, repent at leisure. The saying haunts me. Kate is beside me, looking so beautiful in her long silk gown. She glances at me and frowns.

Are you watching your mom and Ray? I love him so much. I giggle. Trust Kate to point out the obvious. She pulls me into a Katherine Kavanagh Special Hug. You look stunning, Anastasia. I love that the lace is just off the shoulder—demure, yet alluring, I hope. He bends and kisses me. Such lovebirds. And I think you can call me Grandma.

Now, you two seriously need to get working on my great-grandkids. Christian blinks at her in horror. He glances back at me, practically pouting, and rolls his eyes. I think I monopolized too much of your time on the dance floor as it is. If you need me. Good luck with everything. He frowns, not understanding, and tugs gently on my hand, halting me.Oh, Mom! He reduces her to a puddle of tears and has her whimpering the safe-word over and over again until he finally stops.

Word Count:. I can hardly believe it. But my body takes over, obliterating the thought, climbing and building so I am awash with sensation, meeting him thrust for thrust. Christian is on his BlackBerry, leaning against the mahogany desk. How rude.

HELLEN from Tuscaloosa
I relish reading comics yawningly. Review my other posts. One of my hobbies is woodball.
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