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

“You’re Christian Grey,” he says.

Yep. That’s me.

“Noah Logan.” He holds out his hand. Reluctantly, I extend mine and he gives me a damp, overenthusiastic handshake. “Which floor?” he asks.

“I have to input a code.”

“Oh.”

“Penthouse.”

“Oh. Of course.” He presses the button for his floor and the doors close. “Mrs. Grey, I presume.” He simpers like a nervous eighth-grader with an epic crush.

“Yes.” She gives him a sweet smile, and they shake hands and the fucker blushes.

Blushes!

“When did you move in?” Ana asks, and I tighten my hold on her.

Don’t encourage him.

“Last weekend. I love the place.”

She smiles. Again!

Mercifully, the elevator stops at his floor. “Great to meet you both,” he says, sounding relieved, and steps out. The doors close behind him, and I enter the code for the penthouse into the keypad.

“He seemed nice,” Ana says. “I’ve never met any of the neighbors before.”

I grimace. “I prefer it that way.”

“That’s because you’re a hermit. I thought he was pleasant enough.”

“A hermit?”

“Hermit. Stuck in your ivory tower,” Ana says, deadpan.

I try, really try, to suppress my smile. “Our ivory tower,” I correct her. “And I think you have another name to add to the list of your admirers, Mrs. Grey.”

She rolls her eyes heavenward. “Christian, you think everyone is an admirer.”

Oh. Sweet. Joy.

“Did you just roll your eyes at me?”

She looks up at me from beneath her lashes. “I sure did,” she whispers.

Oh, Mrs. Grey.

I cock my head to one side. The day has just improved one thousand percent. “What shall we do about that?”

“Something rough.”

Fuck. Her words are arousing.

“Rough?” I swallow.

“Please.”

“You want more?”

She nods, not taking her eyes off me. It’s so fucking hot.

The doors of the elevator open, but neither of us step out. We just stare at each other, our attraction, our yearning, sparking between us like static. Ana’s eyes darken, like mine, I’m sure.

“How rough?” I ask.

Ana’s teeth sink into her full lower lip, but she says nothing.

Oh. Dear. God.

I close my eyes to savor this sensual moment, then grab her hand and march out of the elevator and through the double doors of the foyer. Sawyer is waiting.

Hell.

“Sawyer, I’d like to be debriefed in an hour,” I state, wanting him gone.

“Yes, sir.” He heads back into Taylor’s office.

Good. I look down at my wife. “Rough?”

She nods, her expression serious.

“Well, Mrs. Grey, you’re in luck. I’m taking requests today.” My mind races with possibilities. “Do you have anything in mind?”

She raises her left shoulder in a coquettish shrug.

What does that mean? “Kinky fuckery?” I ask, to be clear.

She nods an emphatic yes, but her face flushes.

“Carte blanche?” I ask.

Her eyes flick to mine, and they’re brimming with curiosity and sensuality. “Yes.” Her husky affirmation feeds the flames of my desire.

“Come.” We head upstairs to the playroom. “After you, Mrs. Grey.” I unlock the door and step aside, and Ana strolls into my favorite room. I follow her in, switching on the lights. Ana turns, watching me as I lock the door.

Take a breath, Grey.

I love this moment.

Building anticipation.

It’s exhilarating.

She stands there, waiting. Wanting. Mine.

Last time we were in here, I put her in the harness.

A memory of that flits through my mind. That was fun.

What shall I do with her today?

“What do you want, Anastasia?”

“You.”

“You’ve got me. You’ve had me since you fell into my office.”

“Surprise me, then, Mr. Grey.”

She’s so bold. “As you wish, Mrs. Grey.” Folding my arms, I tap my index finger against my lip.

I know what I’d like to do.

I’ve wanted to do it for a long, long time.

But first things first.

“I think we’ll start by ridding you of your clothes.” Stepping forward, I grasp her short denim jacket, ease it off her shoulders, and drop it to the floor; her camisole is next. “Lift your arms.” She does as she’s told and I peel it off her lovely body. I offer her a soft, sweet kiss, then discard her top so it lands on her jacket. She’s wearing a lacy black bra, her nipples visible and pressing through the fabric.

My wife is hot.

“Here,” she says and, to my surprise, offers me a hair tie.

My dark confession in Saint-Paul-de-Vence has done nothing to discourage her, or to keep her away from me.

Don’t overthink this, Grey.

I take it from her. “Turn around.”

She does, with a small, private smile, and I wonder what she’s thinking about.

Don’t go there, either, Grey.

Quickly, I braid her hair and fasten it. With a tug, I pull her head back. “Good thinking, Mrs. Grey,” I murmur, my lips brushing her ear, then I nip her earlobe. “Now turn around and take your skirt off. Let it fall to the floor.”

She steps forward, turns on her heel, and with her eyes on mine, she unfastens her skirt and slides the zipper down, slowly. Her skirt flares out like a parasol and drifts to her feet.