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

by E. L. James

We laze in the British Airways first class lounge at Heathrow outside London, waiting for our connecting flight to Seattle. Christian is engrossed in the Financial Times. I pull out his camera, wanting to take some photographs of him. He looks so sexy in his trademark white linen shirt and jeans, with his aviator specs tucked into the V of his open shirt. The flash disturbs him. He blinks up at me and smiles his shy smile.

  “How are you, Mrs. Grey?” he asks.

  “Sad to be going home,” I murmur. “I like having you to myself.”

  He clasps my hand and, lifting it to his lips, grazes my knuckles with a sweet kiss. “Me, too.”

  “But?” I ask, hearing that small word unsaid at the end of his simple statement.

  He frowns. “But?” he repeats disingenuously. I tilt my head to one side, gazing at him with the tell me expression I have been perfecting over the last couple of days. He sighs, putting his newspaper down. “I want this arsonist caught and out of our lives.”

  “Oh.” That seems fair enough, but I’m surprised by his bluntness.

  “I’ll have Welch’s balls on a platter if he lets anything like that happen again.” A shiver runs down my spine at his menacing tone. He gazes at me impassively, and I don’t know if he’s daring me to be flippant or what. I do the only thing I can think of to ease the sudden tension between us and raise the camera and snap another photograph.

  “Hey, sleepyhead, we’re home,” Christian murmurs.

  “Hmm,” I mumble, reluctant to leave my tantalizing dream of Christian and me on a picnic blanket at Kew Gardens. I am so tired. Traveling is exhausting, even in first class. We’ve been up for more than eighteen hours straight, I think—in my fatigue I’ve lost track. I hear my door open, and Christian is leaning over me. He unbuckles my seat belt and lifts me into his arms, waking me.

  “Hey, I can walk,” I protest sleepily.

  He snorts. “I need to carry you over the threshold.”

  I put my arms around his neck. “Up all thirty floors?” I give him a challenging smile.

  “Mrs. Grey, I am very pleased to announce that you’ve put on some weight.”

  “What?”

  He grins. “So if you don’t mind, we’ll use the elevator.” He narrows his eyes at me, though I know he’s teasing.

  Taylor opens the doors to the Escala lobby and smiles. “Welcome home, Mr. Grey, Mrs. Grey.”

  “Thanks, Taylor,” says Christian.

  I give Taylor the briefest of smiles and watch him head back to the Audi, where Sawyer waits at the wheel.

  “What do you mean I’ve put on weight?” I glare at Christian. His grin broadens, and he clasps me closer to his chest as he carries me across the lobby.

  “Not much,” he assures me, but his face darkens suddenly.

  “What is it?” I try to keep the alarm in my voice under control.

  “You’ve put on some of the weight you lost when you left me,” he says quietly as he summons the elevator. A bleak expression crosses his face.

  His sudden, surprising anguish tugs at my heart. “Hey.” I curl my fingers around his face and into his hair, pulling him toward me. “If I hadn’t gone, would you be standing here, like this, now?”

  His eyes melt, the color of a storm cloud, and he smiles his shy smile, my favorite smile. “No,” he says and steps into the elevator still holding me. He leans down and kisses me gently. “No, Mrs. Grey, I wouldn’t. But I would know I could keep you safe, because you wouldn’t defy me.”

  He sounds vaguely regretful … Shit.

  “I like defying you.” I test the waters.

  “I know. And it’s made me so … happy.” He smiles down at me through his bemusement.

  Oh, thank heavens. “Even though I’m fat?” I whisper.

  He laughs. “Even though you’re fat.” He kisses me again, more heated this time, and I fist my fingers in his hair, holding him against me, our tongues twisting in a slow sensual dance with each other. When the elevator pings to a halt at the penthouse, we are both breathless.

  “Very happy,” he murmurs. His smile is darker now, his eyes hooded and full of salacious promise. He shakes his head as if to recover himself and carries me into the foyer.

  “Welcome home, Mrs. Grey.” He kisses me again, more chastely this time, and gives me the patented-Christian-Grey-full-gigawatt smile, his eyes dancing with joy.

  “Welcome home, Mr. Grey.” I beam, my heart answering his call, brimming with my own joy.

  I think Christian’s going to put me down, but he doesn’t. He carries me through the foyer, across the corridor, into the great room, and deposits me on the kitchen island, where I sit with my legs dangling. He retrieves two champagne flutes from the kitchen cupboard and a bottle of chilled champagne from the fridge—our favorite, Bollinger. He deftly opens the bottle, not spilling a drop, pours the pale pink champagne into each glass, and hands one to me. Taking up the other, he gently parts my legs and moves forward to stand between them.

  “Here’s to us, Mrs. Grey.”

  “To us, Mr. Grey,” I whisper, conscious of my shy smile. We clink glasses and take a sip.

  “I know you’re tired,” he whispers, rubbing his nose against mine. “But I’d really like to go to bed … and not to sleep.” He kisses the corner of my mouth. “It’s our first night back here, and you’re really mine.” His voice drifts off as he plants soft kisses down my throat. It’s early evening in Seattle, and I am dog-tired, but desire blooms deep in my belly.

  CHRISTIAN IS SLUMBERING PEACEFULLY beside me as I stare at the pink and golden streaks of the new dawn through the vast windows. His arm is draped loosely over my breasts, and I try to match his breathing in an effort to get back to sleep, but it’s hopeless. I’m wide-awake, my body clock on Greenwich mean time, my mind racing.

  So much has happened in the last three weeks—who am I kidding, the last three months—that I feel that my feet haven’t touched the ground. And now here I am, Mrs. Christian Grey, married to the most delicious, sexy, philanthropic, absurdly wealthy mogul a woman could meet. How did this all happen so fast?

  I shift onto my side to gaze at him. I know he watches me sleep, but I rarely get the opportunity to repay the compliment. He looks young and carefree in his sleep, his long lashes fanned against his cheek, a light smattering of stubble covering his jaw, and his sculptured lips slightly parted, relaxed as he breathes deeply. I want to kiss him, to push my tongue between his lips, run my fingers over his soft yet prickly stubble. I really have to fight the urge not to touch him, not to disturb him. Hmm … I could just tease his earlobe with my teeth and suck. My subconscious glares up at me over her half-moon spectacles, distracted from volume two of the Complete Works of Charles Dickens, and mentally chastises me. Leave the poor man alone, Ana.

  I am back to work on Monday. We have today to get back into our routine. It will be odd not seeing Christian for a whole day after spending almost every minute together for the last three weeks. I lie back and stare at the ceiling. One would think that spending so much time together would be suffocating, but that’s just not the case. I’ve loved each and every minute, even our fighting. Every minute … except the news of the fire at Grey House.

  My blood chills. Who could want to harm Christian? My mind gnaws at this mystery again. Someone in his business? An ex? A disgruntled employee? I have no idea, and Christian remains tight-lipped about it all, drip-feeding me the minimum information he can get away with in a bid to protect me. I sigh. My shining white-and-dark knight always trying to protect me. How am I going to make him open up more?

  He stirs and I still, not wanting to wake him, but it has the opposite effect. Damn! Two bright eyes gaze at me.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Go back to sleep.” I try my reassuring smile. He stretches, rubs his face, and then grins at me.

  “Jet lag?” he asks.

  “Is that what this is? I can’t sleep.”

  “I have the universal panacea right here, just for you,
baby.” He grins like a schoolboy, making me roll my eyes and giggle at the same time. And just like that my dark thoughts are swept aside and my teeth find his earlobe.

  CHRISTIAN AND I CRUISE north on I-5 toward the 520 bridge in the Audi R8. We are going to have lunch at his parents’, a welcome-home Sunday lunch. All the family will be there, plus Kate and Ethan. It will be strange to be in company when we’ve been on our own all this time. I haven’t had an opportunity to talk to Christian most of the morning. He was holed up in his study while I unpacked. He said I didn’t have to, that Mrs. Jones would do it. But that’s something else I need to get used to—having domestic help. I run my fingers absentmindedly over the leather upholstery of the door to distract my wandering thoughts. I feel out of sorts. Is it the jet lag? The arson?

  “Would you let me drive this?” I ask, surprised that I say the words out loud.

  “Of course,” Christian replies, smiling. “What’s mine is yours. If you dent it, though, I will take you into the Red Room of Pain.” He glances swiftly at me with a malicious grin.

  Shit! I gape at him. Is this a joke?

  “You’re kidding. You’d punish me for denting your car? You love your car more than you love me?” I tease.

  “It’s close,” he says and reaches across to squeeze my knee. “But she doesn’t keep me warm at night.”

  “I’m sure it could be arranged. You could sleep in her,” I snap.

  Christian laughs. “We haven’t been home one day and you’re kicking me out already?” He seems delighted. I gaze at him and he gives me a face-splitting grin, and although I want to be mad at him, it’s impossible when he’s in this kind of mood. Now that I think about it, he’s been in a better frame of mind ever since he left his study this morning. And it dawns on me that I’m being petulant because we have to go back to reality, and I don’t know if he’s going to revert to the more closed pre-honeymoon Christian, or if I’ll get to keep the new improved version.

  “Why are you so pleased?” I ask.

  He flashes yet another grin at me. “Because this conversation is so … normal.”

  “Normal!” I snort. “Not after three weeks of marriage! Surely.”

  His smile slips.

  “I’m kidding, Christian,” I mutter quickly, not wanting to kill his mood. It strikes me how unsure he is of himself sometimes. I suspect that he’s always been like this, but has just hidden his uncertainty beneath an intimidating exterior. He’s very easy to tease, probably because he’s not used to it. It’s a revelation, and I marvel again that we still have so much to learn about each other.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll stick to the Saab,” I mutter and turn to stare out the window, trying to shake off my bad mood.

  “Hey. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re so frustrating sometimes, Ana. Tell me.”

  I turn and smirk at him. “Back at you, Grey.”

  He frowns. “I’m trying,” he says softly.

  “I know. Me, too.” I smile and my mood brightens a little.

  CARRICK LOOKS RIDICULOUS IN his chef’s hat and Licensed to Grill apron as he stands at the barbecue. Every time I look at him, it makes me smile. In fact, my spirits have lifted considerably. We are all sitting around the table on the terrace of the Grey family home, enjoying the late summer sun. Grace and Mia are setting various salads out on the table, while Elliot and Christian trade friendly insults and discuss plans for the new house, and Ethan and Kate grill me about our honeymoon. Christian keeps hold of my hand, his fingers toying with my wedding and engagement rings.

  “So if you can get the plans finalized with Gia, I have a window September through to mid-November and can get the whole crew on it,” Elliot says as he stretches and drops an arm around Kate’s shoulder, making her smile.

  “Gia is due to come over to discuss the plans tomorrow evening,” replies Christian. “I hope we can finalize everything then.” He turns and looks expectantly at me.

  Oh … this is news.

  “Sure.” I smile at him, mostly for the benefit of his family, but my spirits take a nosedive again. Why does he make these decisions without telling me? Or is it the thought of Gia—all lush hips, full breasts, expensive designer clothes, and perfume—smiling too provocatively at my husband? My subconscious glares at me. He’s given you no reason to be jealous. Shit, I am up and down today. What’s wrong with me?

  “Ana,” Kate exclaims, snapping me out of my reverie. “You still in the South of France?”

  “Yes,” I reply with a smile.

  “You look so well,” she says, though she frowns as she says it.

  “You both do.” Grace beams while Elliot refills our glasses.

  “To the happy couple.” Carrick grins and raises his glass, and everyone around the table echoes the sentiment.

  “And congratulations to Ethan for getting into the psych program at Seattle,” chips in Mia proudly. She gives him an adoring smile, and Ethan smirks at her. I wonder idly if she’s made any headway with him. It’s difficult to tell.

  I listen to the banter around the table. Christian is running through our extensive itinerary over the last three weeks, embellishing here and there. He sounds relaxed and in control, the worry of the arsonist forgotten. I, on the other hand, don’t seem to be able to shake my mood. I pick at my food. Christian said I was fat yesterday. He was joking! My subconscious glares at me again. Elliot accidentally knocks his glass onto the terrace, startling everyone, and there’s a sudden flurry of activity to get it cleaned up.

  “I am going to take you to the boathouse and finally spank you in there if you don’t snap out of this mood,” Christian whispers to me.

  I gasp with shock, turn, and gape at him. What? Is he teasing me?

  “You wouldn’t dare!” I growl at him, and from deep inside I feel a familiar, welcome excitement. He cocks an eyebrow at me. Of course he would. I glance quickly at Kate across the table. She’s watching us with interest. I turn back to Christian, narrowing my eyes at him.

  “You’d have to catch me first—and I’m wearing flats,” I hiss.

  “I’d have fun trying,” he whispers with a licentious grin, and I think he’s joking.

  I blush. Confusingly, I feel better.

  As we finish our dessert of strawberries and cream, the heavens open. We all leap up to clear the plates and glasses from the table, depositing them in the kitchen.

  “Good thing the weather held off till we finished,” Grace says, pleased, as we drift into the back room. Christian sits down at the shiny black upright piano, presses the quiet pedal, and starts to play a familiar tune that I can’t immediately place.

  Grace asks me for my impressions of Saint-Paul-de-Vence. She and Carrick had gone years ago during their honeymoon, and it occurs to me that this is a good omen, seeing how happy they are together now. Kate and Elliot are cuddling on one of the large overstuffed couches, while Ethan, Mia, and Carrick are deep in a conversation about psychology, I think.

  Suddenly, as one, all the Greys stop talking and gape at Christian.

  What?

  Christian is singing softly to himself at the piano. Silence descends on us all as we strain to hear his soft, musical voice and the lyrics of “Wherever You Will Go.” I’ve heard him sing before; haven’t they? He stops, suddenly conscious of the deathly hush that’s fallen over the room. Kate glances questioningly at me and I shrug. Christian turns on the stool and frowns, embarrassed to realize he’s become the center of attention.

  “Go on,” Grace urges softly. “I’ve never heard you sing, Christian. Ever.” She stares at him in wonder. He sits on the piano stool, looking absently at her, and after a beat, he shrugs. His eyes flicker nervously to me, then over to the French windows. The rest of the room suddenly erupts in self-conscious chatter, and I’m left watching my dear husband.

  Grace distracts me, grasping my hands then suddenly folding me in her arms.

  “Oh, darling girl! Thank you, thank you,�
�� she whispers, so only I can hear. It brings a lump to my throat.

  “Um …” I hug her back, not really sure why I am being thanked. Grace smiles, her eyes shining, and kisses my cheek. What have I done?

  “I am going to make some tea,” she says, her voice hoarse with unshed tears.

  I amble over to Christian, who is now standing, staring out through the French windows.

  “Hi,” I murmur.

  “Hi.” He puts his arm around my waist, pulling me to him, and I slip my hand into the back pocket of his jeans. We gaze out at the rain.

  “Feeling better?”

  I nod.

  “Good.”

  “You certainly know how to silence a room.”

  “I do it all the time,” he says, and he grins at me.

  “At work, yes, but not here.”

  “True, not here.”

  “No one’s ever heard you sing? Ever?”

  “It appears not,” he says dryly. “Shall we go?”

  I gaze up at him, trying to gauge his mood. His eyes are soft and warm and slightly bemused. I decide to change the subject.

  “You going to spank me?” I whisper, and suddenly there are butterflies in my stomach. Perhaps this is what I need … this is what I have been missing.

  He gazes down at me, his eyes darkening.

  “I don’t want to hurt you, but I’m more than happy to play.”

  I glance nervously around the large room, but we are out of earshot.

  “Only if you misbehave, Mrs. Grey.” He bends and murmurs in my ear.

  How can he put so much sensual promise into six words?

  “I’ll see what I can do.” I grin.

  ONCE WE’VE SAID OUR good-byes, we walk over to the car.

  “Here.” Christian throws me the keys to the R8. “Don’t bend it”—he adds in all seriousness—“or I will be fucking pissed.”

  My mouth goes dry. He’s letting me drive his car? My inner goddess whips on her leather driving gloves and flat shoes. Oh yes! she cries.

  “Are you sure?” I mouth, stunned.

  “Yes, before I change my mind.”

  I don’t think I have ever grinned so hard. He rolls his eyes and opens the driver’s door so that I can climb in. I start the engine before he’s even reached the passenger side, and he jumps in quickly.