50 shades freed

Chapter 15

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 15

I am too warm. Harry warm. His head is on my shoulder, and he's breathing softly on my neck while he sleeps, his legs threaded through mine, his arm around my waist. I linger on the edge of consciousness, aware that if I wake fully, I'll wake him, too, and he doesn't sleep enough. Hazily my mind wanders through the events of yesterday evening. I drank too much—boy did I drink too much. I'm amazed Harry let me. I smile as I remember him putting me to bed. That was sweet, real sweet, and unexpected. I conduct a quick mental inventory of how I'm feeling. Stomach? Fine. Head? Surprisingly, fine, but fuzzy. My palm is still red from last night. Sheesh. Idly I think about Harry's palms when he's spanked me. I squirm and he wakes.

"What's wrong?" Sleepy green eyes search mine.

"Nothing. Good morning." I run the fingers of my uninjured hand through his hair.

"Mr. Tomlinson-Styles, you look lovely this morning," he says, kissing my cheek, and I light up from within.

"Thank you for taking care of me last night."

"I like taking care of you. It's what I want to do," he says quietly, but his eyes betray him as triumph flares in their green depths. It's like he's won the World Series or the Super Bowl. Oh, my Fifty.

"You make me feel cherished."

"That's because you are," he murmurs and my heart clenches.

He clasps my hand and I wince. He releases me immediately, alarmed. "The punch?" he asks. His eyes frost as he scrutinizes mine, and his voice is laced with sudden anger. 

"I slapped him. I didn't punch him."

"That fucker!"

I thought we'd dealt with this last night. "I can't bear that he touched you."

"He didn't hurt me; he was just inappropriate. Harry, I'm okay. My hand's a little red, that's all. Surely you know what that's like?" I smirk, and his expression changes to one of amused surprise.

"Why, Mr. Tomlinson-Styles, I am very familiar with that." His lips twist in amusement. "I could reacquaint myself with that feeling this minute, should you so wish."

"Oh, stow your twitching palm, Mr. Styles." I stroke his face with my injured hand, my fingers caressing his sideburn. Gently I tug the little hairs. It distracts him, and he takes my hand and plants a tender kiss in my palm. Miraculously, the pain disappears. "Why didn't you tell me this hurt last night?"

"Um . . . I didn't really feel it last night. It's okay now."

His eyes soften and his mouth twists. "How are you feeling?"

"Better than I deserve."

"That's quite a right arm you have there, Mr. Tomlinson-Styles."

"You'd do well to remember that Mr. Styles."

"Oh really?" He rolls suddenly so that he's fully on top of me, pressing me into the mattress, holding my wrists above my head. He gazes down at me.

"I'd fight you any day, Mr. Tomlinson-Styles. In fact, subduing you in bed is a fantasy of mine." He kisses my throat.

What?

"I thought you subdued me all the time." I gasp as he nibbles my earlobe.

"Hmm . . . but I'd like some resistance," he murmurs, his nose skirting my jaw.