Fifty Shades Freed (Fifty Shades #3)(38)
Author: E.L. James

"Sometimes I know. Not all the time."

"Back at you, Mrs. Grey," he whispers.

I grin and gently place feather-light kisses over his chest. I nuzzle his chest hair. Christian caresses my hair and runs a hand down my back. He unclasps my bra and pulls the strap down one arm. I shift, and he tugs the strap down the other arm and drops my bra on the floor.

"Hmm. Skin on skin," he murmurs appreciatively and folds me in his arms again. He kisses my shoulder and runs his nose up to my ear.

"You smell like heaven, Mrs. Grey."

"So do you, Mr. Grey." I nuzzle him again and inhale his Christian smell, which is now mixed with the heady scent of sex. I could stay wrapped in his arms like this, sated and happy, forever. It’s just what I need after a full day of back-to-work, arguing, and bitch slapping. This is where I want to be, and in spite of his control freakery, his megalomania, this is where I belong. Christian buries his nose in my hair and inhales deeply. I let out a contented sigh, and I feel his smile. And we sit, arms clasped around each other, saying nothing. Eventually reality intrudes.

"It’s late," Christian says, his fingers methodically stroking my back.

"Your hair still needs cutting."

He chuckles. "That it does, Mrs. Grey. Do you have the energy to finish the job you started?"

"For you, Mr. Grey, anything." I kiss his chest once more and reluctantly stand.

"Don’t go." Grabbing my hips, he turns me around. He straightens then undoes my skirt, letting it drop to the floor. He holds his hand out to me. I take it and step out of my skirt. Now I am dressed solely in stockings and garter belt.

"You are a mighty fine sight, Mrs. Grey." He sits back in the chair and crosses his arms, giving me a full and frank appraisal. I hold out my hands and twirl for him.

"God, I’m a lucky son of a bitch," he says admiringly.

"Yes, you are."

He grins. "Put my shirt on and you can cut my hair. Like this, you’ll distract me, and we’ll never get to bed."

I can’t help my answering smile. Knowing that he’s watching my every move, I sashay over to where we left my shoes and his shirt. Bending slowly, I reach down, pick up his shirt, smell it – hmm – then shrug it on.

Christian blinks at me, his eyes round. He’s redone his fly and is watching me intently.

"That’s quite a floor show, Mrs. Grey."

"Do we have any scissors?" I ask innocently, batting my eyelashes.

"My study," he croaks.

"I’ll go search." Leaving him, I walk into our bedroom and grab my comb from the dressing table before heading to his study. As I enter the main corridor, I notice the door to Taylor’s office is open. Mrs. Jones is standing just beyond the door. I stop, rooted to the spot. Taylor is running his fingers down her face and smiling sweetly at her. Then he leans down and kisses her.

Holy shit! Taylor and Mrs. Jones? I gape in astonishment – I mean, I thought . . . well, I kind of suspected. But obviously they are together!

I flush, feeling like a voyeur, and manage to get my feet to move. I scamper across the great room and into Christian’s study. Switching on the light, I walk to his desk. Taylor and Mrs. Jones . . . Wow! I’m reeling. I always thought Mrs. Jones was older than Taylor. Oh, I have to get my head around this. I open the top drawer and am immediately distracted when I find a gun. Christian has a gun!

A revolver. Holy f**k! I had no idea Christian owned a gun. I take it out, slip the release and check the cylinder. It’s fully loaded, but light . . . too light. It must be carbon fiber. What does Christian want with a gun? Jeez, I hope he knows how to use it. Ray’s perpetual warnings about handguns run quickly through my mind. His army training was never lost. These will kill you, Ana. You need to know what you’re doing when you’re handling a firearm. I put the gun back and find the scissors. Retrieving them quickly, I bolt back to Christian, my head buzzing. Taylor and Mrs. Jones . . . the revolver . . . At the entrance to the great room, I run into Taylor.

"Mrs. Grey, excuse me." His face reddens as he quickly takes in my attire.

"Um, Taylor, hi . . . um. I’m cutting Christian’s hair!" I blurt out, embarrassed. Taylor is as mortified as I am. He opens his mouth to say something then closes it quickly and stands aside.

"After you, ma’am," he says formally. I think I’m the color of my old Audi, the submissive special. Jeez. Could this be more embarrassing?

"Thank you," I mutter and dash down the hallway. Crap! Will I ever get used to the fact that we’re not alone? I dash into the bathroom, breathless.

"What’s wrong?" Christian is standing in front of the mirror, holding my shoes. All of my scattered clothes are now neatly piled beside the sink.

"I just ran into Taylor."

"Oh." Christian frowns. "Dressed like that."

Oh shit! "That’s not Taylor’s fault."

Christian’s frown deepens. "No. But still."

"I’m dressed."

"Barely."

"I don’t know who was more embarrassed, me or him." I try my distraction technique. "Did you know he and Gail are . . . well, together?"

Christian laughs. "Yes, of course I knew."

"And you never told me?"

"I thought you knew, too."

"No."

"Ana, they’re adults. They live under the same roof. Both unattached. Both attractive."

I flush, feeling foolish for not having noticed.

"Well, if you put it like that . . . I just thought Gail was older than Taylor." "She is, but not by much." He gazes at me, perplexed. "Some men like older women – " He stops abruptly and his eyes widen. I scowl at him. "I know that," I snap.

Christian looks contrite. He smiles fondly at me. Yes! My distraction technique successful! My subconscious rolls her eyes at me – but at what cost? Now the unmentionable Mrs. Robinson is looming over us.

"That reminds me," he says, brightly.

"What?" I mutter petulantly. Grabbing the chair, I turn it to face the mirror above the sinks. "Sit," I order. Christian regards me with indulgent amusement, but does as he’s told and sits back down in the chair. I start to comb through his now merely damp hair.

"I was thinking we could convert the rooms over the garages for them at the new place," Christian continues. "Make it a home. Then maybe Taylor’s daughter could stay with him more often." He watches me carefully in the mirror.

"Why doesn’t she stay here?"

"Taylor’s never asked me."

"Perhaps you should offer. But we’d have to behave ourselves."

Christian’s brow furrows. "I hadn’t thought of that."

"Perhaps that’s why Taylor hasn’t asked. Have you met her?"

"Yes. She’s a sweet thing. Shy. Very pretty. I pay for her schooling."

Oh! I stop combing and stare at him in the mirror.

"I had no idea."

He shrugs. "Seemed the least I could do. Also, it means he won’t quit."

"I’m sure he likes working for you."

Christian stares at me blankly then shrugs. "I don’t know."

"I think he’s very fond of you, Christian." I resume combing and glance at him. His eyes don’t leave mine.

"You think?"

"Yes. I do."

He snorts, a dismissive yet content sound, as if he’s secretly pleased that his staff may like him.

"Good. Will you talk to Gia about the rooms over the garage?"

"Yes, of course." I don’t feel the same irritation I did before at the mention of her name. My subconscious nods sagely at me. Yes . . . we done good today. My inner goddess gloats. Now she’ll leave my husband alone and not make him uncomfortable.

I am ready to cut Christian’s hair. "You sure about this? Your last chance to bail."

"Do your worst, Mrs. Grey. I don’t have to look at me, you do."

I grin. "Christian, I could look at you all day."

He shakes his head exasperated. "It’s just a pretty face, baby."

"And behind it is a very pretty man." I kiss his temple. "My man."

He grins shyly.

Lifting the first lock, I comb it upward and snare it between my index and middle finger. I put the comb in my mouth, take the scissors and make the first snip, cutting an inch off the length. Christian closes his eyes and sits like a statue, sighing contentedly as I continue. Occasionally he opens his eyes, and I catch him watching me intently. He doesn’t touch me while I work, and I’m grateful. His touch is . . . distracting.