50 shades freed

Chapter 2

Everything in it is entirely imaginary and intended only for entertainment; I created it for fun. I did not write 50 Shades freed or any of its characters, and I do not own them.

Chapter 2

I am suddenly very awake, my erotic dream forgotten.

"I was on my front. I must have turned over in my sleep." I whisper weakly in my defense.

His eyes blaze with fury. He reaches down, scoops up my shorts from his sun lounger and tosses it at me.

"Put this on!" he hisses.

"Harry, no one is looking."

"Trust me. They're looking. I'm sure Taylor and the security crew are enjoying the show!" he snarls.

Holy shit! Why do I keep forgetting about them? I grasp between my legs in panic, hiding them. Ever since Charlie Tango's sabotaged demise, we are constantly shadowed by damned security.

"Yes," Harry snarls. "And some sleazy fucking paparazzi could get a shot of you, too. Do you want to be all over the cover of Star magazine? Naked this time?"

Shit! The paparazzi! Fuck! As I hurriedly scramble into my shorts, all thumbs, the color drains from my face. I shudder. The unpleasant memory of being besieged by the paparazzi outside SIP after our engagement was leaked comes unwelcome to mind—all part of the Harry Styles package. "L'addition!" Harry snaps at the passing waitress.

"We're going," he says to me.

"Now?"

"Yes. Now."

Oh shit, he's not to be argued with.

He pulls on his shorts, even though his trunks are dripping wet, then his green T-shirt. The waitress is back in a moment with his credit card and the check.

Reluctantly, I wriggle into my turquoise shirt and step into my flip-flops. Once the waitress has left, Harry snatches up his book and BlackBerry and masks his fury behind mirrored aviator glasses. He's bristling with tension and anger. My heart sinks. Every other person on the beach is naked—it's not that big of a crime. In fact, I look odd with my clothes on. I sigh inwardly, my spirits sinking. I thought Harry would see the funny side . . . sort of . . . maybe if I'd stayed on my front, but his sense of humor has evaporated.

"Please don't be mad at me," I whisper, taking his book and BlackBerry from him and placing them in my backpack.

"Too late for that," he says quietly—too quietly. "Come." Taking my hand, he signals up to Taylor and his two sidekicks, the French security officers Philippe and Gaston. Weirdly, they are identical twins. They have been patiently watching us and everyone else on the beach from the verandah. Why do I keep forgetting about them? How? Taylor is stony-faced behind his dark glasses. Shit, he's mad at me, too. I'm still not used to seeing him so casually dressed in shorts and a black polo shirt.

Harry leads me into the hotel, through the lobby, and out onto the street. He remains silent, brooding and bad-tempered, and it's all my fault. Taylor and his team shadow us.

"Where are we going?" I ask tentatively, gazing up at him.

"Back to the boat." He doesn't look at me.

I have no idea of the time. I think it must be about five or six in the afternoon. When we reach the marina, Harry leads me onto the dock where the motorboat and Jet Ski belonging to the Fair Lady are moored. As Harry unties the Jet Ski, I hand my backpack to Taylor. I glance nervously up at him, but like Harry, his expression gives nothing away. I flush, thinking about what he's seen on the beach.