Freed: Fifty Shades Freed as told by Christian novel Chapter 213

She loosens the towel that’s cloaked around her body and drops it to the floor. My dick stirs in response, making me angrier. Christ, she’s beautiful; her flawless skin, the soft flare of her hips, the swell of her behind, and her long, long legs that I want wrapped around me. Her body shows no sign of the invader yet. Christ, I have no idea how pregnant she is.

Shit. I put Junior out of my mind.

How long will it take me to get her into bed?

Grey, no—keep it together.

She’s still ignoring me. “Why are you doing this?” I try to hide the desperation in my voice.

“Why do you think?” She fishes some lingerie out of a drawer.

“Ana—” My breath catches in my throat as she bends and tugs on her panties, wiggling her fine, fine ass. She’s doing this on purpose. And in spite of my aching head, and my filthy mood, I want to fuck her. Now. Just to make sure we’re okay. My growing erection concurs.

“Go ask your Mrs. Robinson. I’m sure she’ll have an explanation for you.” She rifles through her drawer, dismissing me, as if I’m some fucking lackey.

As I thought, it’s Elena.

What did you expect, Grey?

“Ana, I’ve told you before, she’s not my—”

“I don’t want to hear it, Christian.” Ana holds up her hand. “The time for talking was yesterday, but instead you decided to rant, and get drunk with the woman who abused you for years. Give her a call. I’m sure she’ll be more than willing to listen to you now.”

What?

Ana chooses a bra—the black lacy one—and slides it on and fastens it. I stride farther into the room and place my hands on my hips, glaring at her. She’s crossed a line.

“Why were you snooping on me?” I can’t believe she went through my texts.

“That’s not the point, Christian,” she hisses. “Fact is, the going gets tough, and you run to her.”

“It wasn’t like that—”

“I’m not interested!” She stalks over to the bed while I gaze at her. Lost. She’s so cold. Who is this woman?

Sitting down, she stretches out a long, shapely leg, points her toes, and slowly eases one thigh-high up over her skin. My mouth goes from parched to desert as I watch her hands glide up her leg.

“Where were you?” It’s the only coherent sentence I can form. Ignoring me, she pulls on the other thigh-high with the same slow, sensual ease. Then she stands, turns away from me, and bends over to towel-dry her hair, her back in a perfect curve. It takes every remaining shred of my self-control not to grab her and toss her onto the bed. She stands up straight again, flicking her thick, wet mane of chestnut hair, so it cascades down her back below her bra line.

“Answer me,” I murmur. But she merely stalks back to the chest of drawers, picks up her hair dryer, and switches it on, wielding it like a weapon. The noise grates on my frayed nerves, unraveling them further.

What do I do when my wife ignores me?

I’m at a loss.

She rakes her fingers through her hair as she dries it and I fist my hands to stop myself from reaching out to her. I’m desperate to touch her and end this nonsense. But the memory of her hissing at me with such venom after the belting in the playroom comes to mind.

You are one fucked-up son of a bitch.

I pale. I don’t want a repeat of that.

Ever.

I watch her, wordless and mesmerized. It was only a few days ago that she let me dry her hair. She finishes with a flourish, her hair a riotous crown of chestnut streaked with red and gold that tumbles down over her shoulders. She is doing this on purpose. The thought revives my anger.

“Where were you?” I whisper.

“What do you care?”