Fifty Shades Freed (Christian & Ana)(64)

"Hungry?" he asks.

"No."

"I am."

"What for?"

"Well—food actually, Mrs. Grey."

"I'll make you something." I giggle.

"I love that sound."

"Of me offering you food?"

"You giggling." He kisses my hair then I stand.

"So what would you like to eat, Sir?" I ask sweetly.

He narrows his eyes. "Are you being cute, Mrs. Grey?"

"Always, Mr. Grey . . . Sir."

He smiles a sphinxlike smile. "I can still put you over my knee," he murmurs seductively.

"I know." I grin. Placing my hands on the arms of his office chair, I lean down and kiss him. "That's one of the things I love about you. But stow your twitching palm—you're hungry."

He smiles his shy smile and my heart clenches. "Oh, Mrs. Grey, what am I going to do with you?"

"You're going to answer my question. What would you like to eat?"

"Something light. Surprise me," he says, mirroring my words from the playroom earlier.

"I'll see what I can do." I sashay out of his study and into the kitchen. My heart sinks when I see Mrs. Jones is there.

"Hello, Mrs. Jones."

"Mrs. Grey. Are you ready for something to eat?"

"Um . . ."

She is stirring something in a pot on the stove that smells delicious.

"I was going to make subs for Mr. Grey and me."

She pauses for a heartbeat. "Sure," she says. "Mr. Grey likes French bread—there is some in the freezer cut to sub length. I'd be happy to make it for you, ma'am."

"I know. But I'd like to do this."

"I understand. I'll give you some room."

"What are you cooking?"

"This is a bolognaise sauce. It can be eaten anytime. I'll freeze it." She smiles warmly and turns the heat right down.

"Um—so what does Christian like in a, um . . . sub?" I frown, struck by what I've just said. Does Mrs. Jones understand the inference?

"Mrs. Grey, you could put just about anything in a sandwich, and as long as it's on French bread, he'll eat it." We grin at each other.

"Okay, thank you." I skip to the freezer and find the French bread cut to size in Ziplock bags. I place two of them on a plate, pop them into the microwave, and set it to defrost.

Mrs. Jones has disappeared. I frown as I return to the fridge to search for in-gredients. I suppose it will be up to me to set the parameters by which Mrs. Jones and I will work together. I like the idea of cooking for Christian on the weekends.

Mrs. Jones is more than welcome to do it during the week—the last thing I'll want to do when I come home from work is cook. Hmm . . . a bit like Christian's routine with his submissives. I shake my head. I mustn't overthink this. I find some ham in the fridge, and in the crisper a perfectly ripe avocado.

As I am adding a touch of salt and lemon to the mashed avocado, Christian emerges from his study with the plans for the new house in his hands. He puts them on the breakfast bar, saunters toward me, and wraps his arms around me, kissing my neck.

"Barefoot and in the kitchen," he murmurs.

"Shouldn't that be barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen?" I smirk.

He stills, his whole body tensing against me. "Not yet," he declares, apprehension clear in his voice.

"No! Not yet!"

He relaxes. "On that we can agree, Mrs. Grey."