rise, intending to go and confront him in his
study, but as I do the photos from the last few days of our honeymoon pop up
onscreen. Holy crap!
Picture after picture of me. Asleep, so many of me asleep, my hair over my
face or fanned out across the pillow, lips parted . . . shit—
sucking my thumb. I ha一ven’t sucked my thumb for years! So many photos . . . I
had no idea he’d taken these. There are a few candid long shots, including
one of me leaning over the rail of the yacht, staring moodily into the distance.
How did I not notice him taking this? I smile at the photos of me curled up
beneath him and laughing—my hair flying as I struggle, fighting his tickling,
tormenting fingers. And there’s the one of him and me on the bed in the
master cabin that he took at arm’s length. I am cuddled on his chest and he
gazes at the camera, young, wide-eyed . . . in love. His other hand cups my
head, and I am smiling like a love-struck fool, but I cannot take my eyes off
Christian. Oh, my beautiful man, his ruffled just-fucked hair, his gray eyes
glowing, his lips parted and smiling. My beautiful man who cannot bear to be
tickled, who could not bear to be touched just a short while ago, yet now he
tolerates my touch. I must ask him if he likes it, or whether he lets me touch
him for my pleasure rather than his. I frown, gazing down at his image,
suddenly overwhelmed by my feelings for him. Someone out there wants to
harm him—first Charlie Tango, then the fire at GEH, and that damned car
chase. I gasp, putting my hand to my mouth as an involuntary sob escapes.
Abandoning my computer, I leap up to find him—not to confront him now—
just to check that he’s safe.
Not bothering to knock, I barge into his study. Christian is sitting at his desk
and talking on the phone. He looks up in surprised annoyance, but the
irritation on his face disappears when he sees it’s me. 115 | P a g e
Fifty Shades Freed
“So you can’t enhance it further?” he says, continuing his phone
conversation, though h
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