50 shades freed

Chapter 4

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 4

I'm restless. Harry has been holed up in the onboard study for over an hour. I have tried reading, watching TV, sunbathing—fully dressed sunbathing—but I can't relax, and I can't rid myself of this edgy feeling. After changing into shorts and a T-shirt, I remove the ludicrously expensive bangle and go to find Taylor.

"Mr. Tomlinson-Styles," he says, startled from his Anthony Burgess novel. He's sitting in the small salon outside Harry's study. "I'd like to go shopping."

"Yes sir." He stands.

"I'd like to take the Jet Ski."

His mouth drops open. "Erm." He frowns, lost for words.

"I don't want to bother Harry with this."

He represses a sigh. "Mr. Tomlinson-Styles . . . um . . . I don't think Mr. Styles would be very comfortable with that, and I'd like to keep my job."

Oh, for heaven's sake! I want to roll my eyes at him, but I narrow them instead, sighing heavily and expressing, I think, the right amount of frustrated indignation that I am not the orchestrater of my own destiny. Then again, I don't want Harry mad at Taylor—or me, for that matter. Striding confidently past him, I knock on the study door and enter.

Harry is on his BlackBerry, leaning against the mahogany desk. He glances up. "Andrea, hold please," he mutters down the phone, his expression serious. His gaze is politely expectant. Shit. Why do I feel like I've entered the principal's office? This man had me in handcuffs yesterday. I refuse to be intimidated by him; he's my husband damn it. I square my shoulders and give him a broad smile.

"I'm going shopping. I'll take security with me."

"Sure, take one of the twins and Taylor, too," he says, and I know that whatever's happening is serious because he doesn't question me further. I stand staring at him, wondering if I can help.

"Anything else?" he asks. He wants me gone. Crap.

"Can I get you anything?" I ask. He smiles his sweet shy smile.

"No, baby, I'm good," he says. "The crew will look after me."

"Okay." I want to kiss him. Hell, I can—he's my husband. Strolling purposefully forward, I plant a kiss on his lips, surprising him.

"Andrea, I'll call you back," he mutters. He puts the BlackBerry down on the desk behind him, pulls me into his embrace, and kisses me passionately. I am breathless when he releases me. His eyes are dark and needy.

"You're distracting me. I need to sort this, so I can get back to my honeymoon." He runs an index finger down my face and caresses my chin, tilting my face up.

"Okay. I'm sorry."

"Please don't apologize, Mr. Tomlinson-Styles. I love your distractions." He kisses the corner of my mouth.

"Go spend some money." He releases me.

"Will do." I smirk at him as I exit his study. My subconscious shakes his head and purses his lips. You didn't tell him you were going on the Jet Ski, he chastises me in his singsong voice. I ignore him . . . Harpy.

Taylor is patiently waiting.

"That's all cleared with high command . . . can we go?" I smile, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. Taylor doesn't hide his admiring smile. "Mr. Tomlinson-Styles, after you."