Fifty Shades Trilogy 03 - Fifty Shades Freed

beer,” he says.
    “Kate?” Christian asks.
    “More champagne, please. The Cristal is delicious. But I’m sure Ethan would prefer a beer.” She smiles sweetly— yes, sweetly —at Christian. She is incandescent with happiness. I feel it radiating off her, and it’s a pleasure to bask in her joy.
    “Ana?”
    “Champagne, please.”
    “Bottle of Cristal, three Peronis, and a bottle of iced mineral water, six glasses,” he says in his usual authoritative, no-nonsense manner.
    It’s kinda hot.
    “Thank you, sir. Coming right up.” Miss Hot Pants Number Two gives him a gracious smile, but he’s spared the fluttering of eyelashes though her cheeks redden a little.
    I shake my head in resignation. He’s mine, girlfriend .
    “What?” he asks me.
    “She didn’t flutter her eyelashes at you.” I smirk.
    “Oh. Was she supposed to?” he asks, failing to hide his mirth.
    “Women usually do.” My tone is ironic.
    He grins. “Mrs. Grey, are you jealous?”
    “Not in the slightest.” I pout at him. And I realize in that moment that I am beginning to tolerate women ogling my husband. Almost. Christian clasps my hand and kisses my knuckles.
    “You have nothing to be jealous of, Mrs. Grey,” he murmurs close to my ear, his breath tickling me.
    “I know.”
    “Good.”
    The waitress returns, and moments later I’m sipping another glass of champagne.
    “Here.” Christian hands me a glass of water. “Drink this.”
    I frown at him and see, rather than hear, his sigh.
    “Three glasses of white wine at dinner and two of champagne, after a strawberry daiquiri and two glasses of Frascati at lunchtime. Drink. Now, Ana.”
    How does he know about the cocktails this afternoon? I scowl at him. But actually he does have a point. Taking the glass of water, I down it in a most unladylike manner to register my protest at being told what to do . . . again. I wipe my hand across the back of my mouth.
    “Good girl,” he says, smirking. “You’ve vomited on me once already. I don’t wish to experience that again in a hurry.”
    “I don’t know what you’re complaining about. You got to sleep with me.”
    He smiles and his eyes soften. “Yeah, I did.”
    Ethan and Mia are back.
    “Ethan’s had enough, for now. Come on, girls. Let’s hit the floor. Strike a pose, throw some shapes, work off the calories from the chocolate mousse.”
    Kate stands immediately. “Coming?” she asks Elliot.
    “Let me watch you,” he says. And I have to look away quickly, blushing at the look he gives her. She grins as I stand.
    “I’m going to burn some calories,” I say, and leaning down I whisper in Christian’s ear, “You can watch me.”
    “Don’t bend over,” he growls.
    “Okay.” I stand abruptly. Whoa! Head rush, and I clutch Christian’s shoulder as the room shifts and tilts a little.
    “Perhaps you should have some more water,” Christian murmurs, a warning clear in his voice.
    “I’m fine. These seats are low and my heels are high.”
    Kate takes my hand, and taking a deep breath I follow her and Mia, perfectly poised, onto the dance floor.
    The music is pulsing, a techno beat with a thumping bass line. The dance floor isn’t crowded, which means we have some space. The mix is eclectic—young and old alike dancing the night away. I have never been a good dancer. In fact, it’s only since I’ve been with Christian that I dance at all. Kate hugs me.
    “I’m so happy,” she shouts over the music, and she starts to dance. Mia is doing what Mia does, grinning at the pair of us, throwing herself around. Jeez, she’s taking up a lot of room on the dance floor. I glance back toward the table. Our men are watching us. I start to move. It’s a pulsing rhythm. I close my eyes and surrender to it.
    I open my eyes to find the dance floor filling up. Kate, Mia and I are forced closer together. And to my surprise I find I’m actually enjoying myself. I begin to move a little more . . . bravely. Kate gives me two thumbs up, and I beam back at her.
    I close my eyes. Why did I spend the first twenty years of my life not doing this? I chose reading over dancing. Jane Austen didn’t have great music to move to and Thomas Hardy . . . jeez, he’d have felt guilty as sin that he wasn’t dancing with his first wife. I giggle at the thought.
    It’s Christian. He has given me this confidence in my body and how I can move it.
    Suddenly, there are two hands on my hips. I grin. Christian has joined me. I