e oozes frustration. Tell me!
He says nothing. Gah! He’s so infuriating. I lift the camera to my eye again.
“Tell me,” I insist.
“Nothing,” he says and abruptly disappears from the viewfinder. In one swift,
smooth move, he reaches over, sweeps the camera box onto the cabin floor,
and grabs me, pushing me down onto the bed. He sits astride me.
“Hey!” I exclaim and take more photographs of him, smiling down at me with
dark intent. He grabs the camera by the lens, and the photographer
becomes the subject as he points the Nikon at me and presses the shutter
down.
“So, you want me to take pictures of you, Mrs. Grey?” he says, amused. All I
can see of his face is his unruly hair and a broad grin on his sculptured
mouth. “Well, for a start, I think you should be laughing,” he says, and he
tickles me ruthlessly under my ribs, making me squeal and giggle and squirm
beneath him until I grasp his wrist in a vain attempt to make him stop. His
grin widens, and he renews his efforts while snapping pictures.
“No! Stop!” I scream.
65 | P a g e
Fifty Shades Freed
“Are you kidding?” he growls and puts the camera down beside us so that he
can torture me with both hands.
“Christian!” I splutter and gasp my laughing protest. He has never, ever
tickled me before. Fuck—stop! I thrash my head from side to side, trying to
wiggle out from under him, giggling and pushing both of his hands away, but
he’s unrelenting—grinning down at me, enjoying my torment.
“Christian, stop!” I plead and he stops suddenly. Grabbing both of my hands,
he holds them down on either side of my head while looming over me. I am
panting and breathless with laughter. His breathing mirrors mine, and he
gazes down at me with . . . what? My lungs stop functioning. Wonder? Love?
gazes down at me with . . . what? My lungs stop functioning. Wonder? Love?
Reverence? Holy cow. That look!
“You. Are. So. Beautiful,” he breathes.
I stare up at him, at his dear, dear pine face; bathed in the intensity of his
gaze, and it’s as if h
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