Freed: Fifty Shades Freed as told by Christian novel Chapter 239

But her face crumples in pain, and she gasps.

“Behave!” I growl, my tone harsher than I intend.

“Sorry.” She caresses my cheek and I take her hand and kiss her palm.

“Honestly, Ana, you really have no regard for your own safety.” I lift the hem of her T-shirt and rest my fingertips on her belly.

A thrill of the unknown sharpens all my senses.

There is life. Here. Inside her.

What did she say? Flesh of my flesh.

Our child.

“It’s not just you anymore,” I whisper, and skate my fingers across her taut, warm skin. Ana tenses beneath me, dragging air into her lungs. I know that sound. My eyes move to hers, and I lose myself in their fathomless blue depths.

It’s Ana’s desire. I feel it, too.

Our special alchemy.

But it’s impossible. She’s hurt. Reluctantly, I lift my fingertips from her skin, tug down her T-shirt, then tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear, because I still need to touch her. But I can’t give her what we both want. “No,” I breathe.

Ana’s face falls, her expression forlorn.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’ve seen the bruises. And the answer’s no.” I kiss her forehead and she squirms beside me.

“Christian,” she moans, needling me.

“No. Get into bed.” I sit up to remove myself from temptation.

“Bed?” She looks crestfallen.

“You need rest.”

“I need you.” The whine has gone, leaving only a husky come-on in her voice.

Closing my eyes, I shake my head at her audacity and my desire.

She’s hurt. I open my eyes and glare at her. “Just do as you’re told, Ana.”

“Okay,” she mutters, with an exaggerated pout that immediately lifts my spirits and makes me want to laugh.

“I’ll bring you some lunch.”

“You’re going to cook?” She blinks, incredulous.

“I’m going to heat something up. Mrs. Jones has been busy.”

“Christian, I’ll do it. I’m fine. Jeez, I want sex—I can certainly cook.” She struggles to sit up but winces.

Damn it! Ana!

“Bed!” I point at the pillow, all carnal thoughts banished.

“Join me.” She makes one last-ditch attempt.

I don’t know what’s gotten into her.

Not you recently, Grey.

“Ana, get into bed. Now.” I scowl.

She answers with a scowl of her own, stands, and drops her sweatpants to the floor in a dramatic gesture. In spite of her glower, she looks lovely. I hide my smile, and part of me is beyond pleased that she still wants me, after all that’s transpired over the last few days.

She loves me.

I draw back the duvet. “You heard Dr. Singh. She said rest.”

Still pouting, Ana complies, sliding into bed and folding her arms, conveying her frustration. I want to laugh, but I don’t think my mirth would be well received.

“Stay,” I order, and with the memory of her beautiful, sour face, I hurry into the kitchen to find the fabled chicken stew Taylor mentioned this morning.

It’s good to see Ana wolfing down Mrs. Jones’s cooking. I sit cross-legged in the middle of the bed, watching her as I devour my lunch. It’s delicious, and nourishing, too—perfect for Ana.

“That was very well heated.” She smacks her lips, looking replete and a little drowsy. I beam at her, feeling pleased. I managed not to burn myself this time—so, yeah, it was!

“You look tired.” I place my bowl on her tray and, standing, take both from her.

“I am,” she admits.