t
knocking both of us over.
“Christian, walk. I am going to put you to bed.”
“Okay,” he says as if he’s trying to concentrate.
We stumble down the corridor and finally make it into the bedroom.
“Bed,” he says, grinning.
“Yes, bed.” I maneuver him to the edge, but he holds me.
“Join me,” he says.
“Christian, I think you need some sleep.”
“And so it begins. I’ve heard about this.”
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Fifty Shades Freed
I frown. “Heard about what?”
“Babies mean no sex.”
“I’m sure that’s not true. Otherwise we’d all come from one-child families.”
He gazes down at me. “You’re funny.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Yes.” He smiles, but his smile changes as he thinks about it, and a haunted
expression crosses his face, a look that chills me to the bone.
“Come on, Christian,” I say gently. I hate his expression. It speaks of horrid,
ugly memories that no child should see. “Let’s get you into bed.” I push him
gently and he flops down onto the mattress, sprawling in all directions and
grinning up at me, his haunted expression gone.
“Join me,” he slurs.
“Let’s get you undressed first.”
He grins widely, drunkenly. “Now you’re talking.”
Holy cow. Drunk Christian is cute and playful. I’ll take him over mad-as-hell
Christian anytime.
“Sit up. Let me take your jacket off.”
“The room is spinning.”
Shit . . . is he going to throw up? “Christian, sit up!”
He smirks up at me. “Mrs. Grey, you are a bossy little thing . . .”
“Yes. Do as you’re told and sit up.” I put my hands on my hips. He grins
again, struggles up onto his elbows then sits up in a most unChristian-like,
gawky fashion. Before he can flop down again, I grab his tie and wrestle him
out of his gray jacket, one arm at a time.
“You smell good.”
“You smell of hard liquor.”
“Yes . . . bour-bon.” He pronounces the syllables with such exaggeration that I
ha一ve to stifle a giggle. Discarding his jacket on the floor beside me, I make a
start on his tie. He rests his hands on my hips.
“I like the feel of this fabric on you, Anastasia,” he says, slurri
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