Freed: Fifty Shades Freed as told by Christian

Chapter 213

She loosens the towel that’s cloaked around her body and drops it to the floor. My dick stirs in

response, making me angrier. Christ, she’s beautiful; her flawless skin, the soft flare of her hips, the

swell of her behind, and her long, long legs that I want wrapped around me. Her body shows no sign of

the invader yet. Christ, I have no idea how pregnant she is.

Shit. I put Junior out of my mind.

How long will it take me to get her into bed?

Grey, no—keep it together.

She’s still ignoring me. “Why are you doing this?” I try to hide the desperation in my voice.

“Why do you think?” She fishes some lingerie out of a drawer.

“Ana—” My breath catches in my throat as she bends and tugs on her panties, wiggling her fine, fine

ass. She’s doing this on purpose. And in spite of my aching head, and my filthy mood, I want to fuck

her. Now. Just to make sure we’re okay. My growing erection concurs.

“Go ask your Mrs. Robinson. I’m sure she’ll have an explanation for you.” She rifles through her drawer,

dismissing me, as if I’m some fucking lackey.

As I thought, it’s Elena.

What did you expect, Grey?

“Ana, I’ve told you before, she’s not my—”

“I don’t want to hear it, Christian.” Ana holds up her hand. “The time for talking was yesterday, but

instead you decided to rant, and get drunk with the woman who abused you for years. Give her a call.

I’m sure she’ll be more than willing to listen to you now.”

What?

Ana chooses a bra—the black lacy one—and slides it on and fastens it. I stride farther into the room

and place my hands on my hips, glaring at her. She’s crossed a line.

“Why were you snooping on me?” I can’t believe she went through my texts.

“That’s not the point, Christian,” she hisses. “Fact is, the going gets tough, and you run to her.” NôvelD(ram)a.ôrg owns this content.

“It wasn’t like that—”

“I’m not interested!” She stalks over to the bed while I gaze at her. Lost. She’s so cold. Who is this

woman?

Sitting down, she stretches out a long, shapely leg, points her toes, and slowly eases one thigh-high up

over her skin. My mouth goes from parched to desert as I watch her hands glide up her leg.

“Where were you?” It’s the only coherent sentence I can form. Ignoring me, she pulls on the other

thigh-high with the same slow, sensual ease. Then she stands, turns away from me, and bends over to

towel-dry her hair, her back in a perfect curve. It takes every remaining shred of my self-control not to

grab her and toss her onto the bed. She stands up straight again, flicking her thick, wet mane of

chestnut hair, so it cascades down her back below her bra line.

“Answer me,” I murmur. But she merely stalks back to the chest of drawers, picks up her hair dryer, and

switches it on, wielding it like a weapon. The noise grates on my frayed nerves, unraveling them

further.

What do I do when my wife ignores me?

I’m at a loss.

She rakes her fingers through her hair as she dries it and I fist my hands to stop myself from reaching

out to her. I’m desperate to touch her and end this nonsense. But the memory of her hissing at me with

such venom after the belting in the playroom comes to mind.

You are one fucked-up son of a bitch.

I pale. I don’t want a repeat of that.

Ever.

I watch her, wordless and mesmerized. It was only a few days ago that she let me dry her hair. She

finishes with a flourish, her hair a riotous crown of chestnut streaked with red and gold that tumbles

down over her shoulders. She is doing this on purpose. The thought revives my anger.

“Where were you?” I whisper.

“What do you care?”

“Ana, stop this. Now.”

She shrugs, like she doesn’t care, and my blood boils. I move quickly toward her, unsure what I’m

going to do, but she whirls to face me like an avenging angel. “Don’t touch me,” she snarls through

clenched teeth, and I’m catapulted back to that moment in my playroom when she left.

It’s sobering.

“Where were you?” I clench my fists to stop my hands from shaking.

“I wasn’t out getting drunk with my ex.” Her eyes blaze with righteous indignation. “Did you sleep with

her?”

It’s like she’s punched me in the face.

I gasp. “What? No!” How could she think that? Sleep with Elena? “You think I’d cheat on you?” Christ,

she thinks so little of me. A knot twists in my gut, and a memory, lost in a mist of red wine and bourbon,

stirs.

“You did,” Ana continues. “By taking our very private life and spilling your spineless guts to that

woman.”

“Spineless. That’s what you think?” Jesus, I thought I’d fucked up, but this is so much worse than I’d

feared.

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