Freed: Fifty Shades Freed as told by Christian novel Chapter 179

I remember Leila, broken and filthy as I bathed her in Ana’s old apartment and how I felt seeing her like that.

Hell. I’ve had enough of this shit.

“This discussion is over. Let’s go home.”

Ana glances at her watch. “It’s too early.”

“Home!” I insist.

Please. Ana.

“Christian, I’m tired of having the same argument with you.” She sounds weary.

What argument?

“You know,” she continues, correctly interpreting my frown, “I do something you don’t like, and you think of some way to get back at me. Usually involving some of your kinky fuckery, which is either mind-blowing or cruel.” She shrugs.

Cruel? Shit.

Yeah, she safe-worded on you, Grey.

Fuck.

“Mind-blowing?” I ask, because I don’t want to dwell on cruel.

“Usually, yes.”

“What was mind-blowing?”

Ana looks exasperated. “You know.”

“I can guess.” Various erotic memories cloud my imagination. Ana in a spreader bar, shackled to the bed, the cross…in my childhood bedroom…

“Christian, I—” She sounds breathless; distracting her has worked.

“I like to please you.” I brush my thumb over her bottom lip.

“You do.” Her voice is petal-soft, caressing me. Everywhere.

“I know.” I whisper in her ear, “It’s the one thing I do know.” When I stand, Ana’s eyes are closed. She opens them abruptly and purses her lips, probably in response to my wicked smile.

I want her.

I don’t want to argue.

“What was mind-blowing, Anastasia?” I coax her.

“You want the list?”

“There’s a list?”

“Well, the handcuffs,” she mumbles, and for a moment she looks lost in the memory of our honeymoon tryst.

No. I grab her hand and skim my thumb around her wrist. “I don’t want to mark you.” My eyes meet hers, imploring her. “Come home.”

“I have work to do.”

“Home.”

Please, Ana. I don’t want to fight.

We gaze at each other, our battlefield the space between us as I try desperately to understand what she might be thinking. I know I’ve angered her, and at the back of my mind I’m concerned that I might be doing exactly what Flynn has warned me against—sabotaging our relationship and killing my own happiness.

I need to know we’re okay.

Her pupils widen, growing larger and darkening her eyes. I can’t resist her. Raising my hand, I caress her cheek with the back of my fingers. “We could stay here.” My voice is hoarse, betraying my desire and my need to reconnect with my wife.

Ana blinks and shakes her head, stepping back. “Christian, I don’t want to have sex here. Your mistress has just been in this room.”

“She was never my mistress.”

Only Elena fits that title.

Don’t go there, Grey.

“That’s just semantics, Christian.” She sounds weary, once more.

“Don’t overthink this, Ana. She’s history.” And I don’t know if I’m referring to Leila or Elena, but the same applies to both of them.

They’re history.

Ana sighs, and she regards me as if I’m a complex riddle to solve, her eyes beseeching me, but for what I don’t know. Suddenly, her expression changes to one of alarm, and she gasps, and I think she says no.

But she is history. “Yes,” I implore her, and press my lips to hers, to drive away her doubt.

“Oh, Christian,” she whispers, “you scare me sometimes.” She grasps my head in her hands and pulls my lips to hers, kissing me.

I’m lost. Scare her?

I fold her in my arms and whisper against her lips, “Why?”

“You could turn away from her so easily.”