50 shades freed

Chapter 9

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 9

When I wake before the alarm the following morning, Harry is wrapped around me like ivy, his head on my chest, his arm around my waist, and his leg between mine. And he's on my side of the bed. It's always the same, if we argue the night before, this is how he ends up, coiled around me, making me hot and bothered.

Oh, Fifty. He is so needy on some level. Who would have thought? The familiar vision of Harry as a dirty, wretched little boy haunts me. Gently, I stroke his shorter hair and my melancholy recedes. He stirs, and his sleepy eyes meet mine. He blinks a couple of times as he wakes.

"Hi," he murmurs and smiles.

"Hi." I love waking to that smile. He nuzzles my chest and hums appreciatively deep in his throat. His hand travels down from my waist, skimming over the cool satin of my pyjama bottoms.

"What a tempting morsel you are," he mutters. "But, tempting though you are," he glances at the alarm, "I have to get up." He stretches out, untangles himself from me, and rises.

I lie back, put my hands behind my head, and enjoy the show—Harry stripping for his shower. He is perfect. I wouldn't change a hair on his head.

"Admiring the view, Mr. Tomlinson-Styles?" Harry arches a sardonic brow at me.

"It's a mighty fine view, Mr. Styles."

He grins and throws his pyjama pants at me so they almost land on my face, but I catch them in time, giggling like a schoolboy. With a wicked grin, he pulls the duvet off, puts one knee on the bed, grabs my ankles, and drags me toward him so that my pants slide down. I squeal, and he crawls up my body, trailing little kisses on my knee, my thigh . . . my . . . oh . . . Harry!

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"Good morning, Mr. Tomlinson-Styles," Mrs. Jones greets me. I flush, embarrassed remembering her tryst with Taylor the night before.

"Good morning," I respond as she hands me a cup of tea. I sit on the bar stool beside my husband, who just looks radiant: freshly showered, his hair damp, wearing a crisp white shirt and that silver-gray tie. My favorite tie. I have fond memories of that tie.

"How are you, Mr. Tomlinson-Styles?" he asks, his eyes warm.

"I think you know, Mr. Styles." I gaze up at him through my lashes.

He smirks. "Eat," he orders. "You didn't eat yesterday."

Oh, bossy Fifty!

"That's because you were being an arse."

Mrs. Jones drops something that clatters into the sink, making me jump. Harry seems oblivious to the noise. Ignoring her, he stares at me impassively.

"Arse or not—eat." His tone is serious. No arguing with him.

"Okay! Picking up spoon, eating granola," I mutter like a petulant teenager. I reach for the Greek yoghurt and spoon some onto my cereal, followed by a handful of blueberries. I glance at Mrs. Jones, and she catches my eye. I smile, and she responds with a warm smile of her own. She has provided me with my breakfast of choice introduced to me on our honeymoon.

"I may have to go to New York later in the week." Harry's announcement interrupts my reverie.

"Oh."

"It'll mean an overnight. I want you to come with me."