50 shades freed

Chapter 8

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 8

Gio Matteo is a good-looking man—a tall, good-looking man. He wears his short, salon-blond, perfectly layered and coiffed hair like a sophisticated crown. He's dressed in a pale green pantsuit; the slacks and fitted jacket hug his lush curves. His clothes look expensive. At the base of his throat, a solitary diamond glints. He is well groomed—one of those men who grew up with money and breeding, though his breeding seems to be lacking this evening; his pale blue blouse is undone too far. Like mine. I flush.

"Harry. Lou." He beams, showing perfect white teeth, and holds out a manicured hand to shake first Harry's, then my hand. It means I have to release Harry's hand to reciprocate. He's a fraction shorter than Harry.

"Gio," Harry says politely. I smile coolly.

"You both look so well after your honeymoon," he says smoothly, his brown eyes gazing at Harry through long fluttering lashes. Harry puts his arm around me, holding me close.

"We had a wonderful time, thank you." He brushes his lips against my temple, taking me by surprise.

See . . . he's mine. Annoying—infuriating, even—but mine. I grin. Right now, I really love you, Harry Styles. I slip my hand around his waist then into his rear pocket of his pants and squeeze his behind. Gio gives us a thin smile.

"Have you managed to look over the plans?"

"We have," I murmur. I gaze up at Harry, who grins down at me, one eyebrow raised in wry amusement. Amused at what? My reaction to Gio or me squeezing his butt?

"Please," Harry says. "The plans are here." He gestures toward the dining table. Taking my hand, he leads me to it, Gio following in our wake. I finally remember my manners.

"Would you like something to drink?" I ask. "A glass of wine?"

"That would be lovely," Gio says. "Dry white if you have it."

Shit! Sauvignon blanc—that's a dry white, isn't it? Reluctantly leaving my husband's side, I head over to the kitchen. I hear the iPod hiss as Harry switches off the music.

"Would you like some more wine, Harry?" I call.

"Please, baby," he croons, grinning at me. Wow, he can be so swoon worthy at times yet so aggravating at others.

Reaching up to open the cupboard, I'm aware his eyes are on me, and I'm gripped by the uncanny feeling that Harry and I are putting on a show, playing a game together—but this time we're on the same side pitted against Mr. Matteo. Does Harry know that he's attracted to him and is being too obvious about it? It gives me a small rush of pleasure when I realize maybe he's trying to reassure me. Or maybe he's just sending a message loud and clear to this man that he's taken.

Mine. Yeah, bitch—mine. My inner goddess is wearing her gladiatrix outfit, and she's taking no prisoners. Smiling to myself I collect three glasses from the cupboard, take the opened bottle of sauvignon blanc from the fridge, and place them all on the breakfast bar. Gio is leaning over the table while Harry stands beside him and points at something on the plans.

"I think Lou has some opinions on the glass wall, but generally we're both pleased with the ideas you've come up with."

"Oh, I'm glad," Gio gushes, obviously relieved, and as he says it, he briefly touches his arm in a small, flirty gesture. Harry stiffens immediately but subtly. He doesn't even seem to notice.