50 shades of grey freed pdf


 

She finally plucked up the courage to put pen to paper with her first novel, Fifty Shades of Grey. E L James is currently working on a new romantic thriller with a. She finally plucked up the courage to put pen to paper with her first novel,. Fifty Shades of Grey. E L. James is currently working on a new romantic thriller with a. read Fifty Shades of Grey to me in hopes that it will anger me and jolt me out of my coma Fifty Shades Freed: Book Three of the Fifty Shades Trilogy.

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50 Shades Of Grey Freed Pdf

Download fifty shades freed from reading sanctuary in eBook pdf format. Also, Shades of Grey is by far the favorite of the trilogy. Fifty Shades Freed is the third. Fifty Shades Freed (PDF + EPUB) | Free Books. Explore 50 Shades Of Grey, Fifty Shades Darker, and more! Fifty shades freed pdf · Fifty shades · Free books. Have you seen Fifty Shades of Grey the movie starring Jamie Dornan as Christian Grey and Jamie Dornan spotted filming Fifty Shades Freed on July, 18 (x).

James - Fifty Shades Freed Loading Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act , no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher. This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The Lorax. New York: Random House, Since early childhood, she dreamt of writing stories that readers would fall in love with, but put those dreams on hold to focus on her family and her career. She finally plucked up the courage to put pen to paper with her first novel, Fifty Shades of Grey. E L James is currently working on a new romantic thriller with a supernatural twist. Thanks to: Niall, my rock; To Kathleen for just being a great sounding board, friend, confidante and a technical wiz; To Bee for endless moral support; To Taylor also a technical wiz , Susi, Pam and Nora for showing a girl a good time. Raina Sluder for help with all matters medical; Anne Forlines for the financial advice; Elizabeth de Vos for her kind counsel regarding the American adoption system. Thanks to Maddie Blandino for her exquisite, inspirational art.

Put me down! He chuckles. I clasp my arms around his neck. He grins. He inhales sharply and leans back, eyes smoky but wary. The chill of the Mediterranean is soon forgotten as I wrap myself around my husband. He wraps my ponytail around his wrist and tugs gently, tilting my head back, exposing my throat. He trails kisses from my ear down my neck. Christian pulls away and gazes down at me, his eyes warm, wanting, and amused. What sort of monster have I created? Would you have me any other way?

But not right now. Not with an audience. Sure enough, several sunbathers on the beach have abandoned their indifference and now regard us with interest.

Suddenly, Christian grabs me around my waist and launches me into the air, letting me fall into the water and sink beneath the waves to the soft sand below. I surface, coughing, spluttering and giggling. I thought we were going to make love in the sea. He bites his lower lip to stifle his amusement. I splash him, and he splashes me right back. Playful, tantalizing Fifty! I shield my eyes from the sun as I watch him go. While I swim back to the shore, I contemplate my options. At the sun loungers our drinks have arrived, and I take a quick sip of Coke.

Christian is a faint speck in the distance. Put this in your pipe and smoke it. I beam at my husband. I am married. I am Mrs. Christian Grey. I am giddy with joy. Holy crap. How does he do this, even here with all these people staring at us? I nod mutely. Jeez, I hope no one can hear us. Luckily Reverend Walsh has discreetly stepped back. I glance at the throng gathered in their wedding finery. Who knew that even Elliot could scrub up so well?

All wear huge, beaming smiles—except Grace, who weeps graciously into a dainty white handkerchief. I melt. He looks divine in a simple black tux with silver waistcoat and tie. Carrick and Grace have gone to town.

They have the marquee set up again and beautifully decorated in pale pink, silver, and ivory with its sides open, facing the bay. We have been blessed with fine weather, and the late afternoon sun shines over the water. Ray and my mother are dancing and laughing with each other. I feel bittersweet watching them together. I hope Christian and I last longer.

Marry in haste, repent at leisure. The saying haunts me. Kate is beside me, looking so beautiful in her long silk gown. She glances at me and frowns. Are you watching your mom and Ray? I love him so much. I giggle. Trust Kate to point out the obvious. She pulls me into a Katherine Kavanagh Special Hug. You look stunning, Anastasia. I love that the lace is just off the shoulder—demure, yet alluring, I hope. He bends and kisses me. Such lovebirds. And I think you can call me Grandma.

Now, you two seriously need to get working on my great-grandkids. Christian blinks at her in horror. He glances back at me, practically pouting, and rolls his eyes. I think I monopolized too much of your time on the dance floor as it is. If you need me. Good luck with everything.

He frowns, not understanding, and tugs gently on my hand, halting me. His eyes light up. I flush and let go of his hand. You look beautiful. And I want to be the one to undress you. I frown. Taylor has your main suitcase. Neither Mia nor Kate has managed to inveigle the information out of him.

I turn to where my mother and Kate are hovering nearby. Her brow furrows briefly. Kate tries to disguise her snort as a cough. I narrow my eyes at her. Neither she nor my mother have any idea of the fight Christian and I had about that.

Jeez, can my Fifty Shades sulk. The memory is sobering. Kate rolls her eyes and tactfully moves away to leave us alone. Oh, Mom! Beginning a new life.

Christian is from a different universe, if only she knew. He looks so dapper in his black tux and pale pink waistcoat. Tears prick the back of my eyes. Oh no. You make one hell of a bride, Annie. When he releases me, Christian is back at my side. Ray shakes his hand warmly. The rest of the wedding guests have formed a long human arch for us to travel through, leading round to the front of the house. Waiting with smiles and hugs at the end of the arch are Grace and Carrick.

In turn they hug and kiss us both. Grace is emotional again as we bid them hasty good-byes. As Christian holds the car door open for me, I turn and toss my bouquet of white and pink roses into the crowd of young women that has gathered.

Mia triumphantly holds it aloft, grinning from ear to ear. Taylor holds the car door open for him. As Taylor pulls away, our wedding guests shower the vehicle with rice. Christian grasps my hand and kisses my knuckles.

Where are we going? Taylor does not head for the departure terminal as I expect but through a security gate and directly on to the tarmac. Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc. They have a brief discussion, then Christian opens my door—and rather than stepping back to give me room to climb out, he leans in and lifts me. He carries me effortlessly up the steps, and Taylor follows with my small suitcase. He leaves it on the threshold of the plane before returning to the Audi.

Beside Stephan stands a dark-haired woman in her what? Early thirties? Anastasia, you know Stephan. I want to roll my eyes. Another female completely captivated by my too-handsome-for-his-owngood husband. I smile kindly at her. After all—he is mine. The interior is all pale maple wood and pale cream leather. Another young woman in uniform stands at the other end of the cabin—a very pretty brunette.

Weather is good from here to Boston. Taking my hand, he leads me to one of the sumptuous leather seats. There must be about twelve of them in total. We sit in two single seats facing each other with a small, highly polished table between us.

The champagne is delicious. Your graduation. He looks like a small boy. His grin broadens and he shakes his head. I gasp. Holy cow. I can hardly believe it. My lifetime ambition has been to visit England. Oh my. As the plane taxis out on to the runway, we sip our champagne, grinning inanely at each other. And what a feast it is—smoked salmon, followed by roast partridge with a green bean salad and dauphinoise potatoes, all cooked and served by the ever-efficient Natalia.

He shakes his head and runs his finger across his bottom lip as he looks questioningly at me, his expression dark and unreadable. His lips curl up in a small, secret smile and Natalia retreats. He leads me to the back of the cabin. The cabin is cream and maple wood and the small double bed is covered in gold and taupe cushions. It looks very comfortable. Christian turns and pulls me into his arms, gazing down at me.

I gape at him, my heart pounding. He takes my breath away. How can he infuse so much promise into those two words? Willingly I comply and his hands move to my hair. Gently he pulls out each hairpin one at a time, his expert fingers making short work of the task.

My hair falls in swathes over my shoulders, one lock at a time, covering my back and down to my breasts. After our long, tiring but exciting day, I want him—all of him.

When my hair is free of pins, he runs his fingers through it, gently massaging my scalp. I close my eyes and savor the sensation. His fingers travel on down, and he tugs, tilting my head back to expose my throat.

I groan.

Fifty Shades Freed

I shiver in anticipation. He plants a tender kiss on my back above the first button on my dress. I close my eyes and tilt my head, giving him easier access to my neck, and I fall further under the spell that is Christian Grey, my husband.

He peels my dress down my arms so that it pools at my feet in a cloud of ivory silk and lace. I do so and he gasps. He just gazes at me, his eyes wide with want. You look sensational. My breath shallows, and he repeats the journey over my breasts once more, his tantalizing finger sending tingles down my spine. He stops and twirls his index finger in the air, indicating that he wants me to turn around. His arm encircles my waist, pulling me against him, and he nuzzles my neck.

Gently he cups my breasts, toying with them, while his thumbs circle over my nipples so that they strain against the fabric of my corset. Leaving my breasts bereft he runs his hands down my stomach, over my belly, and down to my thighs, his thumbs skimming my sex. I stifle a moan. His fingers skate down each garter, and with his usual dexterity, he simultaneously unhooks each one from my stockings.

His hands travel around to my behind. Leaning down, he pulls back the cover on the bed. He grasps the top of my left stocking and slowly peels it off, running his thumbs down my leg. He repeats the process with my other stocking. I will always be yours, husband of mine.

He pauses, gazing at me, eyes wide, eyes wanting. I want to undress my husband, my Fifty. He sits back on his heels, and leaning forward I grasp his tie—his sliver-gray tie, my favorite tie—and slowly undo it and pull it free. Then he kisses his fist and shoves them into his pants pocket. Grey, so romantic. Grey—hearts and flowers. He groans and closes his eyes. His lips find mine, his hands curling around my head, holding me, stilling me as our tongues glory in each other. Abruptly Christian kneels up, leaving me breathless and wanting more.

I want to kiss every inch of them. Starting here. Everything south of my waistline convulses. His tongue glides up my instep and his teeth skim my heel and up to my ankle.

He trails kisses up the inside of my calf; soft wet kisses. I wriggle beneath him. I can feel him hard against my behind. The small cabin is eclipsed by his dazzling beauty and his want and need of me. He leans down and peels off my panties then gazes down at me. He pushes my legs wider apart. I close my eyes and surrender to his oh-so-adroit tongue. My hands fist in his hair as my hips swing and sway, slave to his rhythm, then buck off the small bed.

He grabs my hips to still me. I sense his smile against my belly as his journey continues north. We have until we touch down on the Emerald Isle.

Fifty Shades Freed PDF

Gazing up at me, his eyes are dark like a tropical storm as he teases me. He runs his nose down mine, and I run my hands down his strong, supple back to his fine, fine backside. We aim to please. I want to see you. What have I done? I am suddenly very awake, my erotic dream forgotten. I must have turned over in my sleep. His eyes blaze with fury. He reaches down, scoops up my bikini top from his sun lounger and tosses it at me. Why do I keep forgetting about them? I grasp my breasts in panic, hiding them.

Do you want to be all over the cover of Star magazine? Naked this time? The paparazzi! As I hurriedly scramble into my top, all thumbs, the color drains from my face.

I shudder. The unpleasant memory of being besieged by the paparazzi outside SIP after our engagement was leaked comes unwelcome to mind—all part of the Christian Grey package.

He pulls on his shorts, even though his trunks are dripping wet, then his gray T-shirt. The waitress is back in a moment with his credit card and the check. Reluctantly, I wriggle into my turquoise sundress and step into my flip-flops. Once the waitress has left, Christian snatches up his book and BlackBerry and masks his fury behind mirrored aviator glasses.

My heart sinks. In fact I look odd with my top on. I sigh inwardly, my spirits sinking. I thought Christian would see the funny side. Weirdly, they are identical twins. They have been patiently watching us and everyone else on the beach from the verandah.

Taylor is stony-faced behind his dark glasses. Taylor and his team shadow us. I have no idea of the time. I think it must be about five or six in the afternoon. When we reach the marina, Christian leads me onto the dock where the motorboat and Jet Ski belonging to the Fair Lady are moored. I glance nervously up at him, but like Christian, his expression gives nothing away. Why am I the only one who has to wear a life jacket? Christian and Taylor exchange some kind of look. Jeez, is he angry with Taylor, too?

Christian then checks the straps on my life jacket, cinching the middle one tightly. He climbs gracefully on to the Jet Ski and holds out his hand for me to join him.

Grasping it tightly, I manage to throw my leg over the seat behind him without falling into the water while Taylor and the twins clamber into the motorboat. Christian kicks the Jet Ski away from the dock, and it floats gently into the marina. This is my favorite part of traveling by Jet Ski.

I hug him closely, my nose nuzzling into his back, marveling that there was a time when he would not have tolerated me touching him this way. He smells good.

Forgive me, Christian, please? He stiffens. I kiss his back and rest my cheek against him, looking back toward the dock where a few holidaymakers have gathered to watch the show. Christian turns the key and the motor roars to life. With one twist of the accelerator, the Jet Ski bucks forward and speeds across the cool dark water, through the marina and out to the center of the harbor toward the Fair Lady.

I hold him tighter. Christian glances at him then accelerates again, and we shoot forward, whipping over the top of the water like an expertly tossed pebble. Taylor shakes his head in resigned exasperation and heads straight to the yacht, while Christian shoots past the Fair Lady and heads out toward the open water.

The sea spray is splashing us, the warm wind buffeting my face and flaying my ponytail crazily around me. This is so much fun. He steers in a huge semicircle and I study the shoreline—the boats in the marina, the mosaic of yellow, white and sand-colored offices and apartments, and the craggy mountains behind.

It looks so disorganized—not the regimented blocks that I am used to—but so picturesque.

Fifty Shades Freed by E L James | goudzwaard.info: Books

I nod enthusiastically. His answering grin is dazzling, and he opens the throttle and speeds around the Fair Lady and on out to sea once more. I anxiously try to assess his mood. We are on deck aboard the yacht, and one of the stewards is standing quietly nearby, waiting for my life vest.

Christian passes it to him. I love his French accent. I do so and he gasps. He just gazes at me, his eyes wide with want. You look sensational. He stops and twirls his index finger in the air, indicating that he wants me to turn around. His arm encircles my waist, pulling me against him, and he nuzzles my neck. Gently he cups my breasts, toying with them, while his thumbs circle over my nipples so that they strain against the fabric of my corset.

Leaving my breasts bereft he runs his hands down my stomach, over my belly, and down to my thighs, his thumbs skimming my sex. I stifle a moan. His fingers skate down each garter, and with his usual dexterity, he simultaneously unhooks each one from my stockings.

His hands travel around to my behind. Leaning down, he pulls back the cover on the bed. He grasps the top of my left stocking and slowly peels it off, running his thumbs down my leg. He repeats the process with my other stocking. I will always be yours, husband of mine. He pauses, gazing at me, eyes wide, eyes wanting. I want to undress my husband, my Fifty. He sits back on his heels, and leaning forward I grasp his tie—his sliver-gray tie, my favorite tie—and slowly undo it and pull it free.

Then he kisses his fist and shoves them into his pants pocket. Grey, so romantic. Grey—hearts and flowers. He groans and closes his eyes. His lips find mine, his hands curling around my head, holding me, stilling me as our tongues glory in each other. Abruptly Christian kneels up, leaving me breathless and wanting more. I want to kiss every inch of them. Starting here.

Everything south of my waistline convulses. His tongue glides up my instep and his teeth skim my heel and up to my ankle. He trails kisses up the inside of my calf; soft wet kisses. I wriggle beneath him. I can feel him hard against my behind.

The small cabin is eclipsed by his dazzling beauty and his want and need of me. He leans down and peels off my panties then gazes down at me. He crawls back onto the bed and trails kisses up my right leg this time. He pushes my legs wider apart. I close my eyes and surrender to his oh-so-adroit tongue.

My hands fist in his hair as my hips swing and sway, slave to his rhythm, then buck off the small bed. He grabs my hips to still me. I sense his smile against my belly as his journey continues north.

We have until we touch down on the Emerald Isle. Gazing up at me, his eyes are dark like a tropical storm as he teases me. He runs his nose down mine, and I run my hands down his strong, supple back to his fine, fine backside. We aim to please. I want to see you. What have I done? I must have turned over in my sleep. His eyes blaze with fury. He reaches down, scoops up my bikini top from his sun lounger, and tosses it at me. Why do I keep forgetting about them?

I grasp my breasts in panic, hiding them. Do you want to be all over the cover of Star magazine? Naked this time? The paparazzi! As I hurriedly scramble into my top, all fingers and thumbs, the color drains from my face. I shudder. The unpleasant memory of being besieged by the paparazzi outside SIP after our engagement was leaked comes unwelcome to mind—all part of the Christian Grey package. He pulls on his shorts, even though his trunks are dripping wet, then his gray T-shirt.

The waitress is back in a moment with his credit card and the check. Reluctantly, I wriggle into my turquoise sundress and step into my flip-flops. My heart sinks. In fact I look odd with my top on. I sigh inwardly, my spirits sinking. I thought Christian would see the funny side. Weirdly, they are identical twins. They have been patiently watching us and everyone else on the beach from the verandah.

Taylor is stony-faced behind his dark glasses. Christian leads me into the hotel, through the lobby, and out onto the street. Taylor and his team shadow us. I have no idea of the time. I think it must be about five or six in the afternoon. When we reach the quayside, Christian leads me onto the dock where the motorboat and Jet Ski belonging to the Fair Lady are moored. I glance nervously up at him, but like Christian, his expression gives nothing away.

Why am I the only one who has to wear a life jacket? Christian and Taylor exchange some kind of look. Jeez, is he angry with Taylor, too?

Christian then checks the straps on my life jacket, cinching the middle one tightly. He climbs gracefully on to the Jet Ski and holds out his hand for me to join him.

Grasping it tightly, I manage to throw my leg over the seat behind him without falling into the water, while Taylor and the twins 23 P a g e Fifty Shades Freed clamber into the motorboat.

Christian kicks the Jet Ski away from the quay, and it floats gently into the marina. This is my favorite part of traveling by Jet Ski. I hug him closely, my nose nuzzling into his back, marveling that there was a time when he would not have tolerated me touching him this way. He smells good. Forgive me, Christian, please?

He stiffens. I kiss his back and rest my cheek against him, looking back toward the quay where a few holidaymakers have gathered to watch the show. Christian turns the key and the motor roars to life.

With one twist of the accelerator, the Jet Ski bucks forward and speeds across the cool dark water, through the marina and out to the center of the harbor toward the Fair Lady. I hold him tighter. Taylor pulls alongside in the motorboat. Taylor shakes his head in resigned exasperation and heads straight to the yacht, while Christian shoots past the Fair Lady and heads out toward the open sea. The sea spray is splashing us, the warm wind buffeting my face and flaying my ponytail crazily around me.

This is so much fun. He steers in a huge semicircle and I study the shoreline—the boats in the marina, the mosaic of yellow, white and sand-colored offices and apartments, and the craggy mountains behind.

It looks so disorganized—not the regimented blocks that I am used to—but so picturesque. I nod enthusiastically. His answering grin is dazzling, and he opens the throttle and speeds around the Fair Lady and on out to sea once more. I anxiously try to assess his mood. We are on deck aboard the yacht, and one of the stewards is standing quietly nearby, waiting for my life vest. Christian passes it to him.

I love his French accent. Christian glances at me, takes off his shades, and slips them into the collar of his T-shirt, letting them hang. Oh, what is he thinking? He leans forward and kisses my forehead. You should know that by now.

What was I thinking? I mentally castigate myself. The steward appears with our drinks and snacks and places them on the teak table. Christian takes a seat beside me and passes me a gin and tonic.

I deploy my patented distraction technique. Sir Somebody-or-Other. His great-grandfather started a grocery store. I blink rapidly. All mine? I am rich. I have done nothing to earn this money. I shudder as my mind drifts back to our conversation about prenups. It was Sunday after his birthday and we were seated at the kitchen table enjoying a leisurely breakfast.

Then her mouth purses as some obviously unpleasant thought crosses her mind. Christian frowns. Mia reads the column out loud.

But who is the lucky, lucky lady? The Nooz is on the hunt. Silence descends, and the atmosphere in the Grey kitchen plunges to below zero. Oh no! A prenup? The thought has never crossed my mind. I swallow, feeling all the blood drain from my face. Please ground, swallow me up now! Christian shifts uncomfortably in his chair as I glance apprehensively at him.

They look alternately at me then him. Grey want. Christian looks up and glares at me. I blanch once more. She glares at Carrick and Mia. Everyone erupts into animated conversation, and Mia and Kate leap up to clear the table. I stare down at my knotted fingers.

I hope Mr. Christian reaches over and grasps both my hands gently in one of his. That stuff was all aimed at me. I wish my mom had kept her mouth shut. You left me once before. I know how that feels. He snorts and shakes his head with mock disgust. Losing Christian. Stop now. This subject is closed, Ana. No prenup. Not now—not ever. Then he turns to Grace.

I shudder as I recall the crazy shopping fest Christian demanded I go on with Caroline Acton—the personal shopper from Niemans—in preparation for this honeymoon. My bikini alone cost five hundred and forty dollars. I push the small dish of salted almonds and cashews toward him. He smirks. He licks his lips. Oh my, the look he gives me could be solely responsible for global warming. I pick up my gin and drain the glass, not taking my eyes off him. His mouth drops open, and I glimpse the tip of his tongue between his teeth.

He smiles lewdly at me. In one fluid move, he gets up and bends over me, resting his hands on the arms of my chair. How rude. How can I resist? What has he got planned? My heart starts pounding in anticipation. He leads me across the deck and through the doors into the plush, beautifully appointed main salon, along a narrow corridor, through the dining room, and down the stairs to the main master cabin.

The cabin has been cleaned since this morning and the bed made. Christian releases my hand, pulls his T-shirt off over his head, and tosses it onto a chair. He steps out of his flip-flops and removes his shorts and trunks in one graceful move. Will I ever tire of looking at him naked? He is utterly gorgeous, and all mine.

I am one lucky, lucky girl. He reaches forward and grasps my chin, pulling slightly so that I stop biting my lip and runs his thumb along my lower lip. He produces two pairs of metal handcuffs and an airline eye mask from the bottom drawer. I glance quickly and nervously at the bed. Where the hell is he going to attach those?

He turns and gazes steadily at me, his eyes dark and luminous. They can bite into the skin if you pull too hard. My mouth goes dry. Vaguely, I hope I never have to wear a pair of these for real. Christian is watching me intently. In fact, all sets. Reaching up, he strokes my cheek with his index finger, trailing it down to my mouth. He leans in as if to kiss me. He smiles. What does he mean? My heart starts pounding.

How can he do this with just words? It will be intense. Very intense, because I am not going to let you move. This sounds so hot. My breathing is too loud. Fuck, I am panting already.

My inner goddess has her sequins on and is warming up to dance the rumba. My eyes flick down to his arousal. Lift up your arms. He holds out his hand, and I give him back the handcuffs. He places both sets on the bedside table 31 P a g e Fifty Shades Freed along with the blindfold and yanks the quilt off the bed, letting it fall to the floor.

He gathers it into one hand and yanks gently so I step back against him. Against his chest. Against his erection. I gasp as he pulls my head to one side and kisses my neck. What are we going to do about that? His soft languid kisses are driving me wild. He grins against my neck. You are ever the optimist. Taking my hair, he carefully parts it into three strands, braids it slowly, and then fastens my hair tie to the end. He tugs my braid gently and leans down to my ear.

Moving suddenly, he grabs me by the waist, sits down on the bed, and yanks me across his knee so that I feel his erection pressed against my belly. He smacks my backside once, hard. Without taking his eyes off me, he gets up from the bed and gathers both sets of handcuffs.

He grasps my left leg and snaps one cuff around my ankle. Lifting my right leg, he repeats the process so I have a pair of handcuffs attached to each ankle. I can see nothing, all I can hear is my rapid breathing and the sound of the water lapping against the sides of the yacht as she bobs gently on the sea. I am so aroused. My left hand is tied to my left ankle, my right hand to the right leg.

I cannot straighten my legs. Holy fuck. And all the air leaves my body. He grasps both of my heels and tips me back so that I fall backward on to the bed. I have no choice but to keep my legs bent. The cuffs tighten as I pull against them. This feels weird—being trussed up and helpless— on a boat.

He pulls my ankles apart, and I groan. I have no purchase to move my hips. My feet are suspended. I cannot move. Holy shit. He pulls the strings on each side, and the scraps of material fall away. I am now naked and at his mercy.

He kisses my belly, nipping my navel with his teeth. This is going to be tough. I had no idea. He traces soft kisses and little bites up to my breasts.

I moan, pulling on my restraints. The metal bites into my skin. Biting, sucking, rolling my nipples between his fingers and thumbs, driving me wild. His erection pushes against me.

I pull helplessly on the cuffs, swamped by the sensation. He kisses me. Lifting my right leg, he repeats the process so I have a pair of handcuffs attached to each ankle. I can see nothing, all I can hear is my rapid breathing and the sound of the water lapping against the sides of the yacht as she bobs gently on the sea. I am so aroused.

My left hand is tied to my left ankle, my right hand to the right leg. I cannot straighten my legs. Holy fuck. And all the air leaves my body. He grasps both of my heels and tips me back so that I fall backward on to the bed.

I have no choice but to keep my legs bent. The cuffs tighten as I pull against them. This feels weird—being trussed up and helpless— on a boat. He pulls my ankles apart, and I groan. I have no purchase to move my hips. My feet are suspended. I cannot move.

Holy shit. He pulls the strings on each side, and the scraps of material fall away. I am now naked and at his mercy. He kisses my belly, nipping my navel with his teeth. This is going to be tough. I had no idea. He traces soft kisses and little bites up to my breasts. I moan, pulling on my restraints.

The metal bites into my skin. Biting, sucking, rolling my nipples between his fingers and thumbs, driving me wild. His erection pushes against me. I pull helplessly on the cuffs, swamped by the sensation. He kisses me. His skilled tongue invades my mouth, tasting, exploring, dominating, but my tongue meets his challenge, writhing against his. He tastes of cool gin and Christian Grey, and he smells of the sea. He grasps my chin, holding my head in place. He withdraws. Christian, please!

I scream, tilting my head back, pulling on the restraints as he hits my sweet spot, and I am all sensation, everywhere—a sweet, sweet agony, and I cannot move. He stills then circles his hips, and the motion radiates deep inside me.

I cry out in an incoherent wail. Because I love you! Please, Christian. Tears spring to my eyes. This is too intense. I want. I am wrung ragged, tears streaming down my face—my body left pulsing and shaking.

He clutches my head with one hand and my back with another, and he comes violently inside me while my insides continue to tremble with aftershocks.

Christian tears off the blindfold and kisses me. He kisses my eyes, my nose, my cheeks. He kisses away the tears, clutching my face in between his hands. Very gently, he lays me back on the bed and eases out of me. He climbs off the bed and undoes the handcuffs. I stretch out my legs. Oh my, that feels good. I feel good. That was, without doubt, the most intense climax I have ever endured. I really must misbehave more often. A pressing need from my bladder wakes me.

Where am I? Oh—the boat. I feel her pitch and roll, and hear the quiet hum of the engines. How odd. Christian is beside me, working on his laptop, casually dressed in a white linen shirt and chino trousers, his feet bare. His hair is still wet, I presume from a shower. I can smell his body wash and his Christian smell. No amount of training with Claude could have prepared me for this afternoon. I rise gingerly, needing the bathroom. Grabbing my silk robe, I hastily put it on.

Why am I so shy? When I glance at him, he returns to his laptop, his brow furrowed. As I absentmindedly wash my hands at the vanity unit, recalling last night at the Casino, my robe falls open.

I stare at myself in the mirror, shocked. Holy fuck! What has he done to me? I have hickeys! How did I not feel him doing this to me? I flush. The fact is I know exactly why—Mr.

Orgasmic was using his fine-motor sexing skills on me. My subconscious peers over her half-moon specs and tuts disapprovingly, while my inner goddess slumbers on her chaise longue, out for the count. My wrists have a red welt around them from the handcuffs.

I examine my ankles—more welts. I gaze at myself, trying to absorb how I look.

My body is so different these days. My nails are manicured, my feet pedicured, my eyebrows threaded and beautifully shaped. How dare he mark me like this, like some teenager.

I look like hell. Damn control freak. I stalk out of the en suite bathroom and into the walk-in closet, carefully avoiding even a glance in his direction. Slipping out of my robe, I pull on my sweatpants and a camisole. I undo the braid, pick up a hairbrush from the small vanity unit, and brush out my tangles. Am I okay? No, I am not okay. The thought is suddenly so infuriating. How dare he? I seethe as fury spikes through me. I can behave like an 37 P a g e Fifty Shades Freed adolescent, too!

I storm out of our cabin and run upstairs and out on deck, stomping toward the bow. I need some space to calm down. The warm breeze carries the smell of the Mediterranean and the scent of jasmine and bougainvillea from the shore.

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The Fair Lady glides effortlessly through the calm cobalt sea as I rest my elbows on the wooden railing, gazing at the distant shore where tiny lights wink and twinkle. I take a deep, healing breath and slowly begin to calm.

Apt, huh? He stays silent as I turn and scowl at him, watching me with wide and wary eyes. You made your point on the beach. Very effectively, as I recall. I glare at him. Well, not this many, anyway. Christian gazes at me, his eyes not leaving my face his expression wary and uncertain.

He steps closer and tentatively raises his hand to tuck my hair behind my ear. Emotionally, Christian is an adolescent, Ana. He bypassed that phase in his life totally. His emotional world has to play catch- up. My heart thaws a little. He rests his hand over mine and smiles his shy smile. I would never have figured that, but then I constantly underestimate you. You always surprise me.

I can throw and shoot straight, Mr. I smirk back, narrowing my eyes. Pulling me into an embrace, he buries his nose in my hair. I wrap my arms around him, holding him close, and feel the tension leave his body as he nuzzles me. He does smell good, adolescent or not. How can I resist him? I have my eyes closed and my head against his chest.

All the. Suddenly he frowns and his eyes widen, his pupils dilating with alarm. Holy shit! Leaning over, I put my index finger over his lips. I was just curious. His look is wary, but after a moment he visibly relaxes, his relief evident. I lean over to kiss the corner of his mouth. Will I ever understand this man? I see. He grins at me, looking far too knowing. Will I always be on the back foot with Mr. He takes pity on me. Whatever you want, Christian.

Put your theory to the test again? I shrug. Grabbing his glass of wine, he rises and holds his hand out to me. His iPod is in the speaker dock on the bureau. He switches it on and selects a song. Is this a Latin rhythm? Christian grins down at me and starts to move, sweeping me off my feet and taking me with him round the salon.

A man with a voice like warm melted caramel croons. He smiles down at me, his eyes filled with humor. Then he scoops me up and spins me under his arm. Robinson, the woman who taught him how to dance—and how to fuck.

Reluctantly though, I have to admit—she was some teacher. He dips me low again and plants a swift kiss on my lips. Then he sings the words softly in my ear making me swoon. Christian, you had me at I do —two and half weeks ago. But I know this is his way of apologizing and making sure all is well between us after our spat. Christian is nowhere to be seen. I stretch out and smile. I marvel what it is to go to bed with two different men—angry Christian and sweet letmemake-it-up-to-you-in-any-way-I-can Christian.

I rise and head for the bathroom. Opening the door, I find Christian inside shaving, naked except for a towel wrapped around his waist. He turns and beams at me, not fazed that I am interrupting him. I have discovered that Christian will never lock the door if he is the only person in the room—the reason why is sobering, and not one I want to dwell on.

I love watching him shave. He pulls up his chin and shaves beneath it, taking long deliberate strokes, and I find myself unconsciously mirroring his actions. He turns and smirks at me, one half of his face still covered in shaving soap. Oh, Christian, I could watch you for hours. He cannot keep his horrified amusement to himself. He sits up in bed in our suite at Browns Hotel near Piccadilly, switches on the bedside light and gazes down at me, his mouth a startled O.

It must be midnight. He grabs my hand to stop me. I cover my face with my hands. Why am I so embarrassed? Why does he find this so funny? The humor in his expression has vanished, and he regards me cautiously. He stares at me, his eyes glowing—this time not with mirth at my folly, but with love. He leans down and kisses me tenderly. After a breathless moment, he pulls back and leans up on one elbow. The humor is back. I cover myself, protecting my recently deforested area. He gives me a burning look that could light dry tinder, but before I combust, he bends and skims his lips down my naked belly directly to my sex.

I squirm beneath him, reluctantly resigned to my fate. What on earth is he doing? He returns moments later, carrying a glass of water, a mug, my razor, his shaving brush, soap, and a towel. He puts the water, brush, soap, and razor on the bedside table and gazes down at me, holding the towel. My subconscious slams down her Complete Works of Charles Dickens, leaps up from her armchair, and puts her hands on her hips. Lift your hips.

You are not shaving me. And, I know this part of your body better than you do. Of all the arrogant. He snorts. He kisses my inner thigh. He grasps my left ankle and parts my legs, and the bed dips as he sits between my legs. The water in the glass must be hot. I squirm a little. It tickles. I like firsts. Here goes. It only takes a matter of minutes before he grabs the towel and wipes all the excess lather off me. I glance quickly down at my fingers. Yes, it was. I had no idea that the absence of pubic hair could make such a difference.

I push him gently toward the lone white stool in the bathroom. He sits down, gazing at me puzzled, and I take the razor from him. I lean down and kiss him. He hesitates. I shake my head slowly, deliberately, trying to look as serious as possible. He closes his eyes and shakes his head then tilts his head back in surrender. My inner goddess flexes and stretches her arms outward, her fingers interlocked, palms out, limbering up.

Tentatively I slide my hand into the damp hair at his forehead, gripping tightly to hold him still. He clenches his eyes closed and parts his lips as he inhales. Very gently, I stroke his razor up from his neck to his chin, revealing a path of skin beneath the lather. Christian exhales. I steady myself with my hands on his upper arms.

He licks his lips nervously. No sunbathing today. I thought you might prefer that. My dad recommended we visit. There are some galleries there. I thought we could pick out some paintings or sculptures for the new house, if we find anything we like. I lean back and gaze at him.

How can I buy art? I shake my head. My dislike is irrational. Saint Paul de Vence is a medieval fortified hilltop village, one of the most picturesque places I have ever seen. I stroll arm in arm with Christian through the narrow cobbled streets, my hand in the back pocket of his shorts. We pass a tree-covered square where three old men, one wearing a traditional beret in spite of the heat, are playing boules.

There is so much to see— little alleys and passageways leading to courtyards with intricate stone fountains, ancient and modern sculptures, and fascinating little boutiques and shops. They make me think of the box of photographs I found in his closet, our closet. I wonder if he ever did destroy them. He takes my hand and we stroll to the next artist. Idly, I wonder if I should let him take photos of me after all.

My inner goddess nods frantically with approval. Where would you put them? Nice idea, Mrs. Five thousand euros each. I want to roll my eyes, but turn my attention back to the paintings. Five thousand euros. We have finished lunch and are relaxing over coffee at the Hotel Le Saint Paul. The view of the surrounding countryside is stunning. Vineyards and fields of sunflowers form a patchwork across the plain, interspersed here and there with neat little French farmhouses. Christian interrupts my reverie.

His tone alarms me. He looks.

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