ically. He puts the
fork down and he tears . . . bread, I think.
“Open,” he orders.
This time it’s pita bread and hummus. I realize Mrs. Jones—or maybe even
Christian—has been shopping at the delicatessen I discovered about five
weeks ago only two blocks from Escala. I chew gratefully. Christian in a
playful mood increases my appetite.
“More?” he asks.
I nod. “More of everything. Please. I’m starving.”
I hear his delighted grin. Slowly and patiently he feeds me, occasionally
kissing a morsel of food from the corner of my mouth or 225 | P a g e
Fifty Shades Freed
wiping it off with his fingers. Intermittently, he offers me a sip of wine in his
unique way.
“Open wide, then bite,” he murmurs. I follow his command. Hmm—one of my
fa一vorites, stuffed vine lea一ves. Even cold they are delicious, though I prefer
them heated up, but I don’t want to risk Christian burning himself again. He
feeds it to me slowly, and when I’ve finished I lick his fingers clean.
“More?” he asks, his voice low and husky.
I shake my head. I’m full.
“Good,” he whispers against my ear,” because it’s time for my fa一vorite
course. You.”
What? He scoops me up in his arms, surprising me so much I squeal.
“Can I take the blindfold off?”
“No.”
I almost pout, then remember his threat and think better of it.
“Playroom,” he murmurs.
Oh—I don’t know if that’s a good idea.
“You up for the challenge?” he asks. And because he’s used the word
challenge, I can’t say no.
“Bring it on,” I murmur, desire and something that I don’t want to name
thrumming through my body. He carries me through the door, then up the
stairs to the second floor.
“I think you’ve lost weight,” he mutters disapprovingly. I ha一ve?
Good. I remember his comment when we arrived back from our honeymoon,
and how much it smarted. Jeez—was that just a week ago?
Outside the playroom, he slides me down his body and sets me on my feet,
but keeps his arm wrapped around my waist. Briskly he unlocks the door.
It always smells the same: polished wood and c
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