Fifty Shades Trilogy 03 - Fifty Shades Freed

annoyance is not directed at me. He smiles warmly, and I know we’re okay.
    “What did you buy?”
    “This,” I put my foot up on the bed and show him my ankle chain.
    “Very nice,” he says. He steps over to me and fondles the tiny bells so that they jingle sweetly around my ankle. He frowns again and runs his fingers lightly along the mark, sending tingles up my leg.
    “And this.” I hold out the box, hoping to distract him.
    “For me?” he asks in surprise. I nod shyly. He takes the box and shakes it gently. He grins his boyish, dazzling smile and sits down beside me on the bed. Leaning over, he grasps my chin and kisses me.
    “Thank you,” he says with shy delight.
    “You haven’t opened it yet.”
    “I’ll love it, whatever it is.” He gazes down at me, his eyes glowing. “I don’t get many presents.”
    “It’s hard to buy you things. You have everything.”
    “I have you.”
    “You do.” I grin at him. Oh, you so do, Christian.
    He makes short work of the wrapping paper. “A Nikon?” He glances up at me, puzzled.
    “I know you have your compact digital camera but this is for . . . um . . . portraits and the like. It comes with two lenses.”
    He blinks at me, still not understanding.
    “Today in the gallery you liked the Florence D’elle photographs. And I remember what you said in the Louvre. And of course, there were those other photographs.” I swallow, trying my best not to recall the images I found in his closet.
    He stops breathing, his eyes widening as realization dawns, and I continue hurriedly before I lose my nerve.
    “I thought you might, um . . . like to take pictures of . . . me.”
    “Pictures. Of you?” He gapes at me, ignoring the box on his lap.
    I nod, desperately trying to gauge his reaction. Finally he gazes back down at the box, his fingers tracing over the illustration of the camera on the front with fascinated reverence.
    What is he thinking? Oh, this is not the reaction I was expecting, and my subconscious glares at me like I’m a domesticated farm animal. Christian never reacts the way I expect. He looks back up, his eyes filled with what, pain?
    “Why do you think I want this?” he asks, bemused.
    No, no, no! You said you’d love it . . .
    “Don’t you?” I ask, refusing to acknowledge my subconscious who is questioning why anyone would want erotic photographs of me. Christian swallows and runs a hand through his hair, and he looks so lost, so confused. He takes a deep breath.
    “For me, photos like those have usually been an insurance policy, Ana. I know I’ve objectified women for so long,” he says and pauses awkwardly.
    “And you think taking pictures of me is . . . um, objectifying me?” All the air leaves my body, and the blood drains from my face.
    He scrunches up his eyes. “I am so confused,” he whispers. When he opens his eyes again, they are wide and wary, full of some raw emotion.
    Shit. Is it me? My questions earlier about his birth mom? The fire at his office?
    “Why do you say that?” I whisper, panic rising in my throat. I thought he was happy. I thought we were happy. I thought I made him happy. I don’t want to confuse him. Do I? My mind starts racing. He hasn’t seen Flynn in nearly three weeks. Is that it? Is that the reason he’s unraveling? Shit, should I call Flynn? And in a possibly unique moment of extraordinary depth and clarity, it comes to me—the fire, Charlie Tango, the Jet Ski . . . He’s scared, he’s scared for me, and seeing these marks on my skin must bring that home. He’s been fussing about them all day, confusing himself because he’s not used to feeling uncomfortable about inflicting pain. The thought chills me.
    He shrugs and once more his eyes move down to my wrist where the bangle he bought me this afternoon used to be. Bingo!
    “Christian, these don’t matter.” I hold up my wrist, revealing the fading welt. “You gave me a safe word. Shit—yesterday was fun . I enjoyed it. Stop brooding about it—I like rough sex, I’ve told you that before.” I blush scarlet as I try to quash my rising panic.
    He gazes at me intently, and I have no idea what he’s thinking. Maybe he’s measuring my words. I stumble on.
    “Is this about the fire? Do you think it’s connected somehow to Charlie Tango? Is this why you’re worried? Talk to me, Christian—please.”
    He stares at me, saying nothing and the silence expands between us again as it did this afternoon. Holy