Fifty Shades Freed (Fifty Shades #3)(85)
Author: E.L. James

Leaning back in my chair, I start to doze.

I wake cold and disorientated. Shivering I check my watch; eleven in the evening. Oh yes . . . You. I pat my belly. Where’s Christian? Is he back? Stiffly I ease out of the armchair and go in search of my husband. Five minutes later, I realize he’s not home. I hope nothing’s happened to him. Memories of the long wait when Charlie Tango went missing flood back.

No, no, no. Stop thinking like this. He’s probably gone to . . . where? Who would he go and see? Elliot? Or maybe he’s with Flynn. I hope so. I find my BlackBerry back in the library, and I text him.

*Where are you?*

I head into the bathroom and run myself a bath. I am so cold.

He still hasn’t returned when I climb out of the bath. I change into one of my 1930s-style satin nightdresses and my robe and head to the great room. On the way, I pop into the spare bedroom. Perhaps this could be Little Blip’s room. I am startled by the thought and stand in the doorway, contemplating this reality. Will we paint it blue or pink? The sweet thought is soured by the fact that my husband is so pissed at the idea and is absent. Grabbing the duvet from the spare bed, I head into the great room to keep vigil.

Something wakes me. A sound.

"Shit!"

It’s Christian in the foyer. I hear the table scrape across the floor again.

"Shit!" he repeats, more muffled this time.

I scramble up in time to see him stagger through the double doors. He’s drunk. My scalp prickles. Shit, Christian drunk? I know how much he hates drunks. I leap up and run toward him.

"Christian, are you okay?"

He leans against the jamb of the foyer doors. "Mrs. Grey," he slurs. Crap. He’s very drunk. I don’t know what to do.

"Oh . . . you look mighty fine, Anastasia."

"Where have you been?"

He puts his fingers to his lips and smiles crookedly at me. "Shh!"

"I think you’d better come to bed."

"With you . . ." He snickers.

Snickering! Frowning, I gently put my arm around his waist because he can hardly stand, let alone walk. Where has he been? How did he get home?

"Let me help you to bed. Lean on me."

"You are very beautiful, Ana." He leans onto me and sniffs my hair, almost knocking both of us over.

"Christian, walk. I am going to put you to bed."

"Okay," he says as if he’s trying to concentrate.

We stumble down the corridor and finally make it into the bedroom.

"Bed," he says, grinning.

"Yes, bed." I maneuver him to the edge, but he holds me.

"Join me," he says.

"Christian, I think you need some sleep."

"And so it begins. I’ve heard about this."

I frown. "Heard about what?"

"Babies mean no sex."

"I’m sure that’s not true. Otherwise we’d all come from one-child families."

He gazes down at me. "You’re funny."

"You’re drunk."

"Yes." He smiles, but his smile changes as he thinks about it, and a haunted expression crosses his face, a look that chills me to the bone.

"Come on, Christian," I say gently. I hate his expression. It speaks of horrid, ugly memories that no child should see. "Let’s get you into bed." I push him gently and he flops down onto the mattress, sprawling in all directions and grinning up at me, his haunted expression gone.

"Join me," he slurs.

"Let’s get you undressed first."

He grins widely, drunkenly. "Now you’re talking."

Holy cow. Drunk Christian is cute and playful. I’ll take him over mad-as-hell Christian anytime.

"Sit up. Let me take your jacket off."

"The room is spinning."

Shit . . . is he going to throw up? "Christian, sit up!"

He smirks up at me. "Mrs. Grey, you are a bossy little thing . . ."

"Yes. Do as you’re told and sit up." I put my hands on my hips. He grins again, struggles up onto his elbows then sits up in a most unChristian-like, gawky fashion. Before he can flop down again, I grab his tie and wrestle him out of his gray jacket, one arm at a time.

"You smell good."

"You smell of hard liquor."

"Yes . . . bour-bon." He pronounces the syllables with such exaggeration that I have to stifle a giggle. Discarding his jacket on the floor beside me, I make a start on his tie. He rests his hands on my hips.

"I like the feel of this fabric on you, Anastasia," he says, slurring his words. "You should always be in satin or silk." He runs his hands up and down my hips then jerks me forward, pressing his mouth against my belly.

"And we have an invader in here."

I stop breathing. Holy cow. He’s talking to Little Blip.

"You’re going to keep me awake, aren’t you?" he says to my belly.

Oh my. Christian looks up at me through his long dark lashes, gray eyes blurred and cloudy. My heart constricts.

"You’ll choose him over me," he says sadly.

"Christian, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Don’t be ridiculous – I am not choosing anyone over anyone. And he might be a she."

He frowns. "A she . . . Oh God." He flops back down on to the bed and covers his eyes with his arm. I have managed to loosen his tie. I bend, undo one shoelace, and yank off his shoe and sock. I make a start on the other and succeed in no time. When I stand, I see why I’ve met no resistance – Christian has passed out completely. He’s sound asleep and snoring softly.

I stare at him. He’s so goddamned beautiful, even drunk and snoring. His sculptured lips parted, one arm above his head, ruffling his messy hair, his face relaxed. He looks young – but then he is young; my young, stressed out, drunk, unhappy husband. The thought lies heavy in my heart. Well, at least he’s home. I wonder where he went. I’m not sure I have the energy or the strength to move him or undress him any further. He’s on top of the duvet, too. Heading back into the great room, I pick up the duvet I was using and bring it back to our bedroom.

He’s still fast asleep, still wearing his tie and his belt. I climb onto the bed beside him, loosen his tie further then remove it and gently undo the top button of his shirt. He mumbles something incoherent in his sleep, but he doesn’t wake. Carefully, I unbuckle his belt and pull it through the belt loops, and after some difficulty it’s off. His shirt has come dislodged from his pants, revealing a hint of his happy trail. I can’t resist. I bend and kiss it. He shifts, flexing his hips forward, but stays asleep.

I sit up and gaze at him again. Oh Fifty, Fifty, Fifty . . . what am I going to do with you? I brush my fingers through his hair. It’s so soft. I lean down and kiss his temple.

"I love you, Christian. Even when you’re drunk and you’ve been out God knows where, I love you. I’ll always love you."

"Hmmm," he murmurs. I kiss his temple once more, then get off the bed, and cover him up with the spare duvet. I can sleep beside him, sideways across the bed . . . yes, I’ll do that.

First I’ll sort out his clothes, though. I shake my head and pick up his socks and tie, and fold his jacket over my arm. As I do, his BlackBerry falls to the floor. I pick it up and inadvertently unlock it. It opens on the texts screen. I can see my text, and above it, another. Fuck. My scalp prickles.

*It was good to see you. I understand now.

Don’t fret. You’ll make a wonderful father.*

It’s from her. Mrs. Elena Bitch Troll Robinson. Shit. That’s where he went. He’s been to see her.

Chapter Twenty-One

I gape at the text then look up at the sleeping form of my husband. He’s been out until one thirty in the morning drinking – with her! He snores softly, sleeping the sleep of a seemingly innocent, oblivious drunk. He looks so serene. Oh no, no, no.

My legs turn to jelly, and I sink slowly to the chair beside the bed in disbelief. Raw, bitter, humiliating betrayal lances through me. How could he? How could he go to her? Scalding, angry tears ooze down my cheeks. His wrath and fear, his need to lash out at me I can understand, and forgive – just. But this . . . this treachery is too much. I pull my knees up against my chest and wrap my arms around them, protecting me and protecting my Little Blip. I rock to and fro, weeping softly. What did I expect? I married this man too quickly. I knew it – I knew it would come to this. Why. Why. Why? How could he do this to me? He knows how I feel about that woman. How could he turn to her?

How? The knife twists slow and painfully deep in my heart, lacerating me. Will it always be this way?

The tears flow, and his prostrate figure blurs and shimmers through my tears. Oh, Christian. I married him because I love him, and deep down I know that he loves me. I know he does. His achingly sweet birthday present comes to mind.