links then shakes his head, exhaling deeply.
“Let’s go.” He releases my hand and stands. His expression guarded. Ha一ve I
overstepped the mark? I ha一ve no idea. My heart sinks and I don’t know
whether to say anything else or just let it go. I decide on the latter and follow
him dutifully out of the restaurant. In the lovely narrow street, he takes my
hand.
“Where do you want to go?”
He speaks! And he’s not mad at me—thank hea一vens. I exhale, relieved, and
shrug. “I am just glad you’re still speaking to me.”
“You know I don’t like talking about all that shit. It’s done. Finished,” he says
quietly .
No, Christian, it isn’t. The thought saddens me, and for the first time I wonder
if it will ever be finished. He’ll always be Fifty Shades . . . my Fifty Shades.
Do I want him to change? No, not really—
only insofar as I want him to feel loved. Peeking up at him, I take a moment to
admire his captivating beauty . . . and he’s mine. And it’s
50 | P a g e
E L JAMES
not just the allure of his fine, fine face and his body that has me spellbound.
It’s what’s behind the perfection that draws me, that calls to me. . . his fragile,
damaged soul. He gives me that look, down his nose, half amused, half wary,
wholly sexy then tucks me under his arm, and we make our way through the
tourists toward the spot where Philippe/Gaston has parked the roomy
Mercedes. I slip my hand back into the back pocket of Christian’s shorts,
grateful that he isn’t mad at my presumption. But, honestly, what four-year-old
child doesn’t love his mom, no matter how bad a mom she is? I sigh hea一vily
and hug him closer. I know behind us the security team lurks, and I wonder
idly if they’ve eaten.
Christian stops outside a small boutique selling fine jewelry and gazes in the
window, then down at me. He reaches across, grasps my free hand, and
runs his thumb across the faded red line of the handcuff mark, inspecting it.
“It’s not sore.” I reassure him. He twists so that my other hand is freed from
his pocket. He c
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