Fifty Shades Trilogy 03 - Fifty Shades Freed

snap, though I understand why he might think so. “His dad died in a brawl in a bar. His mother drank herself into oblivion. He was in and out of foster homes as a kid, in and out of trouble, too—mainly boosting cars. Spent time in juvie.” I recall the information Christian revealed on the plane to Aspen.
    “You both have troubled pasts, and you were both born in Detroit. That’s it, Christian.” I fist my hands on my hips.
    “Ana, your faith in me is touching, especially in light of the last few days. We’ll know more when Welch is here.” He’s dismissing the subject.
    “Christian—”
    He stops me with a kiss. “Enough,” he breathes, and I remember the promise I made to myself not to hound him for information.
    “And don’t pout,” he adds. “Come. Let me dry your hair.”
    And I know the subject is closed.
    After dressing in sweatpants and a T-shirt, I sit between Christian’s legs as he dries my hair.
    “So did Clark tell you anything else while I was unconscious?”
    “Not that I recall.”
    “I heard a few of your conversations.”
    The hairbrush stills in my hair.
    “Did you?” he asks, his tone nonchalant.
    “Yes. My dad, your dad, Detective Clark . . . your mom.”
    “And Kate?”
    “Kate was there?”
    “Briefly, yes. She’s mad at you, too.”
    I turn in his lap. “Stop with the everyone is mad at Ana crap, okay?”
    “Just telling you the truth,” Christian says, bemused by my outburst.
    “Yes, it was reckless, but you know, your sister was in danger.”
    His face falls. “Yes. She was.” Switching off the hairdryer, he puts it down on the bed beside him. He grasps my chin.
    “Thank you,” he says, surprising me. “But no more recklessness. Because next time, I will spank the living shit out of you.”
    I gasp.
    “You wouldn’t!”
    “I would.” He’s serious. Holy cow. Deadly serious. “I have your stepfather’s permission.” He smirks. He’s teasing me! Or is he? I launch myself at him, and he twists so that I fall onto the bed and into his arms. As I land, pain from my ribs shoots through me and I wince.
    Christian pales. “Behave!” he admonishes, and for a moment he’s angry.
    “Sorry,” I mumble, caressing his cheek.
    He nuzzles my hand and kisses it gently. “Honestly, Ana, you really have no regard for your own safety.” He tugs up the hem of my T-shirt then rests his fingers on my belly. I stop breathing. “It’s not just you anymore,” he whispers, trailing his fingertips along the waistband of my sweats, caressing my skin. Desire explodes unexpected, hot, and heavy in my blood. I gasp and Christian tenses, halting his fingers and gazing down at me. He moves his hand up and tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
    “No,” he whispers.
    What?
    “Don’t look at me like that. I’ve seen the bruises. And the answer’s no.” His voice is firm, and he kisses my forehead.
    I squirm. “Christian,” I whine.
    “No. Get into bed.” He sits up.
    “Bed?”
    “You need rest.”
    “I need you.”
    He closes his eyes and shakes his head as if it’s a great effort of will. When he opens them again, his eyes are bright with his resolve. “Just do as you’re told, Ana.”
    I’m tempted to take off all my clothes, but then I remember the bruises and know I won’t win that way.
    Reluctantly, I nod. “Okay.” I deliberately give him an exaggerated pout.
    He grins, amused. “I’ll bring you some lunch.”
    “You’re going to cook?” I nearly expire.
    He has the grace to laugh. “I’m going to heat something up. Mrs. Jones has been busy.”
    “Christian, I’ll do it. I’m fine. Jeez, I want sex—I can certainly cook.” I sit up awkwardly, trying to hide my flinch from my smarting ribs.
    “Bed!” Christian’s eyes flash, and he points to the pillow.
    “Join me,” I murmur, wishing I were wearing something a little more alluring than sweatpants and a T-shirt.
    “Ana, get into bed. Now.”I scowl, stand up, and let my pants drop unceremoniously to the floor, glaring at him the whole time. His mouth twitches with humor as he pulls the duvet back.
    “You heard Dr. Singh. She said rest.” His voice is gentler. I slip into bed and fold my arms in frustration. “Stay,” he says clearly enjoying himself.
    My scowl deepens.
    Mrs. Jones’s chicken stew is, without doubt, one of my favorite dishes. Christian eats with me, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed.
    “That was very well heated.” I smirk and he