Fifty Shades Freed: Book Three of the Fifty Shades Trilogy

by E. L. James

  “He’s taking Stewart,” Sawyer says.

  “Stay with him, Luke.”

  “Luke?”

  “That’s his name.”

  A quick glance and I can see Christian glaring at me as if I’m crazy. “Eyes on the road!” he snaps.

  I ignore his tone. “Luke Sawyer.”

  “Yes!” He sounds exasperated.

  “Ah.” How did I not know this? The man has been following me to work for the last six weeks, and I didn’t even know his first name.

  “That’s me, ma’am,” Sawyer says, startling me, though he’s speaking in the calm, monotone voice he always uses. “The unsub is heading down Stewart, sir. He’s really picking up speed.”

  “Go, Ana. Less of the fucking chitchat,” Christian growls.

  “We’re stopped at the first light on Stewart.” Sawyer informs us.

  “Ana—quick—in here,” Christian shouts, pointing to a parking lot on the south side of Boren Avenue. I turn, the tires screeching in protest as I swerve into the crowded lot.

  “Drive around. Quick,” Christian orders. I drive as fast as I can to the back, out of sight of the street. “In there.” Christian points to a space. Shit! He wants me to park it. Crap!

  “Just fucking do it,” he says. So I do . . . perfectly. Probably the only time I have ever parked perfectly.

  “We’re hidden in the parking lot between Stewart and Boren,” Christian says into the BlackBerry.

  “Okay, sir.” Sawyer sounds irritated. “Stay where you are; we’ll follow the unsub.”

  Christian turns to me, his eyes searching my face. “You okay?”

  “Sure,” I whisper.

  Christian smirks. “Whoever’s driving that Dodge can’t hear us, you know.”

  And I laugh.

  “We’re passing Stewart and Boren now, sir. I see the lot. He’s gone straight past you, sir.”

  Both of us sag simultaneously with relief.

  “Well done, Mrs. Grey. Good driving.” Christian gently strokes my face with his fingertips, and I jump at the contact, inhaling deeply. I had no idea I was holding my breath.

  “Does this mean you’ll stop complaining about my driving?” I ask. He laughs—a loud cathartic laugh.

  “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.”

  “Thank you for letting me drive your car. Under such exciting circumstances, too.” I try desperately to keep my voice light.

  “Maybe I should drive now.”

  “To be honest, I don’t think I can climb out right now to let you sit here. My legs feel like Jell-O.” Suddenly I’m shuddering and shaking.

  “It’s the adrenaline, baby,” he says. “You did amazingly well, as usual. You blow me away, Ana. You never let me down.” He touches my cheek tenderly with the back of his hand, his face full of love, fear, regret—so many emotions at once—and his words are my undoing. Overwhelmed, a strangled sob escapes from my constricted throat, and I start to cry.

  “No, baby, no. Please don’t cry.” He reaches over and, despite the limited space we have, pulls me over the handbrake console to cradle me in his lap. Smoothing my hair off my face, he kisses my eyes, then my cheeks, and I curl my arms around him and sob quietly into his neck. He buries his nose in my hair and wraps me in his arms, holding me tight and we sit, neither of us saying anything, just holding each other.

  Sawyer’s voice startles us. “The unsub has slowed outside Escala. He’s casing the joint.”

  “Follow him,” Christian snaps.

  I wipe my nose on the back of my hand and take a deep steadying breath.

  “Use my shirt.” Christian kisses my temple.

  “Sorry,” I mutter, embarrassed by my crying.

  “What for? Don’t be.”

  I wipe my nose again. He tips my chin up and plants a gentle kiss on my lips. “Your lips are so soft when you cry, my beautiful, brave girl,” he whispers.

  “Kiss me again.”

  Christian stills, one hand on my back, the other on my behind.

  “Kiss me,” I breathe, and I watch his lips part as he inhales sharply. Leaning across me, he takes the BlackBerry out of its cradle, and tosses it onto the driver’s seat beside my sandaled feet. Then his mouth is on me as he moves his right hand into my hair, holding me in place, and lifts his left to cradle my face. His tongue invades my mouth, and I welcome it. Adrenaline turns to lust streaking through my body. I clasp his face, running my fingers over his sideburns, relishing the taste of him. He groans at my fevered response, low and deep in his throat, and my belly tightens swift and hard with carnal desire. His hand moves down my body, brushing my breast, my waist, and down to my backside. I shift fractionally.

  “Ah!” he says and breaks away from me, breathless.

  “What?” I mutter against his lips.

  “Ana, we’re in a car lot in Seattle.”

  “So?”

  “Well, right now I want to fuck you, and you’re shifting around on me . . . it’s uncomfortable.”

  My craving spirals out of control at his words, tightening all my muscles below my waist once more.

  “Fuck me then.” I kiss the corner of his mouth. I want him. Now. That car chase was exciting. Too exciting. Terrifying . . . and the fear has jump-started my libido. He leans back to gaze at me, his eyes dark and hooded.

  “Here?” His voice is husky.

  My mouth goes dry. How can he turn me on with one word? “Yes. I want you. Now.”

  He tilts his head to one side and stares at me for a few moments. “Mrs. Grey, how very brazen,” he whispers, after what feels like an eternity. His hand tightens around my hair at my nape, holding me firmly in place, and his mouth is on mine again, more forcefully this time. His other hand skims down my body, down over my behind and lower still to my mid-thigh. My fingers curl into his overlong hair.

  “I’m so glad you’re wearing a skirt,” he murmurs as he slips his hand beneath my blue and white patterned skirt to caress my thigh. I squirm once more on his lap and the air hisses between his teeth.

  “Keep still,” he growls. He cups my sex with his hand, and I still immediately. His thumb brushes over my clitoris, and my breath catches in my throat as pleasure jolts like electricity deep, deep, deep inside me.

  “Still,” he whispers. He kisses me once more as his thumb circles gently around me through the sheer fine lace of my designer underwear. Slowly he eases two fingers passed my panties and inside me. I groan and flex my hips toward his hand.

  “Please,” I whisper.

  “Oh, Mrs. Grey. You’re so ready,” he says, sliding his fingers in and out, tortuously slowly. “Do car chases turn you on?”

  “You turn me on.”

  He smiles a wolfish grin and withdraws his fingers suddenly, leaving me wanting. He scoops his arm under my knees and, taking me by surprise, he lifts me and swings me around to face the windshield.

  “Place your legs either side of mine,” he orders, putting his legs together in the middle of the footwell. I do as I’m told, placing my feet on the floor on either side of his. He runs his hands down my thighs, then back, pulling up my skirt.

  “Hands on my knees, baby. Lean forward. Lift that glorious ass in the air. Mind your head.”

  Shit! We really are going to do this, in a public parking lot. I quickly scan the area in front of us and see no one, but feel a thrill coursing through me. I’m in a public lot! This is so hot! Christian shifts beneath me, and I hear the telltale sound of his zipper. Putting one arm around my waist and with his other hand tugging my lacy panties sideways, he impales me in one swift move.

  “Ah!” I cry out, grinding down on him, and his breath hisses through his teeth. His arm snakes around me up to my neck and he grasps me under my chin. His hand spreads across my neck, pulling me back and tilting my head to one side so he can kiss my throat. His other hand grips my hip and together we start to move.

  I push up with my feet, and he tilts himself into me—in and out. The sensation is . . . I groan loud
ly. It’s so deep this way. My left hand curls around the hand brake, my right hand braced against my door. His teeth graze my earlobe and he tugs—it’s almost painful. He bucks again and again into me. I rise and fall, and as we establish a rhythm, he moves his hand around beneath my skirt to the apex of my thighs, and his fingers gently tease my clitoris through the sheer finery of my panties.

  “Ah!”

  “Be. Quick,” he breathes into my ear through gritted teeth, his hand still curled around my neck beneath my chin. “We need to do this quick, Ana.” And he increases the pressure of his fingers against my sex.

  “Ah!” I feel the familiar build of pleasure, bunching deep and thick inside me.

  “Come on, baby,” he rasps at my ear. “I want to hear you.”

  I moan again, and I am all sensation, my eyes tightly closed. His voice at my ear, his breath on my neck, pleasure radiating out from where his fingers tease my body and where he slams deep inside me, and I am lost. My body takes control, craving release.

  “Yes,” Christian hisses in my ear and I open my eyes briefly, staring wildly at the cloth roof of the R8, and I scrunch them closed again as I come around him.

  “Oh, Ana,” he murmurs in wonder, and he wraps his arms around me and rams into me one last time and stills as he climaxes deep inside.

  He runs his nose along my jaw and softly kisses my throat, my cheek, my temple as a lie on him, my head lolling against his neck.

  “Tension relieved, Mrs. Grey?” Christian closes his teeth around my earlobe again and tugs. My body is drained, totally exhausted, and I mewl. I feel his smile against me.

  “Certainly helped with mine,” he adds, shifting me off him. “Lost your voice?”

  “Yes,” I murmur.

  “Well aren’t you the wanton creature? I had no idea you were such an exhibitionist.”

  I sit up immediately, alarmed. He tenses. “No one’s watching are they?” I glance anxiously around the car lot.

  “Do you think I’d let anyone watch my wife come?” He strokes his hand down my back reassuringly, but the tone of his voice sends shivers down my spine. I turn to gaze at him and grin impishly.

  “Car sex!” I exclaim.

  He grins and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Let’s head back. I’ll drive.”

  He opens the door to let me climb off his lap and out into the parking lot. When I glance down he’s quickly doing up his fly. He follows me out and then holds the door open for me to climb back in. Strolling quickly around to the driver’s side, he climbs in beside me, retrieves the BlackBerry, and makes a call.

  “Where’s Sawyer?” he snaps. “And the Dodge? How come Sawyer’s not with you?”

  He listens intently to Ryan, I assume.

  “Her?” he gasps. “Stick with her.” Christian hangs up and gazes at me.

  Her! The driver of the car? Who could that be—Elena? Leila?

  “The driver of the Dodge is female?”

  “So it would appear,” he says quietly. His mouth presses into a thin angry line. “Let’s get you home,” he mutters. He starts up the R8 with a roar and reverses smoothly out of the space.

  “Where’s the, er . . . unsub? What does that mean by the way? Sounds very BDSM.”

  Christian smiles briefly as he eases the car out of the lot and back onto Stewart Street.

  “It stands for Unknown Subject. Ryan is ex-FBI.”

  “Ex-FBI?”

  “Don’t ask.” Christian shakes his head. It’s obvious he’s deep in contemplation.

  “Well, where is this female unsub?”

  “On the I-5, heading south.” He glances at me, his eyes grim.

  Jeez—from passionate to calm to anxious in the space of a few moments. I reach over and caress his thigh, running my fingers leisurely up the inside seam of his jeans, hoping to improve his mood. He takes his hand off the steering wheel and stops the slow ascent of my hand.

  “No,” he says. “We’ve made it this far. You don’t want me to have an accident three blocks from home.” He raises my hand to his lips and plants a cool kiss on my index finger to take the sting out of his rebuke. Cool, calm, authoritative . . . My Fifty. And for the first time in a while he makes me feel like a wayward child. I withdraw my hand and sit quietly for a moment.

  “Female?”

  “Apparently so.” He sighs, turns into the underground garage at Escala, and punches the access code into the security keypad. The gate swings open and he drives on, smoothly parking the R8 in its designated space.

  “I really like this car,” I murmur.

  “Me too. And I like how you handled it—and how you managed not to break it.”

  “You can buy me one for my birthday,” I smirk at him.

  Christian’s mouth drops open as I climb out of the car.

  “A white one, I think,” I add, leaning down and smirking at him.

  He smiles. “Anastasia Grey, you never cease to amaze me.”

  I shut the door and walk to the end of the car to wait for him. Gracefully he climbs out, watching me with that look . . . that look that calls to something deep inside me. I know this look well. Once he’s in front of me, he leans down and whispers, “You like the car. I like the car. I’ve fucked you in it . . . perhaps I should fuck you on it.”

  I gasp. And a sleek silver BMW pulls into the garage. Christian glances at it anxiously, then with annoyance and smirks down at me.

  “But it looks like we have company. Come.” He grabs my hand and heads for the garage elevator. He pushes the call button and as we wait, the driver of the BMW joins us. He’s young, casually dressed, with long, layered, dark hair. He looks like he works in the media.

  “Hi,” he says, smiling warmly at us.

  Christian puts his arm around me and nods politely.

  “I’ve just moved in. Apartment sixteen.”

  “Hello.” I return his smile. He has kind, soft brown eyes.

  The elevator arrives and we all walk in. Christian glances down at me, his expression unreadable.

  “You’re Christian Grey,” the young man says.

  Christian gives him a tight smile.

  “Noah Logan.” He holds out his hand. Reluctantly, Christian takes it. “Which floor?” Noah asks.

  “I have to input a code.”

  “Oh.”

  “Penthouse.”

  “Oh.” Noah smiles broadly. “Of course.” He presses the button for the eighth floor and the doors close. “Mrs. Grey, I presume.”

  “Yes.” I give him a polite smile and we shake hands. Noah flushes a little as he gazes at me a fraction too long. I mirror his flush and Christian’s arm tightens around me.

  “When did you move in?” I ask.

  “Last weekend. I love the place.”

  There’s an awkward pause before the elevator stops at Noah’s floor.

  “Great to meet you both,” he says sounding relieved and steps out. The doors close silently behind him. Christian taps in the entry code and the elevator ascends again.

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

  Christian scowls. “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,” I state matter-of-factly. Christian’s lips twitch with amusement.

  “Our ivory tower. And I think you have another name to add to the list of your admirers, Mrs. Grey.”

  I roll my eyes. “Christian, you think everyone is an admirer.”

  “Did you just roll your eyes at me?”

  My pulse quickens. “I sure did,” I whisper, my breath catching in my throat.

  He cocks his head to one side, wearing his smoldering, arrogant, amused expression. “What shall we do about that?”

  “Something rough.”

  He blinks to hide his surprise. “Rough?”

  “Please.”

  “You want mor
e?”

  I nod slowly. The doors to the elevator open and we’re home.

  “How rough?” he breathes, his eyes darkening.

  I gaze at him, saying nothing. He closes his eyes for a moment, and then grabs my hand and hauls me into the foyer.

  When we burst through the double doors, Sawyer is standing in the hallway, looking expectantly at the two of us.

  “Sawyer, I’d like to be debriefed in an hour,” Christian says.

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

  We have an hour!

  Christian glances down at me. “Rough?”

  I nod.

  “Well, Mrs. Grey, you’re in luck. I’m taking requests today.”

  “Do you have anything in mind?” Christian murmurs, pinning me with his bold gaze. I shrug, suddenly breathless and agitated. I don’t know if it’s the chase, the adrenaline, my earlier bad mood—I don’t understand, but I want this, and I want it badly. A puzzled expression flits across Christian’s face. “Kinky fuckery?” he asks, his words a soft caress.

  I nod, feeling my face flame. Why am I embarrassed by this? I have done all manner of kinky fuckery with this man. He’s my husband, damn it! Am I embarrassed because I want this and I’m ashamed to admit it? My subconscious glares at me. Stop overthinking.

  “Carte blanche?” He whispers the question, eyeing me speculatively as if he’s trying to read my mind.

  Carte blanche? Holy fuck—what will that entail? “Yes,” I murmur nervously, as excitement blooms deep inside me. He smiles a slow sexy smile.

  “Come,” he says and tugs me toward the stairs. His intention is clear. Playroom! My inner goddess wakes from her post-R8-sex slumber, wide-eyed and raring to go.

  At the top of the stairs, he releases my hand and unlocks the playroom door. The key is on the Yes Seattle keychain that I gave him not so long ago.

  “After you, Mrs. Grey,” he says and swings the door open.

  The playroom smells reassuringly familiar, of leather and wood and fresh polish. I blush, knowing that Mrs. Jones must have been in here cleaning while we were away on our honeymoon. As we enter, Christian switches on the lights and the dark red walls are illuminated with soft, diffused light. I stand gazing at him, anticipation running thick and heavy through my veins. What will he do? He locks the door and turns. Inclining his head to one side, he regards me thoughtfully and then shakes his head, amused.