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

I’m not far away, baby.

She opens her eyes, startled, I think, so I put the camera on the floor and quickly lie down beside her. “Hey, don’t panic. Everything’s fine,” I whisper. I hate her wary look. I push her hair off her face. “You’ve been so jumpy these last couple of days.”

“I’m okay, Christian,” she lies. Her forced smile is for my sake. “Were you watching me sleep?”

“Yes. You were talking.”

“Oh?” Her eyes widen.

“You’re worried.” I kiss the soft spot above her nose to try to reassure her. “When you frown, a little v forms just here. It’s soft to kiss. Don’t worry, baby, I’ll look after you.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about, it’s you,” she grumbles. “Who’s looking after you?”

“I’m big enough and ugly enough to look after myself. Come. Get up. There’s one thing I’d like to do before we head home.”

Something fun.

I slap her ass, and I’m rewarded with a gratifying squeal.

I bound off the bed, and she follows.

“Shower later. Put your swimsuit on.”

“Okay.”

The crew have lowered the Jet Ski into the water. My life vest is on, and I’m helping Ana into hers. I strap the ignition key and kill cord to her wrist.

“You want me to drive?” she asks, incredulous.

“Yes.” I grin. “That’s not too tight?”

“It’s fine. Is that why you’re wearing a life jacket?” She arches a brow, unimpressed.

“Yes.”

“Such confidence in my driving capabilities, Mr. Grey.”

“As ever, Mrs. Grey.”

“Well, don’t lecture me,” she warns, and I know she’s talking from bitter experience.

I hold up my palms in surrender. “Would I dare?”

“Yes, you would, and yes, you do, and we can’t pull over and argue on the sidewalk here.”

“Fair point well made, Mrs. Grey. Are we going to stand on this platform all day debating your driving skills, or are we going to have some fun?”

“Fair point well made, Mr. Grey.” She climbs onto the craft, and I slide on behind her and look up to find we’ve attracted a small audience on deck: the crew, our French security, and Taylor. I kick us away from the small pontoon and wrap my arms and clamp my thighs around Ana. She inserts the ignition key, presses the start button, and the engine powers into life with a gutsy roar. “Ready?” she shouts.

“As I’ll ever be.”

Slowly, she opens up the accelerator and the Jet Ski glides away from the ship.

Steady, Ana.

I tighten my hold on her as Ana increases our speed and we shoot across the water. “Whoa!” I shout, but it doesn’t stop her. She leans forward, taking me with her, and speeds toward the open sea, then veers toward the shore, where the runway at Nice airport juts out into the Mediterranean.

“Next time we do this we’ll have two Jet Skis,” I shout.

That would be fun. Racing together.

Ana soars across the waves. We bounce a little, as it’s choppier on the water today with the brisk summer breeze. As she nears the shore, a plane flies overheard. The noise is deafening.

Shit.

Ana swerves suddenly. I shout, but I’m too late, and we’re both bucked off the craft and into the Mediterranean. The water closes over my head, into my eyes and my mouth, but I kick up and surface immediately, shaking my head and looking for Ana. The Jet Ski bobs, lifeless and harmless, not far from us, and Ana is wiping the water from her eyes. I swim toward her, relieved she’s surfaced. “You okay?” I ask when I get close.

“Yes,” she croaks. And she’s grinning from ear to ear.

Why is she smiling? She just catapulted us into the cold sea.

I pull her into my wet embrace and hold her face between my palms, checking to see that she wasn’t hit by the Jet Ski.

“See, that wasn’t so bad!” she gushes, and I know she’s okay.

“No, I guess it wasn’t. Except I’m wet.”

“I’m wet, too.”

“I like you wet.” I leer at her.

“Christian!” She admonishes me for my lewd look, and I can’t help myself. I kiss her.

No.

I consume her. We’re both winded when I pull away.

“Come. Let’s head back. We have to shower. I’ll drive.” I swim over to the Jet Ski, vault onto it, and pull her up behind me.

“Was that fun, Mrs. Grey?”

“It was. Thank you.”

“No, thank you. Shall we go home now?”

“Yes. Please.”

Anastasia is sipping champagne and reading off her iPad as we sit in the Concorde lounge at Heathrow and wait for our connecting flight to Seattle. This is one of the things I loathe about traveling on a scheduled flight: the waiting. But Ana seems happy enough. Occasionally, from the corner of my eye, I notice her surreptitious glances in my direction.

Inside, I’m dancing. I love that she’s watching me.

I’m reading the Financial Times. It makes for sober reading. The global markets are still skittish in the wake of the recent budget deficit issues and Black Monday. The dollar is sinking. Also there’s an article on whether the rich should pay more tax; Warren Buffett seems to think we should, and maybe he’s right.