Fifty Shades Trilogy 03 - Fifty Shades Freed

with him. Sex is his coping mechanism.
    I wander into the bathroom and scowl at my reflection in the mirror. Coming back to the real world is hard. We managed to skate over all our differences while we were in our bubble because we were so wrapped up in each other. But now? Briefly I am dragged back to my wedding, remembering my concerns that day—marry in haste . . . No, I mustn’t think like this. I knew he was Fifty Shades when I married him. I just have to hang in there and try to talk this through with him.
    I squint at myself in the mirror. I look pale, and now I have that woman to deal with.
    I’m wearing my gray pencil skirt and a sleeveless blouse. Right! My inner goddess gets out her harlot-red nail polish. I undo two buttons, exposing a little cleavage. I wash my face then carefully redo my makeup, applying more mascara than usual and putting extra gloss on my lips. Bending down, I then brush my hair vigorously from root to tip. When I stand, my hair is a chestnut haze around me that tumbles to my breasts. I tuck it artfully behind my ears and go in search of my pumps, rather than my flats.
    When I reemerge into the great room, Christian has the house plans spread out on the dining table. He has music playing through the sound system. It stops me in my tracks.
    “Mrs. Grey,” he says warmly then looks quizzically at me.
    “What’s this?” I ask. The music is stunning.
    “Fauré’s Requiem. You look different,” he says, distracted.
    “Oh. I’ve not heard it before.”
    “It’s very calming, relaxing,” he says and raises an eyebrow. “Have you done something to your hair?”
    “Brushed it,” I mutter. I’m transported by the haunting voices. Abandoning the plans on the table, he walks toward me, a slow saunter in time to the music.
    “Dance with me?” he murmurs.
    “To this? It’s a requiem.” I squeak, shocked.
    “Yes.” He pulls me into his arms and holds me, burying his nose in my hair and swaying gently from side to side. He smells his heavenly self.
    Oh . . . I’ve missed him. I wrap my arms around him and fight the urge to cry. Why are you so infuriating?
    “I hate fighting with you,” he whispers.
    “Well, stop being such an arse.”
    He chuckles and the captivating sound reverberates through his chest. He tightens his hold on me. “Arse?”
    “Ass.”
    “I prefer arse .”
    “You should. It suits you.”
    He laughs once more and kisses the top of my head.
    “A requiem?” I murmur a little shocked that we are dancing to it.
    He shrugs. “It’s just a lovely piece of music, Ana.”
    Taylor coughs discreetly at the entranceway, and Christian releases me.
    “Miss Matteo is here,” he says.
    Oh joy!
    “Show her in,” Christian says. He reaches over and clasps my hand as Miss Gia Matteo enters the room.

Gia Matteo is a good-looking woman—a tall, good-looking woman. She wears her short, salon-blond, perfectly layered and coiffed hair like a sophisticated crown. She’s dressed in a pale gray pantsuit; the slacks and fitted jacket hug her lush curves. Her clothes look expensive. At the base of her throat, a solitary diamond glints, matching the single-carat studs in her ears. She is well groomed—one of those women who grew up with money and breeding, though her breeding seems to be lacking this evening; her pale blue blouse is undone too far. Like mine. I flush.
    “Christian. Ana.” She beams, showing perfect white teeth, and holds out a manicured hand to shake first Christian’s, then my hand. It means I have to release Christian’s hand to reciprocate. She’s a fraction shorter than Christian, but then she’s in killer heels.
    “Gia,” Christian says politely. I smile coolly.
    “You both look so well after your honeymoon,” she says smoothly, her brown eyes gazing at Christian through long mascaraed lashes. Christian puts his arm around me, holding me close.
    “We had a wonderful time, thank you.” He brushes his lips against my temple, taking me by surprise.
    See . . . he’s mine. Annoying—infuriating, even—but mine. I grin. Right now I really love you, Christian Grey. I slip my hand around his waist then into his rear pocket of his pants and squeeze his behind. Gia gives us a thin smile.
    “Have you managed to look over the plans?”
    “We have,” I murmur. I gaze up at Christian, who grins down at me, one eyebrow raised in wry amusement. Amused at what? My reaction to Gia or me squeezing his butt?
    “Please,” Christian