Happy Wednesday, ladies and germs! It’s that time of the week again: time for our recap of Chapter Eleven of Fifty Shades Freed. Ready? Get set to laugh and cringe!
Holy crap he looks hot—his jeans hanging that way from his hips. Oh no, I’m not going to be distracted by Mr. Sex-on-Legs. I try to gauge his mood as he stalks toward me. Angry? Playful? Lustful? Gah! It’s impossible to tell.
“I like your jeans,” I murmur.
Are we going to fight? I take a precautionary step back. I must physically distance myself from him—from his smell, his look, his distracting body in those hot jeans. He frowns as I move away.
“Because you went back on your word, and you defied me, putting yourself at unnecessary risk.”
“Went back on my word? Is that how you see it?” I gasp, ignoring the rest of his sentence.
Holy crap. Talk about overreaction! I start to roll my eyes but stop when he scowls at me. “Christian, I changed my mind,” I explain slowly, patiently as if he’s a child. “I’m a woman. We’re renowned for it. That’s what we do.”
“I don’t know how to deal with this anger. I don’t think I want to hurt you,” he says, his eyes wide and wary. “This morning, I wanted to punish you, badly and—” He stops, lost for words I think, or too afraid to say them.
“You were worried you’d hurt me?” I finish his sentence for him, not believing that he’d hurt me for a minute, but relieved, too. A small vicious part of me feared it was because he didn’t want me anymore.
“I didn’t trust myself,” he says quietly.
“Christian, I know you’d never hurt me. Not physically, anyway.” I clasp his head between my hands.
“Do you?” he asks, and there’s skepticism in his voice.
“Yes. I knew what you said was an empty, idle threat. I know you’re not going to beat the shit out of me.”
“I wanted to.”
“No you didn’t. You just thought you did.”
Really? Because I wouldn’t consider that to be an empty threat. But you know, it’s all good because he would never hurt her physically. Ugh!
“Come to bed,” he whispers, after heaven knows how long. Oh my . . .
“Christian, we need to talk.”
“Later,” he urges softly.
“Christian, please. Talk to me.”
He sighs. “About what?”
“You know. You keep me in the dark.”
“I want to protect you.”
“I’m not a child.”
“I am fully aware of that, Mrs. Grey.” He runs his hands down my body and cups my backside. Flexing his hips, he presses his growing erection into me.
“Christian!” I scold. “Talk to me.”
So now he’s derailing their serious conversation by insisting they have sex. Just what the hell is up with this guy? He makes his needs clear, but every time she wishes to make her needs clear, he shuts her down. And this is supposed to be a hot romance? DOES NOT COMPUTE.
The troubadour on the iPod is singing about wicked games. Hmm . . . How apt.
I think it’s this song. This book has ruined it for me.
“I know. The police are digging further, and so is Welch. But we think Detroit is the connection.”
“Detroit?” I gaze at him, confused.
“Yeah. There’s something there.”
“I still don’t understand.”
Christian lifts his face and gazes at me, his expression unreadable. “Ana, I was born in Detroit.”
And there it is…the bug bombshell has been dropped! Now aren’t you all eager to see how this hack from across the pond is going to depict Detroit? Stay tuned!
And that’s it for today!