Freed: Fifty Shades Freed as told by Christian (Fifty Shades 6)

“Oh, Ana,” I murmur, and move, easing out of her, so that we’re lying side by side, lost in each other’s eyes. I stroke her face with my knuckles and thumb. From memory, I recite my vows, my voice hoarse as I try to contain my emotion. “I solemnly vow that I will safeguard and hold dear and deep in my heart our union and you. I promise to love you faithfully, forsaking all others, through the good times and the bad, in sickness and in health, regardless of where life takes us. I will protect you, trust you, and respect you. I will share your joys and sorrows and comfort you in times of need. I promise to cherish you and uphold your hopes and dreams and keep you safe at my side. All that is mine is now yours. I give you my hand, my heart, and my love from this moment on for as long as we both shall live.”

Tears well in her eyes.

“Don’t cry,” I whisper, brushing away a stray tear with my thumb.

“Why won’t you talk to me? Please, Christian.”

I close my eyes.

Talking about it makes it real, Ana.

“I vowed I would bring you solace in times of need. Please don’t make me break my vows,” she pleads.

I have no defenses against her.

I love her.

Before Ana, I didn’t feel anything. And now, I feel everything. Every emotion is so heightened. It’s hard to process. Hard to understand.

Her expression hasn’t changed. She’s begging me.

I sigh, defeated. “It’s arson,” I whisper, as if this is a huge failing on my part. “And my biggest worry is that they are after me. And if they are after me—” The next thought is unbearable.

“They might get me,” Ana finishes the sentence in a whisper and caresses my face as her eyes soften. “Thank you.”

“What for?”

“For telling me.”

I shake my head. “You can be very persuasive, Mrs. Grey.”

“And you can brood and internalize all your feelings and worry yourself to death. You’ll probably die of a heart attack before you’re forty, and I want you around far longer than that.”

“You’ll be the death of me. The sight of you on the Jet Ski—I nearly did have a coronary.” I flop back on the bed and cover my eyes with the back of my hand to blot out the memory. But it doesn’t work. In my mind, she’s lying on the cold, hard floor. I shudder.

“Christian, it’s a Jet Ski. Even kids ride Jet Skis. Can you imagine what you’ll be like when we visit your place in Aspen and I go skiing for the first time?”

I gasp and turn to look at her, alarmed. Skiing. No!

“Our place,” I 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.”