Fifty Shades Freed (Christian & Ana)(126)

I swallow. "Because . . . because you were so angry and distant and . . . cold.

I didn't know how far you'd go."

His expression is unreadable.

"Were you going to let me come?" My voice is barely a whisper, and I feel a blush steal over my cheeks, but I hold his gaze.

"No," he says eventually.

Holy crap. "That's . . . harsh."

His knuckle gently grazes my cheek. "But effective," he murmurs. He gazes down at me as if he's trying to see into my soul, his eyes darkening. After an eternity, he murmurs, "I'm glad you did."

"Really?" I don't understand.

His lips twist in a sad smile. "Yes. I don't want to hurt you. I got carried away." He reaches down and kisses me. "Lost in the moment." He kisses me again. "Happens a lot with you."

Oh? And for some bizarre reason the thought pleases me . . . I grin. Why does that make me happy? He grins, too.

"I don't know why you're grinning, Mrs. Grey."

"Me neither."

He wraps himself around me and places his head on my chest. We are a tangle of naked and denim-clad limbs, and satin red sheets. I stroke his back with one hand and run the fingers of my other hand through his hair. He sighs and relaxes in my arms.

"It means I can trust you . . . to stop me. I never want to hurt you," he murmurs. "I need—" He halts.

"You need what?"

"I need control, Ana. Like I need you. It's the only way I can function. I can't let go of it. I can't. I've tried . . . And yet, with you . . ." He shakes his head in exasperation.

I swallow. This is the heart of our dilemma—his need for control and his need for me. I refuse to believe these are mutually exclusive.

"I need you, too," I whisper, hugging him tighter. "I'll try, Christian. I'll try to be more considerate."

"I want you to need me," he murmurs.

Holy cow!

"I do!" My voice is impassioned. I need him so much. I love him so much.

"I want to look after you."

"You do. All the time. I missed you so much while you were away."

"You did?" He sounds so surprised.

"Yes, of course. I hate you going away."

I sense his smile. "You could have come with me."

"Christian, please. Let's not rehash that argument. I want to work."

He sighs as I work my fingers gently through his hair.

"I love you, Ana."

"I love you, too, Christian. I will always love you."

We both lie still in the calm, quiet after our storm. Listening to the steady beat of his heart, I drift exhausted into sleep.

I wake with a start, disorientated. Where am I? The playroom. The lights are still on, softly illuminating the bloodred walls. Christian moans again, and I realize this is what woke me.

"No," he groans. He's sprawled out beside me, his head back, his eyes screwed shut, his face contorted in anguish.

Holy shit. He's having a nightmare.

"No!" he cries out again.

"Christian, wake up." I struggle to sit up, kicking off the sheet. Kneeling beside him, I grab his shoulders and shake him as tears spring to my eyes.

"Christian, please. Wake up!"

His eyes spring open, gray and wild, his pupils enlarged with fear. He stares vacantly up at me.

"Christian, you're having a nightmare. You're home. You're safe."

He blinks, looks around frantically, and frowns as he takes in our surroundings. Then his eyes are back on mine. "Ana," he breathes, and with no preamble whatsoever he grabs my face with both hands, pulls me down onto his chest, and kisses me. Hard. His tongue invades my mouth, and he tastes of desperation and need. Barely giving me a chance to breathe, he rolls over, his lips locked to mine so that he's pressing me into the hard mattress of the four-poster. One of his hands clasps my jaw, the other spreads out on top of my head, keeping me still as his knee parts my legs and he nestles, still clothed in his jeans, between my thighs.