Fifty Shades Freed (Christian & Ana)(43)

"I like defying you." I test the waters.

"I know. And it's made me so . . . happy." He smiles down at me through his bemusement.

Oh, thank heavens. "Even though I'm fat?" I whisper.

He laughs. "Even though you're fat." He kisses me again, more heated this time, and I fist my fingers in his hair, holding him against me, our tongues twisting in a slow sensual dance with each other. When the elevator pings to a halt at the penthouse, we are both breathless.

"Very happy," he murmurs. His smile is darker now, his eyes hooded and full of salacious promise. He shakes his head as if to recover himself and carries me into the foyer.

"Welcome home, Mrs. Grey." He kisses me again, more chastely this time, and gives me the patented-Christian-Grey-full-gigawatt smile, his eyes dancing with joy.

"Welcome home, Mr. Grey." I beam, my heart answering his call, brimming with my own joy.

I think Christian's going to put me down, but he doesn't. He carries me through the foyer, across the corridor, into the great room, and deposits me on the kitchen island where I sit with my legs dangling. He retrieves two champagne flutes from the kitchen cupboard and a bottle of chilled champagne from the fridge—our favorite Bollinger. He deftly opens the bottle, not spilling a drop, pours the pale pink champagne into each glass, and hands one to me. Taking up the other, he gently parts my legs and moves forward to stand between them.

"Here's to us, Mrs. Grey."

"To us, Mr. Grey," I whisper conscious of my shy smile. We clink glasses and take a sip.

"I know you're tired," he whispers, rubbing his nose against mine. "But I'd really like to go to bed . . . and not to sleep." He kisses the corner of my mouth.

"It's our first night back here, and you're really mine." His voice drifts off as he plants soft kisses down my throat. It's early evening in Seattle, and I am dog-tired, but desire blooms deep in my belly and my inner goddess purrs.

Christian is slumbering peacefully beside me as I stare at the pink and golden streaks of the new dawn through the vast windows. His arm is draped loosely over my breasts, and I try to match his breathing in an effort to get back to sleep, but it's hopeless. I'm wide-awake, my body clock on Greenwich mean time, my mind racing.

So much has happened in the last three weeks— who am I kidding, the last three months—that I feel that my feet haven't touched the ground. And now here I am, Mrs. Anastasia Grey, married to the most delicious, sexy, philanthropic, absurdly wealthy mogul a woman could meet. How did this all happen so fast?

I shift onto my side to gaze at him, appraising his beauty. I know he watches me sleep, but I rarely get the opportunity to repay the compliment. He looks so young and carefree in his sleep, his long lashes fanned against his cheek, a light smattering of stubble covering his jaw, and his sculptured lips slightly parted, relaxed as he breathes deeply. I want to kiss him, to push my tongue between his lips, run my fingers over his soft yet prickly stubble. I really have to fight the urge not to touch him, not to disturb him. Hmm . . . I could just tease his earlobe with my teeth and suck. My subconscious glares up at me over her half-moon spec-tacles, distracted from volume two of the Complete Works of Charles Dickens, and mentally chastises me. Leave the poor man alone, Ana.

I am back to work on Monday. We have today to reacclimatize, then we're back into our routine. It will be odd not seeing Christian for a whole day after spending almost every minute together for the last three weeks. I lie back and stare at the ceiling. One would think that spending so much time together would be suffocating, but that's just not the case. I've loved each and every minute, even our fighting. Every minute . . . except the news of the fire at Grey House.