Freed

by James, E L

  “I’ve certainly made up for that since I met you.”

  “You have.” I grin. “Tell me. I want to know.”

  “You really want me to tell you?”

  I’m interested in everything about you, Ana.

  She takes a deep breath. “I was briefly in Texas with Mom and Husband Number Three. I was in tenth grade. His name was Bradley, and he was my lab partner in physics.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “And what’s he doing now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What base did he get to?”

  “Christian!” she chastises me, and we stare at each other.

  Fuck this Bradley. What kind of a name is that, anyway?

  I grab her knees, then her ankles, and tip her up so she falls back on the couch, and I lay down on top of her.

  “Ah,” she cries out.

  I grab both her hands and raise them above her head. “So, this Bradley. Did he get to first base?” I whisper and run my nose down hers and leave soft kisses at the corner of her mouth.

  “Yes,” she breathes. I release one of her hands and clasp her chin and kiss her, properly, my tongue caressing hers, and her body rises to meet mine, her tongue twisting with mine.

  “Like this?” I whisper.

  “No. Nothing like that.” Ana is breathless.

  Releasing her chin, I skim my fingers down her body, then back to her breast. “Did he do this? Touch you like this?” Through the soft material of her top, my thumb skates repeatedly over her nipple, and it perks up at my touch.

  “No.” She writhes beneath me.

  “Did he get to second base?” I blow the words gently in her ear as my hand travels down to her hip. My lips suck gently on her earlobe before my teeth tug it into my mouth.

  “No.” The word is a husky whisper.

  I mute the TV. The X-Files can wait. I gaze down at Ana; she’s tousled and dazed and looking up at me with big blue eyes that I could drown in. “What about Joe Schmo number two? Did he make it past second base?”

  I move to her side and slip my hand into her sweatpants, keeping her pinned with my gaze.

  “No.”

  “Good.” I hold her in the palm of my hand, the gateway to heaven. “No underwear, Mrs. Grey. I approve.” I kiss her again, and my thumb strokes her clitoris in a steady rhythm and I ease my index finger inside her.

  “We’re supposed to be making out,” she murmurs with a moan.

  I stop. “I thought we were?”

  “No. No sex.”

  “What?” Why?

  “No sex.”

  “No sex, huh?” I gently ease my finger out of her and remove my hand from her pants. “Here.” I circle her mouth with my finger, then push it between her lips and onto her tongue. Once. Twice. Again.

  Taste good, Ana?

  I shift so I’m lying on top of her, between her legs, and I rock against her, giving my cock some relief.

  She groans.

  Oh, wow.

  I grind against her. “This what you want?” And I repeat the action, hitting her sweet spot with my erection.

  It feels good.

  “Yes.”

  I tease her nipple with my fingers, tugging gently, feeling it lengthen beneath my touch. My teeth graze her jaw. She smells of Ana and jasmine and her arousal. “Do you know how hot you are, Ana?”

  Her mouth opens, slack and wanting, as I tantalize her further, pushing at the junction of her thighs. She lets out an inarticulate moan and I seize the moment, tugging at her bottom lip, then invading her mouth with my tongue, tasting her arousal on mine.

  It’s so fucking hot.

  I release her remaining hand and her fingers feel their way over my biceps and over my shoulders and into my hair. She tugs and I groan, staring down at her.

  “Do you like me touching you?” she asks.

  Why would she ask me that now?

  I stop rubbing against her. “Of course I do.” I’m breathless. “I love you touching me, Ana. I’m like a starving man at a banquet when it comes to your touch.” Kneeling up between her legs, I maneuver her to a sitting position and remove her top in one swift move. I do the same with my shirt, yanking it over my head and throwing our clothes on the floor. While still kneeling, I seat her on my lap and rest my hands on her behind. “Touch me,” I whisper.

  She takes full advantage, brushing the tips of her fingers over my sternum and over my scars. I inhale sharply as her touch radiates through my body with the promise of fulfilment. My eyes stay on hers as she skims her fingers over my skin to my nipple, then to its twin; each react to her touch, hardening, erect, mirroring another part of my anatomy. She leans forward and presses her lips in a soft, sweet line across my chest. Her hands hold my shoulders, and she squeezes, and I feel her nails pinching my skin.

  It’s heady.

  And to think a few months ago I would have said this was impossible.

  Yet, here she is. Touching me. Loving me.

  And I welcome it. All of it.

  “I want you,” I whisper, and her hands move to my head, her fingers in my hair. She yanks my head back and takes my mouth with hers. Claiming my tongue with hers.

  Fuck. I groan loudly and push Ana back down on the couch, divesting her of her sweatpants in one hasty move, and freeing my erection at the same time. I move on her. “Home run,” I murmur, and fill her in one rapid move.

  She lets out a deep, guttural cry and I still, holding her face between my hands. “I love you, Mrs. Grey.” And very slowly, I make sweet love to my wife until she cries out and falls apart in my arms, taking me with her and cocooning me with her limbs and keeping me safe.

  Ana is sprawled on my chest. I think it’s the end of The X-Files.

  “You know, we completely bypassed third base.” Her fingers trace a pattern on my chest.

  I chuckle. “Next time.” I nuzzle her hair, inhaling her magical scent, and kiss her head. The end credits roll for The X-Files and, using the remote, I switch the sound back on.

  “You liked that show?” Ana asks.

  “When I was a kid.”

  Ana goes quiet.

  “You?” I ask.

  “Before my time.”

  “You’re so young.” I hug her tightly. “I like making out with you, Mrs. Grey.”

  “Likewise, Mr. Grey.” She kisses my chest and the commercials start on the TV.

  Why are we watching these?

  Because I like being here, with her lying on me.

  This is married life.

  I could get used to this…

  “It’s been a heavenly three weeks,” she says airily. “Car chases and fires and psycho ex-bosses notwithstanding. Like being in our own private bubble.”

  “Hmm.” I tighten my arms around her. “I’m not sure I’m ready to share you with the rest of the world yet.”

  “Back to reality tomorrow.” She sounds a little sad.

  “Security will be tight—”

  Ana silences me with her index finger. “I know. I’ll be good. I promise.” She leans up on her elbows, scrutinizing me. “Why were you shouting at Sawyer?”

  “Because we were followed.”

  “That wasn’t Sawyer’s fault.”

  “They should never have let you get so far in front. They know that.”

  “That wasn’t—”

  “Enough.” Sawyer fucked up and he knows it. “This is not up for discussion, Anastasia. It’s a fact, and they won’t let it happen again.”

  “Okay,” she says. “Did Ryan catch up with the woman in the Dodge?”

  “No. And I’m not convinced it was a woman.”

  “Oh?”

  “Sawyer saw someone with their hair tied back, but it was a brief
look. He assumed it was a woman. Now, given that you’ve identified that fucker, maybe it was him. He wore his hair like that.”

  That piece of shit is dead if I ever get ahold of him.

  I run my hand down Ana’s back, my fingers stroking her skin. Grounding me. Calming me. “If anything happened to you.” The thought is unbearable.

  “I know. I feel the same about you.” She shivers.

  “Come. You’re getting cold.” I sit up, taking her with me. “Let’s go to bed. We can cover third base there.”

  Monday, August 22, 2011

  To our relief, there are no photographers outside SIP when we pull up in the Q7. I’m hoping that the intense press scrutiny and intrusion into our lives will now ease off. Ana gathers up her briefcase when Ryan stops the car, and I can’t resist one more try. “You know you don’t have to do this.”

  “I know,” she answers quietly, so Ryan and Sawyer can’t hear. “But I want to. You know this.” Her sweet kiss does little to mollify me. We both have to go back to reality. Don’t we?

  “What’s wrong?” she asks, and I realize I’m frowning.

  I’m not going to see her until this evening. We’ve spent the last three weeks or so in each other’s company, and it’s been the best time of my life. Sawyer climbs out of the car to open her door, and I seize my opportunity. “I’ll miss having you to myself.”

  She places her palm on my cheek. “Me, too.” Her lips brush mine. “It was a wonderful honeymoon. Thank you.”

  It was for me as well, Ana.

  “Go to work, Mrs. Grey.”

  “You, too, Mr. Grey.”

  Sawyer opens her door, she squeezes my hand, and I watch both of them head into the building.

  “Take me to Grey House,” I instruct Ryan, and stare out of the window. It’s a cooler, cloudy day—a precise match for my mood. I’m strangely out of sorts. Perhaps this is what Ana was feeling yesterday, though she never managed to articulate it to me.

  If this was what you were experiencing, Ana, I get it. It’s a case of the post-honeymoon blues.

  As Ryan and I walk up to the entrance at Grey House I notice Barry and an additional security guard who I don’t recognize on the other side of the glass doors. Barry typically stands by the elevator, and is usually the only security operative in reception.

  “Good morning, Mr. Grey. Welcome back,” he says as he holds open the door.

  “Thank you, Barry. Good morning.”

  They are checking that all GEH staff are wearing their passes. I’m not wearing mine, but then I’m the exception to the rule. Welch was not lying when he said he was doubling down on all our security measures.

  Greeting both of the receptionists with a salute, I head to the elevators. They both wave back, and I notice they’re wearing their passes, too. It’s reassuring.

  Andrea and Sarah look up as the elevator doors open; each have ID lanyards. “Welcome back, Mr. Grey,” Andrea says.

  “Good morning. How are you? Oh, these are for you and Sarah.” I place a bag that contains a large box of chocolates—from Ladurée, near the Jardin des Tuileries in Paris—that Ana insisted I buy for them on the desk. Andrea blushes, speechless.

  Yes. I don’t blame her. Apart from her wedding present, this is a first.

  “Thank you,” Sarah blurts, eyeing the bag with keen interest.

  “You’re welcome. I would have bought some of their world-famous macarons, too, but was advised that the chocolates have a longer shelf life.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Grey,” Andrea says, recovering her composure. “Coffee?”

  “Please. Black.”

  “Coming up.”

  I head into my office, leaving Sarah’s giggles and Andrea’s quiet hushing behind me. Rolling my eyes, I shut the door and cut off their chatter.

  At my desk, I call Welch for an update on Jack Hyde.

  Once that call is over, I e-mail Ana, wondering how she is adapting to life back at SIP.

  From: Christian Grey

  Subject: Bubble

  Date: August 22 2011 09:32

  To: Anastasia Grey

  Mrs. Grey

  Love covering all the bases with you.

  Have a great first day back.

  Miss our bubble already.

  x

  Christian Grey

  Back in the Real World CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

  My phone buzzes. “Mr. Grey, I have your father on the line,” Andrea says.

  “Put him through.”

  “Christian, you called?”

  “Dad.” I tell him everything that has happened with Jack Hyde since I fired him in mid-June. “His vendetta against me is out of hand. We’re submitting the server room footage to the FBI and the police. They can press charges. They just have to locate him first. But given what we found on his hard drive, I think I should extend our security protocols to you, Mom, Mia, and Elliot.”

  “That seems excessive.”

  “Dad, he’s a bright guy. I wouldn’t put anything past him.”

  Carrick blows out a breath. “Well, if you think it’s necessary.”

  “I do. We were followed from your house yesterday. He knows where you live.”

  “Fuck!”

  Dad!

  My father sighs. “Get on it. I’ll talk to Mom and Mia.”

  “I’ll tell Elliot.”

  “Thanks, Christian. I’m sorry it’s come to this.”

  “Me, too.”

  With my father’s reluctant agreement secured, I phone Welch back to implement enhanced security measures for my family.

  I just have to tell Elliot. I don’t know how he’ll take the news.

  When I look at my e-mails I notice the one I sent to Ana has bounced. Maybe she hasn’t had a chance to change her e-mail address at work.

  Let’s have some fun with this.

  I forward the e-mail I sent her.

  From: Christian Grey

  Subject: Errant Wives

  Date: August 22 2011 09:56

  To: Anastasia Steele

  Wife

  I sent the e-mail below and it bounced.

  And it’s because you haven’t changed your name.

  Something you want to tell me?

  Christian Grey

  CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

  Andrea knocks on the door with another coffee.

  “Thanks, Andrea. Shall we go through the schedule?”

  She takes the chair opposite my desk and we discuss my appointments for the week and the coming month.

  “…You have the Seattle Assistance Union Gala for Hope on Wednesday evening, I have two tickets. Your mother is involved with that charity,” she says.

  “Okay.”

  “And the Telecommunications Alliance Organization fundraiser is on Thursday evening in New York,” Andrea continues. “I have tickets for two. The Gulfstream will be back. Everything has checked out. Stephan is flying in from Maine tomorrow.”

  “My plans aren’t set yet. I’ll talk to Ros to see if a visit to GEH Fiber Optics is still required.”

  “Okay. Stephan will be on standby should you decide to go. And I’ll have your Tribeca apartment serviced, too, unless you’d like me to make a reservation at The Lowell.”

  My mind whirrs. “If I do go to New York, then I could come back via DC. There are two meetings we could set up for Friday, one with the Securities and Exchange Commission, the other with Senator Blandino.”

  “Do you want me to arrange those?”

  “I’ll talk to Vanessa about the Securities and Exchange Commission. But provisionally yes for Blandino.”

  “Sir.”

  “Okay. I should see Ros, and can you get Flynn on the line for me? Oh, and find time for Bastille tomorrow. Please.”
>
  “Will do.” She gets up and leaves, and I turn my attention to my computer. An e-mail from Ana arrived a short while ago.

  From: Anastasia Steele

  Subject: Don’t Burst the Bubble

  Date: August 22 2011 09:58

  To: Christian Grey

  Husband

  I am all for a baseball metaphor with you, Mr. Grey.

  I want to keep my name here.

  I’ll explain this evening.

  I am going into a meeting now.

  Miss our bubble, too…

  PS: Thought I had to use my BlackBerry?

  Anastasia Steele

  Editor, SIP

  I stare at her e-mail.

  She’s not going to take my name.

  She’s. Not. Going. To. Take. My. Name.

  Why?

  She doesn’t want my name.

  Not now, Maggot.

  It’s a gut punch.

  I gape at the screen, shocked and momentarily paralyzed.

  Don’t fight, Maggot!

  Why didn’t she tell me? This is how I find out?

  Damn it. To hell with this.

  I’m going to get her to change her mind.

  Like you did about her obeying you, Grey?

  My phone buzzes. It’s Andrea. “Ros is on the way up.”

  “Thanks. Send her in when she gets here.”

  I don’t know what to say to Ana, so I push her e-mail from my thoughts and await my meeting with my chief operating officer.

  Ros is in sparkling form. She sails through a concise agenda and brings me up to speed on everything within an hour.

  “You’ve done a great job,” I tell her.

  “Christian, I’ve loved it. But in all honesty, I missed you.”

  I smile, because I don’t know how I should react. I’m not used to compliments from my staff. “In all honesty, I can’t say the same,” I reply.

  She grins. “That’s as it should be. I’m sure you had a wonderful time.”

  “I did, thank you.”

  Except my wife doesn’t want my name.

  She gives me a brief speculative look, but I force a smile. “I’ll get on to the Detroit people,” she says, “and I’ll give Hassan a call about whether you need to visit the New York operation this week.”

  “Thursday would be good if they need me to go.”