Happy Wednesday, Persephoneers! It’s time for this week’s recap of Fifty Shades Freed. We’re currently on Chapter Thirteen, and Ana, Christian, and the gang are en route to a wonderful weekend at one of Christian’s posh vacation houses. But trust me, I would rather spend a spooky weekend solving mysteries with Scooby-Doo and the gang than vacationing with these bozos.
The sky is a clear crystal blue, though there are darkening clouds to the west. All around us in the distance loom the Rockies, the highest peak directly ahead. They’re lush and green, and the highest are capped with snow and look like a child’s drawing of mountains.
We’re in the winter playground of the rich and famous. And I own a house here. I can barely believe it. And from deep within my psyche, the familiar unease that’s always present when I try to wrap my head around Christian’s wealth looms and taunts me, making me feel guilty. What have I done to deserve this lifestyle? I’ve done nothing, nothing except fall in love.
And go along with everything he says like you’re a robot with no mind of your own.
The master suite is something else. The bed is huge, bigger than the bed at home, and faces an enormous picture window looking out over Aspen and toward the verdant mountains.
“That’s Ajax Mountain . . . or Aspen Mountain, if you like,” Christian says, eyeing me warily. He’s standing in the doorway, his thumbs hooked through the belt loops on his black jeans.
And there’s also Mr. Clean Valley and Lysol Hill, just to name a few…
“She did. She designed the den downstairs. Elliot did the build.” He rakes his hand through his hair and frowns at me. “Why are we talking about Gia?”
“Did you know she had a fling with Elliot?”
Christian gazes at me for a moment, gray eyes unreadable. “Elliot’s fucked most of Seattle, Ana.”
“Mainly women, I understand,” Christian jokes. I think he’s amused by my expression.
“Look,” she says, pointing to the picture window. Outside, rain has started pouring down. We are sitting around the dark wood table in the kitchen having consumed an Italian feast of a mixed antipasto, prepared by Mrs. Bentley, and a bottle or two of Frascati. I’m replete and a little buzzed from the alcohol.
“Christian has, um . . . issues about my safety. I shouldn’t.”
“You always do what he says?” Elliot has a wicked sparkle in his baby-blue eyes, and I see a glimmer of the bad boy . . . the bad boy Kate has fallen in love with. The bad boy from Detroit.
Even more decadent is Christian washing my feet, massaging the soles, pulling gently on my toes. He kisses each one and gently bites my little toe.
“Aaah!” I feel it—there, in my groin.
“Like that?” he breathes.
“Hmm,” I mumble incoherently.
So Christian is quite the master of reflexology. Has this ever happened to anyone in real life? And finally, WHERE IN YOUR GROIN?
I gape at myself in the full-length mirror, not recognizing the vixen that stares back at me. Kate has gone all out and played Barbie with me this evening, styling my hair and makeup. My hair is full and straight, my eyes ringed with kohl, my lips scarlet red. I look . . . hot. I’m all legs, especially in the high-heeled Manolos and my indecently short dress. I need Christian to approve, though I have a horrible feeling he won’t like so much of my flesh exposed. In view of our entente cordiale, I decide I should ask him.
And that’s it for this week!