50 shades freed

Chapter 25

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 25

I can barely breathe. Do I want to hear this? Harry closes his eyes and swallows. When he opens them again, they are bright but diffident, full of disquieting memories.

"It was a hot summer day. I was working hard." He snorts and shakes his head, suddenly amused. "It was backbreaking work shifting that rubble. I was on my own, and Ni—Mr. Grimshaw appeared out of nowhere and brought me some lemonade. We exchanged small talk, and I made some smart-ass remark . . . and he slapped me. He slapped me so hard." Unconsciously, his hand moves to his face and he caresses his cheek, his eyes clouding at the memory. Holy shit!

"But then he kissed me. And when he finished, he slapped me again." He blinks, seemingly still confounded even after all this time.

"I'd never been kissed before or hit like that." Oh. He pounced. On a kid.

"Do you want to hear this?" Harrys asks.

Yes . . . No . . .

"Only if you want to tell me." My voice is small as I lie facing him, my mind reeling.

"I'm trying to give you some context."

I nod in what I hope is an encouraging manner. But I suspect I may look like a statue, frozen and wide-eyed with shock.

He frowns, his eyes searching mine, trying to gauge my reaction. Then he turns onto his back and stares up at the ceiling.

"Well, naturally, I was confused and angry and horny as hell. I mean, a hot older guy comes on to you like that—" He shakes his head as if he still can't believe it.

Hot? I feel queasy.

"He went back into the house, leaving me in the backyard. He acted as if nothing had happened. I was at a total loss. So I went back to work, loading the rubble into the dumpster. When I left that evening, he asked me to come back the next day. He didn't mention what had happened. So the next day I went back. I couldn't wait to see him again," he whispers as if it's a dark confession . . . because frankly it is.

"He didn't touch me when he kissed me," he murmurs and turns his head to gaze at me. "You have to understand . . . my life was hell on earth. I was a walking hard-on, fifteen years old, tall for my age, hormones raging. The boys at school—" He stops, but I've got the picture: a scared, lonely, but attractive adolescent. My heart twists.

"I was angry, so fucking angry at everyone, at myself, my folks. I had no friends. My therapist at the time was a total asshole. My folks, they kept me on a tight leash; they didn't understand." He stares back up at the ceiling and runs a hand through his hair. I itch to run my fingers through his hair, too, but I stay still.

"I just couldn't bear anyone to touch me. I couldn't. Couldn't bear anyone near me. I used to fight . . . fuck, did I fight. I got into some god-awful brawls. I was expelled from a couple of schools. But it was a way to let off steam. To tolerate some kind of physical contact." He stops again. "Well, you get the idea. And when he kissed me, he only grabbed my face. He didn't touch me." His voice is barely audible.

He must have known. Perhaps Anne had told him. Oh, my poor Fifty. I have to fold my hands beneath my pillow and rest my head on it in order to resist the urge to hold him.

"Well, the next day I went back to the house, not knowing what to expect. And I'll spare you the gory details, but there was more of the same. And that's how our relationship started." Oh, fuck, this is painful to hear.