Fifty Shades Trilogy Bundle: Fifty Shades of Grey; Fifty Shades Darker; Fifty Shades Freed

by E. L. James

  I gape at him, searching for the right words.

  “Can I think about it … please? And think about everything else that’s happened today? What you’ve just told me? You asked for patience and faith. Well, back at you, Grey. I need those now.”

  His eyes search mine and after a beat, he leans forward and tucks my hair behind my ear.

  “I can live with that.” He kisses me quickly on the lips. “Not very romantic, eh?” He raises his eyebrows, and I give him an admonishing shake of my head. “Hearts and flowers?” he asks softly.

  I nod and he gives me a slight smile.

  “You’re hungry?”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t eat.” His eyes frost and his jaw hardens.

  “No, I didn’t eat.” I sit back on my heels and regard him passively. “Being thrown out of my apartment after witnessing my boyfriend interacting intimately with his ex-submissive considerably suppressed my appetite.” I glare at him and fist my hands on my hips.

  Christian shakes his head and rises gracefully to his feet. Oh, finally we can get off the floor. He holds his hand out to me.

  “Let me fix you something to eat,” he says.

  “Can’t I just go to bed?” I mutter wearily as I place my hand in his.

  He pulls me up. I am stiff. He gazes down at me, his expression soft.

  “No, you need to eat. Come.” Bossy Christian is back, and it’s a relief.

  He leads me to the kitchen area and ushers me toward a barstool as he heads to the fridge. I glance at my watch and it’s nearly eleven thirty and I have to get up for work in the morning.

  “Christian, I’m really not hungry.”

  He studiously ignores me as he ferrets through the enormous fridge. “Cheese?” he asks.

  “Not at this hour.”

  “Pretzels?”

  “In the fridge? No,” I snap.

  He turns and grins at me. “You don’t like pretzels?”

  “Not at eleven thirty. Christian, I’m going to bed. You can rummage around in your refrigerator for the rest of the night if you want. I’m tired, and I’ve had far too interesting a day. A day I’d like to forget.” I slide off the stool and he scowls at me, but right now I don’t care. I want to go to bed—I’m exhausted.

  “Macaroni and cheese?” He holds up a white bowl lidded with foil. He looks so hopeful and endearing.

  “You like macaroni and cheese?” I ask.

  He nods enthusiastically, and my heart melts. He looks so young all of a sudden. Who would have thought? Christian Grey likes nursery food.

  “You want some?” he asks, sounding hopeful. I can’t resist him, and I’m hungry.

  I nod and give him a weak smile. His answering grin is breathtaking. He takes the foil off the bowl and pops it into the microwave. I perch back on the stool and watch the beauty that is Mr. Christian Grey—the man who wants to marry me—move gracefully and with ease around his kitchen.

  “So you know how to use the microwave, then?” I tease softly.

  “If it’s in a packet, I can usually do something with it. It’s real food I have a problem with.”

  I cannot believe this is the same man who was on his knees in front of me not half an hour before. He’s his usual mercurial self. He sets out plates, cutlery, and place mats on the breakfast bar.

  “It’s very late,” I mutter.

  “Don’t go to work tomorrow.”

  “I have to go to work tomorrow. My boss is leaving for New York.”

  Christian frowns. “Do you want to go there this weekend?”

  “I checked the weather forecast, and it looks like rain,” I say, shaking my head.

  “Oh, so what do you want to do?”

  The microwave’s ping announces that our supper is warmed through.

  “I just want to get through one day at a time right now. All this excitement is … tiring.” I raise an eyebrow at him, which he judiciously ignores.

  Christian places the white bowl in between our place settings and takes his seat beside me. He looks deep in thought, distracted. I dish the macaroni onto our plates. It smells divine, and my mouth waters in anticipation. I am famished.

  “Sorry about Leila,” he murmurs.

  “Why are you sorry?” Mmm, the macaroni tastes as good as it smells. My stomach grumbles gratefully.

  “It must have been a terrible shock for you, finding her in your apartment. Taylor swept through it earlier himself. He’s very upset.”

  “I don’t blame Taylor.”

  “Neither do I. He’s been out looking for you.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “I didn’t know where you were. You left your purse, your phone. I couldn’t even track you. Where did you go?” he asks. His voice is soft, but there’s an ominous undercurrent to his words.

  “Ethan and I just went to a bar across the street. So I could watch what was happening.”

  “I see.” The atmosphere between us has changed subtly. It’s no longer light.

  Okay, well … two can play that game. Let’s just bring this back to you, Fifty. Trying to sound nonchalant, wanting to assuage my burning curiosity but dreading the answer, I ask, “So, what did you do with Leila in the apartment?”

  I glance up at him, and he freezes with his forkful of macaroni suspended in midair. Oh no, that’s not good.

  “You really want to know?”

  A knot tightens in my gut and my appetite vanishes. “Yes,” I whisper. Do you? Do you really? My subconscious has thrown her empty bottle of gin on the floor and is sitting up in her armchair, glaring at me in horror.

  Christian’s mouth flattens into a line, and he hesitates. “We talked, and I gave her a bath.” His voice is hoarse, and he continues quickly when I make no response. “And I dressed her in some of your clothes. I hope you don’t mind. But she was filthy.”

  Holy fuck. He bathed her?

  What an inappropriate thing to do. I’m reeling, staring down at my uneaten macaroni. The sight of it now makes me nauseous.

  Try to rationalize this, my subconscious coaches. That cool, intellectual part of my brain knows that he just did that because she was dirty, but it’s too hard. My fragile, jealous self can’t bear it.

  Suddenly I want to cry—not succumb to ladylike tears that trickle decorously down my cheeks, but howling-at-the-moon crying. I take a deep breath to suppress the urge, but my throat is arid and uncomfortable from my unshed tears and sobs.

  “It was all I could do, Ana,” he says softly.

  “You still have feelings for her?”

  “No!” he says, appalled, and closes his eyes, his expression one of anguish. I turn away, staring once more at my sickening food. I can’t bear to look at him.

  “To see her like that—so different, so broken. I care about her, one human being to another.” He shrugs as if to shake off an unpleasant memory. Jeez, is he expecting my sympathy?

  “Ana, look at me.”

  I can’t. I know that if I do, I will burst into tears. This is just too much to absorb. I’m like an overflowing tank of gasoline—full, beyond capacity. There is no room for any more. I simply cannot cope with any more crap. I will combust and explode, and it will be ugly if I try. Jeez!

  Christian caring for his ex-sub in such an intimate fashion—the image flashes through my brain. Bathing her, for fuck’s sake—naked. A harsh, painful shudder wracks my body.

  “Ana.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t. It doesn’t mean anything. It was like caring for a child, a broken, shattered child,” he mutters.

  What the hell would he know about caring for a child? This was a woman he had a very full-on, deviant sexual relationship with.

  Oh, this hurts. I take a deep, steadying breath. Or perhaps he’s referring to himself. He’s the broken child. That makes more sense … or maybe it makes no sense at all. Oh, this is so fucked-up, and suddenly I’m bone-crushingly tired. I need sleep.

  “Ana?”

  I st
and, take my plate to the sink, and scrape the contents into the trash.

  “Ana, please.”

  I whirl around and face him. “Just stop, Christian! Just stop with the ‘Ana, please’!” I shout at him, and my tears start to trickle down my face. “I’ve had enough of all this shit today. I am going to bed. I am tired and emotional. Now let me be.”

  I turn on my heel and practically run to the bedroom, taking with me the memory of his wide-eyed, shocked stare. Nice to know I can shock him, too. I strip out of my clothes in double-quick time, and after rifling through his chest of drawers, drag on one of his T-shirts and head for the bathroom.

  I gaze at myself in the mirror, hardly recognizing the gaunt, pink-eyed, blotchy-cheeked harridan staring back at me, and it’s too much. I sink to the floor and surrender to the overwhelming emotion I can no longer contain, sobbing huge chest-wrenching sobs, finally letting my tears flow unrestrained.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  * * *

  Hey,” Christian’s says gently as he pulls me into his arms, “please don’t cry, Ana, please,” he begs. He’s on the bathroom floor, and I am in his lap. I put my arms around him and weep into his neck. Cooing softly into my hair, he gently strokes my back, my head.

  “I’m sorry, baby,” he whispers, and that makes me cry harder and hug him tighter.

  We sit like this forever. Eventually, when I’m all cried out, Christian staggers to his feet, holding me, and carries me into his room where he lays me down in the bed. In a few seconds he’s beside me and the lights are off. He pulls me into his arms, hugging me tightly, and I finally drift off into a dark and troubled sleep.

  I AWAKE WITH A jolt. My head is fuzzy and I’m too warm. Christian is wrapped around me like a vine. He grumbles in his sleep as I slip out of his arms, but he doesn’t wake. Sitting up, I glance at the alarm clock. It’s three in the morning. I need an Advil and a drink. I swing my legs out of bed and make my way to the kitchen in the great room.

  In the fridge I find a carton of orange juice and pour myself a glass. Mmm … it’s delicious, and my fuzzy head eases immediately. I hunt through the cupboards looking for some painkillers and eventually come across a plastic box full of meds. I sink two Advil and pour myself another orange juice.

  Wandering to the great wall of glass, I look out on a sleeping Seattle. The lights twinkle and wink beneath Christian’s castle in the sky, or should I say fortress? I press my forehead against the cool window—it’s a relief. I have so much to think about after all the revelations of yesterday. I place my back against the glass and slide down onto the floor. The great room is cavernous in the dark, the only light coming from the three lamps above the kitchen island.

  Could I live here, married to Christian? After all that he’s done here? All the history this place holds for him?

  Marriage. It’s almost unbelievable and completely unexpected. But then, everything about Christian is unexpected. My lips smirk with irony of this reality. Christian Grey, expect the unexpected—fifty shades of fucked-up.

  My smile fades. I look like his mother. This wounds me deeply, and the air leaves my lungs in a rush. We all look like his mom.

  How the hell do I move on from the disclosure of that little secret? No wonder he didn’t want to tell me. But certainly he can’t remember much of his mother. I wonder once more if I should talk to Dr. Flynn. Would Christian let me? Perhaps he could fill in the gaps.

  I shake my head. I feel world-weary, but I’m enjoying the calm serenity of the great room and its beautiful works of art—cold and austere, but in their own way, still beautiful in the shadows and surely worth a fortune. Could I live here? For better, for worse? In sickness and in health? I close my eyes, lean my head back against the glass, and take a deep, cleansing breath.

  The peaceful tranquility is shattered by a visceral, primeval cry that makes every single hair on my body stand to attention. Christian! Holy fuck—what’s happened? I am on my feet, running back to the bedroom before the echoes of that horrible sound have died away, my heart thumping with fear.

  I flip one of the light switches, and Christian’s bedside light comes to life. He’s tossing and turning, writhing in agony. No! He cries out again, and the eerie, devastating sound lances through me anew.

  Shit—a nightmare!

  “Christian!” I lean over him, grab his shoulders, and shake him awake. He opens his eyes, and they are wild and vacant, scanning quickly around the empty room before coming back to rest on me.

  “You left, you left, you must have left,” he mumbles—his wide-eyed stare becoming accusatory—and he looks so lost, it wrenches at my heart. Poor Fifty.

  “I’m here.” I sit down on the bed beside him. “I’m here,” I murmur softly in an effort to reassure him. I reach out to place my palm on the side of his face, trying to soothe him.

  “You were gone,” he whispers rapidly. His eyes are still wild and frightened, but he seems to be calming.

  “I went to get a drink. I was thirsty.”

  He closes his eyes and rubs his face. When he opens them again, he looks so desolate.

  “You’re here. Oh, thank God.” He reaches for me, and grabbing me tightly, he pulls me down on the bed beside him.

  “I just went for a drink,” I murmur.

  Oh, the intensity of his fear … I can feel it. His T-shirt is drenched in sweat, and his heart is pounding as he hugs me close. He’s gazing at me as if reassuring himself that I am really here. I gently stroke his hair and then his cheek.

  “Christian, please. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere,” I say soothingly.

  “Oh, Ana,” he breathes. He grasps my chin to hold me in place, and then his mouth is on mine. Desire sweeps through him, and unbidden my body responds—it’s so tied and attuned to him. His lips are at my ear, my throat, then back at my mouth, his teeth gently pulling at my lower lip, his hand traveling up my body from my hip to my breast, dragging my T-shirt up. Caressing me, feeling his way through the dips and shallows of my skin, he elicits the same familiar reaction, his touch sending shivers through me. I moan as his hand cups my breast and his fingers tighten over my nipple.

  “I want you,” he murmurs.

  “I’m here for you. Only you, Christian.”

  He groans and kisses me once more, passionately, with a fervor and desperation I’ve not felt from him before. Grabbing the hem of his T-shirt, I tug and he helps me pull it off over his head. Kneeling between my legs, he hastily pulls me upright and drags my T-shirt off.

  His eyes are serious, wanting, full of dark secrets—exposed. He cups his hands around my face and kisses me, and we sink down into the bed once more, his thigh between both of mine so that he’s half lying on top of me. His erection is rigid against my hip through his boxer briefs. He wants me, but his words from earlier choose this moment to come back and haunt me, what he said about his mother. And it’s like a bucket of cold water on my libido. Fuck. I can’t do this. Not now.

  “Christian … Stop. I can’t do this,” I whisper urgently against his mouth, my hands pushing on his upper arms.

  “What? What’s wrong?” he murmurs and starts kissing my neck, running the tip of his tongue lightly down my throat. Oh …

  “No, please. I can’t do this, not now. I need some time, please.”

  “Oh, Ana, don’t overthink this,” he whispers as he nips my earlobe.

  “Ah!” I gasp, feeling it in my groin, and my body bows, betraying me. This is so confusing.

  “I am just the same, Ana. I love you and I need you. Touch me. Please.” He rubs his nose against mine, and his quiet heartfelt plea moves me and I melt.

  Touch him. Touch him while we make love. Oh my.

  He rears up over me, gazing down, and in the half-light from the dimmed bedside light, I can tell that he’s waiting for my decision, and he’s caught in my spell.

  I reach up and tentatively place my hand on the soft patch of hair over his sternum. He gasps and scrunches his eyes closed as if in pain,
but I don’t take my hand away this time. I move it up to his shoulders, feeling the tremor run through him. He groans, and I pull him down to me and place both my hands on his back, where I’ve never touched him before, on his shoulder blades, holding him to me. His strangled moan arouses me like nothing else.

  He buries his head in my neck, kissing and sucking and biting me, before trailing his nose up my chin and kissing me, his tongue possessing my mouth, his hands moving over my body once more. His lips move down … down … down to my breasts, worshipping as they go, and my hands stay on his shoulders and his back, enjoying the flex and ripple of his finely honed muscles, his skin still damp from his nightmare. His lips close over my nipple, pulling and tugging, so that it rises to greet his glorious skilled mouth.

  I groan and run my fingernails across his back. And he gasps, a strangled moan.

  “Oh, fuck, Ana,” he chokes, and it’s a half cry, half groan. It tears at my heart, but also deep inside me, tightening all the muscles below my waist. Oh, what I can do to him! I’m panting now, matching his tortured breaths with my own.

  His hand travels south, over my belly, down to my sex—and his fingers are on me, then in me. I groan as he moves his fingers around inside me, in that way, and I push my pelvis up to welcome his touch.

  “Ana,” he breathes. He suddenly releases me and sits up; he removes his boxer briefs and leans over to the bedside table to grab a foil packet. His eyes are a blazing gray as he passes me the condom. “You want to do this? You can still say no. You can always say no,” he murmurs.

  “Don’t give me a chance to think, Christian. I want you, too.” I rip the packet open with my teeth as he kneels between my legs, and with trembling fingers I slide it onto him.

  “Steady,” he says. “You are going to unman me, Ana.”

  I marvel at what I can do to this man with my touch. He stretches out over me, and for now my doubts are pushed down and locked away in the dark, scary depths at the back of my mind. I’m intoxicated with this man, my man, my Fifty Shades. He shifts suddenly, completely taking me by surprise, so I am on top. Whoa.