“foryoumaybe.”itrytopout—buthe’sright...itwas...arousing.

“iseemtorecalltheaftermathwasverysatisfying.”christianreturnsto

finishinghissha一ve.iglancequicklydownatmyfingers.yes,itwas.ihadno

ideathattheabsenceofpubichaircouldmakesuchadifference.

“hey,i’mjustteasing.isn’tthatwhathusbandswhoarehopelesslyinlove

withtheirwivesdo?”christiantipsmychinupandgazesatme,hiseyes

suddenlyfilledwithapprehensionasheendea一vorstoreadmyexpression.

hmm...paybacktime.

“sit,”imutter.

heblinksatme,notunderstanding.ipushhimgentlytowardthelonewhite

stoolinthebathroom.hesitsdown,gazingatmepuzzled,anditakethe

razorfromhim.

“ana,”hewarnsasherealizesmyintention.ileandownandkisshim.

“headback,”iwhisper.

hehesitates.

“titfortat,mr.grey.”

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eljames

hestaresatmewithwary,amuseddisbelief.“youknowwhatyou’redoing?”

heasks,hisvoicelow.ishakemyheadslowly,deliberately,tryingtolookas

seriousaspossible.hecloseshiseyesandshakeshisheadthentiltshis

headbackinsurrender.holyshit,he’sgoingtoletmesha一vehim.myinner

goddessflexesandstretchesherarmsoutward,herfingersinterlocked,

palmsout,limberingup.tentativelyislidemyhandintothedamphairathis

forehead,grippingtightlytoholdhimstill.heclencheshiseyesclosedand

partshislipsasheinhales.verygently,istrokehisrazorupfromhisneckto

hischin,revealingapathofskinbeneaththelather.christianexhales.

“didyouthinkiwasgoingtohurtyou?”

“ineverknowwhatyou’regoingtodo,ana,butno—notintentionally.”

iruntherazoruphisneckagain,clearingawiderpathinthelather.

“iwouldneverintentionallyhurtyou,christian.”

heopenshiseyesandcircleshisarmsaroundmeasigentlydragtherazor

downhischeekfromthebottomofhissideburn.

“iknow,”hesays,anglinghisfacesoicansha一vetherestofhischeek.two

morestrokesandi’vefinished.

“alldone,andnotadropofbloodspilt.”igrinproudly.herunshishandup

mylegsothatmynightdressridesupmythighandpullsmeontohislapso

thati’mastridehim.isteadymyselfwithmyhandsonhisupperarms.he’s

reallyverymuscular.

“canitakeyousomewheretoday?”

“nosunbathing?”iarchacausticbrowathim.

helickshislipsnervously.“no.nosunbathingtoday.ithoughtyoumight

preferthat.”

“well,sinceyou’vecoveredmeinhickeysandeffectivelyputthekiboshon

that,sure,whynot?”

wiselyhechoosestoignoremytone.“it’sadrive,butit’sworthavisitfrom

whati’veread.mydadrecommendedwevisit.it’sahilltopvillagecalled

saintpauldevence.therearesomegalleriesthere.ithoughtwecouldpick

outsomepaintingsorsculpturesforthenewhouse,ifwefindanythingwe

like.”

holycrap.ileanbackandgazeathim.art...hewantstobuyart.howcani

buyart?

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fiftyshadesfreed

“what?”heasks.

“iknownothingaboutart,christian.”

heshrugsandsmilesatmeindulgently.“we’llonlybuywhatwelike.this

isn’taboutinvestment.”

investment?jeez.

“what?”hesaysagain.

ishakemyhead.

“look,iknowweonlygotthearchitect’sdrawingstheotherday—

butthere’snoharminlooking,andthetownisanancient,medievalplace.”

oh—thearchitect,hehadtoremindmeofher...agoodfriendofelliot’s,

giamatteo.duringourmeetings,she’dbeenalloverchristianlikearash.

“whatnow?”christianexclaims.ishakemyhead.“tellme,”heurges.

howcanitellhimthatidon’tlikegia?mydislikeisirrational.idon’twantto

comeacrossasthejealouswife.

“you’renotstillmadaboutwhatididyesterday?”hesighsandnuzzleshis

facebetweenmybreasts.

“no.i’mhungry,”imutter,knowingfullwellthatthiswilldistracthimfromthis

lineofquestioning.

“whydidn’tyousay?”heeasesmeoffhislapandstands.

saintpauldevenceisamedievalfortifiedhilltopvillage,oneofthemost

picturesqueplacesiha一veeverseen.istrollarminarmwithchristianthrough

thenarrowcobbledstreets,myhandinthebackpocketofhisshorts.taylor

andeithergastonorphilippe—ican’ttellthedifferencebetweenthem—trail

behindus.wepassatree-coveredsquarewherethreeoldmen,one

wearingatraditionalberetinspiteoftheheat,areplayingboules.it’squite

crowdedwithtourists,butifeelcomfortabletuckedunderchristian’sarm.

thereissomuchtosee—

littlealleysandpassagewaysleadingtocourtyardswithintricatestone

fountains,ancientandmodernsculptures,andfascinatinglittleboutiquesand

shops.

inthefirstgallery,christiangazesdistractedlyattheeroticphotographsin

frontofus,suckinggentlyonthearmofhisa一viator

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eljames

specs.theyaretheworkofflorenced’elle—nakedwomeninvarious

poses.

“notquitewhatihadinmind,”imumbledisapprovingly.theymakemethink

oftheboxofphotographsifoundinhiscloset,ourcloset.iwonderifheever

diddestroythem.

“meneither,”christiansays,grinningdownatme.hetakesmyhandandwe

strolltothenextartist.idly,iwonderifishouldlethimtakephotosofmeafter

all.myinnergoddessnodsfranticallywithapproval.

thenextdisplayisbyafemalepainterwhospecializesinfigurativeart—fruit

andvegetablessupercloseupandinrich,gloriouscolor.

“ilikethose.”ipointtothreepaintingsofpeppers.“theyremindmeofyou

choppingvegetablesinmyapartment.”igiggle.christian’smouthtwistsas

hetriesandfailstohidehisamusement.

“ithoughtimanagedthatquitecompetently,”hemutters.“iwasjustabitslow,

andanyway”—hepullsmeintoanembrace—”youweredistractingme.

wherewouldyouputthem?”

“what?”

christianisnuzzlingmyear.“thepaintings—wherewouldyouputthem?”he

bitesmyearlobeandifeelitinmygroin.

“kitchen,”imurmur.

“hmm.niceidea,mrs.grey.”

isquintattheprice.fivethousandeuroseach.holyshit!

“they’rereallyexpensive!”igasp.

“so?”henuzzlesmeagain.“getusedtoit,ana.”hereleasesmeand

sauntersovertothedeskwhereayoungwomandressedentirelyinwhiteis

standinggapingathim.iwanttorollmyeyes,butturnmyattentionbackto

thepaintings.fivethousandeuros...jeez.

weha一vefinishedlunchandarerelaxingovercoffeeatthehotellesaint

paul.theviewofthesurroundingcountrysideisstunning.vineyardsand

fieldsofsunflowersformapatchworkacrosstheplain,interspersedhereand

therewithneatlittlefrenchfarmhouses.it’ssuchaclear,beautifuldaywe

canseeallthewaytothesea,glintingfaintlyonthehorizon.christian

interruptsmyreverie.

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fiftyshadesfreed

“youaskedmewhyibraidyourhair,”hemurmurs.histonealarmsme.he

looks...guilty.

“yes.”ohshit.

“thecrackwhoreusedtoletmeplaywithherhair,ithink.idon’tknowifit’sa

memoryoradream.”

whoa!hisbirthmom.

hegazesatme,hisexpressionunreadable.myheartleapsintomymouth.

whatdoisaywhenhesaysthingslikethis?

“ilikeyouplayingwithmyhair.”myvoiceisgentleandhesitant.heblinks,his

eyeswide,andfearful.

“doyou?”

“yes.”it’sthetruth.reachingoverigrasphishand.“ithinkyoulovedyour

birthmother,christian.”hiseyeswidenevenmoreandhestaresatme

impassively,sayingnothing.

holyshit.ha一veigonetoofar?saysomething,fifty—please.buthe

remainsresolutelymute,gazingatmewithfathomlessgrayeyeswhilethe

silencestretchesbetweenus.

whatareyouthinking,husbandofmine?helookslost.heglancesdownat

myhandonhisandhefrowns.

“saysomething,”iwhisper,becauseicannotbearthesilenceanylonger.

heblinksthenshakeshishead,exhalingdeeply.

“let’sgo.”hereleasesmyhandandstands.hisexpressionguarded.ha一vei

oversteppedthemark?iha一venoidea.myheartsinksandidon’tknow

whethertosayanythingelseorjustletitgo.idecideonthelatterandfollow

himdutifullyoutoftherestaurant.inthelovelynarrowstreet,hetakesmy

hand.

“wheredoyouwanttogo?”

hespeaks!andhe’snotmadatme—thankhea一vens.iexhale,relieved,and

shrug.“iamjustgladyou’restillspeakingtome.”

“youknowidon’tliketalkingaboutallthatshit.it’sdone.finished,”hesays

quietly.

no,christian,itisn’t.thethoughtsaddensme,andforthefirsttimeiwonder

ifitwilleverbefinished.he’llalwaysbefiftyshades...myfiftyshades.

doiwanthimtochange?no,notreally—

onlyinsofarasiwanthimtofeelloved.peekingupathim,itakeamomentto

admirehiscaptivatingbeauty...andhe’smine.andit’s

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eljames

notjusttheallureofhisfine,finefaceandhisbodythathasmespellbound.

it’swhat’sbehindtheperfectionthatdrawsme,thatcallstome...hisfragile,

damagedsoul.hegivesmethatlook,downhisnose,halfamused,halfwary,

whollysexythentucksmeunderhisarm,andwemakeourwaythroughthe

touriststowardthespotwherephilippe/gastonhasparkedtheroomy

mercedes.islipmyhandbackintothebackpocketofchristian’sshorts,

gratefulthatheisn’tmadatmypresumption.but,honestly,whatfour-year-old

childdoesn’tlovehismom,nomatterhowbadamomsheis?isighhea一vily

andhughimcloser.iknowbehindusthesecurityteamlurks,andiwonder

idlyifthey’veeaten.

christianstopsoutsideasmallboutiquesellingfinejewelryandgazesinthe

window,thendownatme.hereachesacross,graspsmyfreehand,and

runshisthumbacrossthefadedredlineofthehandcuffmark,inspectingit.

“it’snotsore.”ireassurehim.hetwistssothatmyotherhandisfreedfrom

hispocket.heclaspsthathand,too,turningitgentlyovertoexaminemy

wrist.theplatinumomegawatchhega一vemeatbreakfastonourfirst

morninginlondonobscurestheredline.theinscriptionstillmakesme

swoon.

anastasia

youaremymore

mylove,mylife

christian

inspiteofeverything,allhisfiftyness,myhusbandcanbesoromantic.igaze

downatthefaintmarksonmywrist.thenagain,hecanbesa一vage

sometimes.releasingmylefthand,hetiltsmychinupwithhisfingersand

scrutinizesmyexpression,hiseyeswideandtroubled.

“theydon’thurt,”irepeat.hepullsmyhandtohislipsandplantsasoft

apologetickissontheinsideofmywrist.

“come,”hesaysandleadsmeintotheshop.

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fiftyshadesfreed

“here,”christianholdsopenthefiligreeplatinumbracelethe’sjust

purchased.it’sexquisite,sodelicatelycrafted,thefiligreeintheshapeof

smallabstractflowerswithsmalldiamondsattheirheart.hefastensit

aroundmywrist.it’swideandcuff-likeandhidestheredmarks.itisalso

costaroundfifteenthousandeuros,ithink,thoughicouldn’treallyfollowthe

conversationinfrenchwiththesalesassistant.iha一veneverwornanything

soexpensive.

“there,that’sbetter,”hemurmurs.

“better?”iwhisper,gazingintoluminousgrayeyes,consciousthatthestickthin

salesassistantisstaringatuswithajealousanddisapprovinglookon

herface.

“youknowwhy,”christiansaysuncertainly.

“idon’tneedthis.”ishakemywristandthecuffmoves.itcatchesthe

afternoonlightstreamingthroughtheboutiquewindowandsmallsparkling

rainbowsdanceoffthediamondsalloverthewallsofthestore.

“ido,”hesayswithuttersincerity.

why?whydoesheneedthis?doeshefeelguilty?aboutwhat?

themarks?hisbirthmother?notconfidinginme?oh,fifty.

“no,christian,youdon’t.you’vegivenmesomuchalready.amagical

honeymoon,london,paris,thecoted’azur...andyou.i’maverylucky

girl,”iwhisperandhiseyessoften.

“no,anastasia,i’maveryluckyman.”

“thankyou.”stretchingupontiptoes,iputmyarmsaroundhisneckandkiss

him...notforgivingmethebracelet,butforbeingmine.

backinthecarhe’sintrospective,gazingoutatthefieldsofbright

sunflowers,theirheadsfollowingandbaskingintheafternoonsun.oneof

thetwins—ithinkit’sgaston—isdrivingandtaylorisbesidehimupfront.

christianisbroodingaboutsomething.reachingover,iclasphishand,

givingitareassuringsqueeze.heturnstolookatme,beforereleasingmy

handandcaressingmyknee.i’mwearingashort,full,blueandwhiteskirt,

andablue,fitted,sleevelessshirt.christianhesitates,andidon’tknowifhis

handisgoingtotra一velupmythighordownmyleg.itensewithanticipationat

thegentletouchofhisfingers

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eljames

andmybreathcatches.what’shegoingtodo?hechoosesdown,suddenly

graspsmyankleandpullsmyfootontohislap.iswivelmybacksidesoiam

facinghiminthebackofthecar.

“iwanttheotherone,too.”

oh!why?iglancenervouslytowardtaylorandgaston,whoseeyesare

resolutelyontheroadahead,andplacemyotherfootonhislap.hiseyes

cool,hereachesoverandpressesabuttonlocatedinhisdoor.infrontofus,

alightlytintedprivacyscreenslidesoutofapanel,andtensecondslaterwe

areeffectivelyonourown.wow...nowonderthebackofthiscarhasso

muchlegroom.

“iwanttolookatyourankles,”christianoffershisquietexplanation.hisgaze

isanxious.whatnow?thecuffmarks?jeez...ithoughtwe’ddealtwith

this.iftherearemarks,theyarehiddenbythesandalstraps.idon’trecall

seeinganythismorning.gently,hestrokeshisthumbupmyrightinstep,

makingmewriggle.asmileplaysonhislipsanddeftlyheundoesonestrap,

andhissmilefadesashe’sconfrontedwiththedarkerredmarks.

“doesn’thurt,”imurmur.heglancesatmeandhisexpressionissad,his

mouthathinline.henodsonceasifhe’stakingmeatmywordwhileishake

mysandalloosesoitfallstothefloor,butiknowi’velosthim.he’sdistracted

andbroodingagain,mechanicallycaressingmyfootwhileheturnsawayto

gazeoutthecarwindowoncemore.

“hey.whatdidyouexpect?”iasksoftly.heglancesatmeandshrugs.

“ididn’texpecttofeellikeidolookingatthesemarks,”hesays.what?

reticentoneminuteandforthcomingthenext?how...fifty!howcanikeep

upwithhim?

“howdoyoufeel?”

hegazesatme,hiseyesbleak.“uncomfortable,”hemurmurs.ohno.i

unbucklemyseatbeltandscootclosertohim,lea一vingmyfeetinhislap.i

wanttocrawlintohislapandholdhim,andiwould,ifitwerejusttaylorinthe

front.butknowinggastonistherecrampsmystyleinspiteoftheglass.if

onlyitweredarker.iclutchhishands.

“it’sthehickeysidon’tlike,”iwhisper.“everythingelse...whatyoudid”—i

lowermyvoiceevenfurther—“withthehandcuffs,i

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fiftyshadesfreed

enjoyedthat.well,morethanenjoyed.itwasmind-blowing.youcandothat

tomeagainanytime.”

heshiftsinhisseat.“mind-blowing?”myinnergoddesslooksupstartled

fromherjackiecollins.

“yes.”igrin.iflexmytoesintohishardeningcrotchandseeratherthanhear

hissharpintakeofbreath,hislipsparting.

“youshouldreallybewearingyourseatbelt,mrs.grey.”hisvoiceislow,and

icurlmytoesaroundhimoncemore.hegaspsandhiseyesdarken,andhe

claspsmyankleinwarning.doeshewantmestop?continue?hepauses

andscowls.

whatnow?

hefisheshisever-presentblackberryoutofhispockettotakeanincoming

callandglancesathiswatch.hisfrowndeepens.

“barney,”hesnaps.

crap.workinterruptingusagain.itrytoremovemyfeetbuthishandtightens

onmyankle.

“intheserverroom?”hesaysindisbelief.“diditactivatethefiresuppression

system?”

fire!itakemyfeetoffhislapandthistimeheletsme.isitbackinmyseat,

bucklemyseatbelt,andfiddlenervouslywiththefifteenthousand-euro

bracelet.christianpressesthebuttoninhisdoorarmrestagainandthe

privacyglassslidesdown.irealizethatthisisfortaylor’sbenefit.

“anyoneinjured?damage?isee...when?”christianglancesathiswatch

againthenrunshishandthroughhishair.“no.notthefiredepartmentorthe

police.notyetanyway.”

holycrap!afire?atchristian’soffice?igapeathim,mymindracing.taylor

shiftssohecanhearchristian’sconversation.

“hashe?good...okay.iwantadetaileddamagereport.andacomplete

rundownofeveryonewhohadaccessoverthelastfivedays,includingthe

cleaningstaff...getholdofandreaandgethertocallme...yeah,sounds

liketheargonisjustaseffective,worthitsweightingold.”

damagereport?argon?whatthehell?itringsadistantbellfromchemistry

class—anelement,ithink.

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eljames

“irealizeit’searly...e-mailmeintwohours...no,ineedtoknow.thank

youforcallingme.”christianhangsup,thenimmediatelypunchesanumber

intotheblackberry.

“welch...good...when?”christianglancesathiswatchyetagain.“an

hourthen...yes...twenty-four-sevenattheoff-sitedatastore...good.”

hehangsup.

“philippe,ineedtobeonboardwithinthehour.”

“monsieur.”

shit,it’sphilippe,notgaston.thecarsurgesforward.christianglancesat

me,hisexpressionunreadable.

“anyonehurt?”iaskquietly.

christianshakeshishead.“verylittledamage.”hereachesoverandclasps

myhand,squeezingitreassuringly.“don’tworryaboutthis.myteamisonit.”

andthereheis,theceo,incommand,incontrolandnotflusteredatall.

“wherewasthefire?”

“serverroom.”

“greyhouse?”

“yes.”

hisresponsesareclipped,soiknowhedoesn’twanttotalkaboutit.why

not?

“whysolittledamage?”

“theserverroomisfittedwithastate-of-the-artfiresuppressionsystem.”

ofcourseitis.

“ana,please...don’tworry.”

“i’mnotworried,”ilie.

“wedon’tknowforsurethatitwasarson,”hesays,cuttingtotheheartofmy

anxiety.myhandclutchesmythroatinfear.charlietango,andnowthis?

whatnext?

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fiftyshadesfreed