face. He stills. “No,”
he gasps, stunned. “Jesus Christ, no.”
He moves quickly, unclipping my hands, clasping me around my waist and
leaning down to unclip my ankles, while I put my head in my hands and weep.
“No, no, no. Ana, please. No.”
Picking me up, he moves to the bed, sitting down and cradling me in his lap
while I sob inconsolably. I’m overwhelmed . . . my body wound up to breaking
point, my mind a blank and my emotions scattered to the wind. He reaches
behind him, drags the satin sheet off the four-poster bed and drapes it
around me. The cool sheets feel alien and unwelcome against my sensitized
skin. He wraps his arms around me, hugging me close, rocking me gently
backward and forward.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Christian murmurs, his voice raw. He kisses my hair
over and over again. “Ana, forgive me, please.”
Turning my face into his neck, I continue to cry, and it’s a cathartic release.
So much has happened over the last few days—fires in computer rooms, car
chases, careers planned out for me, slutty architects, armed lunatics in the
apartment, arguments, his anger—and Christian has been away. I hate
Christian going away . . . I use the 231 | P a g e
Fifty Shades Freed
corner of the sheet to wipe my nose and gradually become aware that the
clinical tones of Bach are still echoing around the room.
“Please switch the music off.” I sniff.
“Yes, of course.” Christian shifts, not letting me go, and pulls the remote out
of his back pocket. He presses a button and the piano music ceases, to be
replaced by my shuddering breaths. “Better?” he asks. I nod, my sobs
easing. Christian wipes my tears away gently with his thumb.
“Not a fan of Bach’s Goldberg Variations?” he asks.
“Not that piece.”
He gazes down at me, trying and failing to hide the shame in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he says again.
“Why did you do that?” My voice is barely audible as I try to process my
scrambled thoughts and feelings.
He shakes his head sadly and closes his eyes. “I got lost in the moment,”
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