Fifty Shades Freed (Fifty Shades #3)(62)
Author: E.L. James

"I know."

"Good."

The waitress returns, and moments later I’m sipping another glass of champagne.

"Here." Christian hands me a glass of water. "Drink this."

I frown at him and see, rather than hear, his sigh.

"Three glasses of white wine at dinner and two of champagne, after a strawberry daiquiri and two glasses of Frascati at lunchtime. Drink. Now, Ana."

How does he know about the cocktails this afternoon? I scowl at him. But actually he does have a point. Taking the glass of water, I down it in a most unladylike manner to register my protest at being told what to do . . . again. I wipe my hand across the back of my mouth.

"Good girl," he says, smirking. "You’ve vomited on me once already. I don’t wish to experience that again in a hurry."

"I don’t know what you’re complaining about. You got to sleep with me."

He smiles and his eyes soften. "Yeah, I did."

Ethan and Mia are back.

"Ethan’s had enough, for now. Come on, girls – let’s hit the floor. Strike a pose, throw some shapes, work off the calories from the chocolate mousse."

Kate stands immediately. "Coming?" she asks Elliot.

"Let me watch you," he says. And I have to look away quickly, blushing at the look he gives her. She grins as I stand.

"I’m going to burn some calories," I say, and leaning down I whisper in Christian’s ear, "You can watch me."

"Don’t bend over," he growls.

"Okay." I stand abruptly. Whoa! Head rush and I clutch Christian’s shoulder as the room shifts and tilts a little.

"Perhaps you should have some more water," Christian murmurs, a warning clear in his voice.

"I’m fine. These seats are low and my heels are high."

Kate takes my hand, and taking a deep breath I follow her and Mia, perfectly poised, onto the dance floor.

The music is pulsing, a techno beat with a thumping bass line. The dance floor isn’t crowded, which means we have some space. The mix is eclectic – young and old alike dancing the night away. I have never been a good dancer. In fact, it’s only since I’ve been with Christian that I dance at all. Kate hugs me.

"I’m so happy," she shouts over the music, and she starts to dance. Mia is doing what Mia does, grinning at the pair of us, throwing herself around. Jeez, she’s taking up a lot of room on the dance floor. I glance back toward the table. Our men are watching us. I start to move. It’s a pulsing rhythm. I close my eyes and surrender to it. I open my eyes to find the dance floor filling up. Kate, Mia and I are forced closer together. And to my surprise I find I’m actually enjoying myself. I begin to move a little more . . . a little more bravely. Kate gives me two thumbs up, and I beam back at her.

I close my eyes. Why did I spend the first twenty years of my life not doing this? I chose reading over dancing. Jane Austen didn’t have great music to move to and Thomas Hardy . . . jeez, he’d have felt guilty as sin that he wasn’t dancing with his first wife. I giggle at the thought.

It’s Christian. Christian has given me this confidence in my body and how I can move it.

Suddenly, there are two hands on my hips. I grin. Christian has joined me. I wiggle, and his hands move to my behind and squeeze, then back to my hips.

I open my eyes. And Mia is gaping at me in horror. Shit . . . Am I that bad? I reach down to hold Christian’s hands. They’re hairy. Fuck!

They’re not his. I whirl around, and towering over me is a blond giant with more teeth than is natural and a leering smile to showcase them.

"Get your hands off me!" I scream over the pounding music, apoplectic with rage.

"Come on, sugar, it’s just some fun." He smiles, holding his apelike hands up, his blue eyes gleaming under the pulsing ultraviolet lights. Before I know what I’m doing, I slap him hard around the face.

Ow! Shit . . . my hand. It stings. "Get away from me!" I shout. He gazes down at me, cupping his red cheek. I thrust my uninjured hand in front of his face, spreading my fingers to show him my rings.

"I’m married, you ass**le!"

He shrugs rather arrogantly and gives me a halfhearted, apologetic smile.

I glance around frantically. Mia is at my right, glaring at Blond Giant. Kate is lost in the moment doing her thing. Christian is not at the table. Oh, I hope he’s gone to the restroom. I step back – oh shit – into a front I know well. Christian puts his arm around my waist and moves me to his side.

"Keep your f**king hands off my wife," he says. He’s not shouting, but somehow he can be heard over the music.

Holy shit!

"She can take care of herself," Blond Giant shouts. His hand moves from his cheek where I’ve slapped him, and Christian hits him. It’s like I’m watching it in slow motion. A perfectly timed punch to the chin that moves at such speed, but with so little wasted energy, Blond Giant doesn’t see it coming. He crumples to the floor like the scumbag he is. Fuck.

"Christian, no!" I gasp in panic, standing in front of him to hold him back. Shit, he’ll kill him. "I already hit him," I shout over the music. Christian doesn’t look at me. He’s glaring at my assailant with a malevolence I’ve not seen before flaring in his eyes. Well, maybe once before – outside SIP after Jack Hyde’s pass at me.

The other dancers move outward like a ripple in a pond, clearing space around us, keeping a safe distance. Blond Giant scrambles to his feet as Elliot joins us.

Oh no! Kate is with me, gaping at all of us. Elliot grasps Christian’s arm as Ethan appears, too.

"Take it easy, okay? Didn’t mean any harm." Blond Giant holds his hands up in defeat, beating a hasty retreat. Christian’s eyes follow him off the dance floor. He does not look at me.

The song changes from the explicit lyrics of "Sexy Bitch" to a pulsing techno dance number where a woman sings with an impassioned voice. Elliot looks down at me, then across at Christian, and releasing Christian, pulls Kate into a dance. I put my arms around Christian’s neck until he finally makes eye contact, his eyes still blazing – primal and feral, a glimpse of a brawling adolescent. Holy shit. He scrutinizes my face. What is he thinking?

"Are you okay?" he asks finally.

"Yes." I rub my palm, trying to dispel the sting, and bring my hands down to his chest. My hand is throbbing. I have never slapped anyone before. What possessed me? Touching me wasn’t the worst crime against humanity. Was it?

Yet deep down I know why I hit him. It’s because I instinctively knew how Christian would react seeing some stranger pawing me. I knew he’d lose his precious self-control. And the thought that some stupid nobody could derail my husband, my love, well, it makes me mad. Really mad.

"Do you want to sit down?" Christian asks over the pulsing beat. Oh, come back to me, please.

"No. Dance with me."

He gazes down at me impassively, saying nothing.

Touch me . . . the woman sings.

"Dance with me." He’s still mad. "Dance. Christian, please." I take his hands. Christian glares after the guy, but I start to move against him, weaving myself around him.

The throng of dancers has circled us once more, although there’s now a two-foot exclusion zone around us.

"You hit him?" Christian asks, standing stock-still. I take his fisted hands.

"Of course I did. I thought it was you, but his hands were hairier. Please dance with me."

As Christian gazes at me the fire in his eyes slowly changes, evolves into something else, something darker, something hotter. Suddenly, he grabs my wrists and pulls me flush against him, pinning my hands behind my back.

"You wanna dance? Let’s dance," he growls close to my ear, and as he rolls his hips around into me, I can do nothing but follow, his hands holding mine against my backside.

Oh . . . Christian can move, really move. He keeps me close, not letting me go, but his hands gradually relax on mine, freeing me. My hands creep around, up his arms, feeling his bunched muscles through his jacket, up to his shoulders. He presses me against him, and I follow his moves as he slowly, sensually dances with me in time to the pulsing beat of the club music.

The moment he grabs my hand and spins me first one way, then the other, I know he’s back with me. I grin. He grins.

We dance together and it’s liberating – fun. His anger forgotten, or suppressed, he whirls me around with consummate skill in our small space on the dance floor, never letting go. He makes me graceful, that’s his skill. He makes me sexy, because that’s what he is. He makes me feel loved, because in spite of his fifty shades, he has a wealth of love to give. Watching him now, enjoying himself . . . one could be forgiven for thinking he doesn’t have a care in the world. But I know his love is clouded with issues of overprotectiveness and control, but it doesn’t make me love him any less.