p5js/assets/text/50shades.txt

I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror. Damn my hair—it
just won’t behave, and damn Katherine Kavanagh for being ill and
subjecting me to this ordeal. I should be studying for my nal
exams, which are next week, yet here I am trying to brush my hair
into submission. I must not sleep with it wet. I must not sleep with it
wet. Reciting this mantra several times, I attempt, once more, to
bring it under control with the brush. I roll my eyes in exasperation
and gaze at the pale, brown-haired girl with blue eyes too big for
her face staring back at me, and give up. My only option is to
restrain my wayward hair in a ponytail and hope that I look semi-
presentable.
Kate is my roommate, and she has chosen today of all days to
succumb to the u. Therefore, she cannot attend the interview she’d
arranged to do, with some mega-industrialist tycoon I’ve never
heard of, for the student newspaper. So I have been volunteered. I
have nal exams to cram for and one essay to nish, and I’m
supposed to be working this afternoon, but no—today I have to
drive 165 miles to downtown Seattle in order to meet the enigmatic
CEO of Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc. As an exceptional
entrepreneur and major benefactor of our university, his time is
extraordinarily precious—much more precious than mine—but he
has granted Kate an interview. A real coup, she tells me. Damn her
extracurricular activities.
Kate is huddled on the couch in the living room.
“Ana, I’m sorry. It took me nine months to get this interview. It
will take another six to reschedule, and we’ll both have graduated
by then. As the editor, I can’t blow this o. Please,” Kate begs me
in her rasping, sore throat voice. How does she do it? Even ill she
looks gamine and gorgeous, strawberry blond hair in place and
green eyes bright, although now red rimmed and runny. I ignore
my pang of unwelcome sympathy.
“Of course I’ll go, Kate. You should get back to bed. Would you
like some NyQuil or Tylenol?”
“NyQuil, please. Here are the questions and my digital recorder.
Just press record here. Make notes, I’ll transcribe it all.”
“I know nothing about him,” I murmur, trying and failing to
suppress my rising panic.
“The questions will see you through. Go. It’s a long drive. I don’t
want you to be late.”
“Okay, I’m going. Get back to bed. I made you some soup to heat
up later.” I stare at her fondly. Only for you, Kate, would I do this.
“I will. Good luck. And thanks, Ana—as usual, you’re my
lifesaver.”
Gathering my backpack, I smile wryly at her, then head out the
door to the car. I cannot believe I have let Kate talk me into this.
But then Kate can talk anyone into anything. She’ll make an
exceptional journalist. She’s articulate, strong, persuasive,
argumentative, beautiful—and she’s my dearest, dearest friend.
THE ROADS ARE CLEAR as I set o from Vancouver, Washington, toward
Interstate 5. It’s early, and I don’t have to be in Seattle until two
this afternoon. Fortunately, Kate has lent me her sporty Mercedes
CLK. I’m not sure Wanda, my old VW Beetle, would make the
journey in time. Oh, the Merc is a fun drive, and the miles slip away
as I hit the pedal to the metal.
My destination is the headquarters of Mr. Grey’s global
enterprise. It’s a huge twenty-story oce building, all curved glass
and steel, an architect’s utilitarian fantasy, with GREY HOUSE written
discreetly in steel over the glass front doors. It’s a quarter to two
when I arrive, greatly relieved that I’m not late as I walk into the
enormous—and frankly intimidating—glass, steel, and white
sandstone lobby.
Behind the solid sandstone desk, a very attractive, groomed,
blonde young woman smiles pleasantly at me. She’s wearing the
sharpest charcoal suit jacket and white shirt I have ever seen. She
looks immaculate.
“I’m here to see Mr. Grey. Anastasia Steele for Katherine
Kavanagh.”
“Excuse me one moment, Miss Steele.” She arches her eyebrow as
I stand self-consciously before her. I’m beginning to wish I’d
borrowed one of Kate’s formal blazers rather than worn my navy-
blue jacket. I have made an eort and worn my one and only skirt,
my sensible brown knee-length boots, and a blue sweater. For me,
this is smart. I tuck one of the escaped tendrils of my hair behind
my ear as I pretend she doesn’t intimidate me.
“Miss Kavanagh is expected. Please sign in here, Miss Steele.
You’ll want the last elevator on the right, press for the twentieth
oor.” She smiles kindly at me, amused no doubt, as I sign in.
She hands me a security pass that has “visitor” very rmly
stamped on the front. I can’t help my smirk. Surely it’s obvious that
I’m just visiting. I don’t t in here at all. Nothing changes. I inwardly
sigh. Thanking her, I walk over to the bank of elevators and past
the two security men who are both far more smartly dressed than I
am in their well-cut black suits.
The elevator whisks me at terminal velocity to the twentieth
oor. The doors slide open, and I’m in another large lobby—again
all glass, steel, and white sandstone. I’m confronted by another desk
of sandstone and another young blonde woman, this time dressed
impeccably in black and white, who rises to greet me.
“Miss Steele, could you wait here, please?” She points to a seated
area of white leather chairs.
Behind the leather chairs is a spacious glass-walled meeting room
with an equally spacious dark wood table and at least twenty
matching chairs around it. Beyond that, there is a oor-to-ceiling
window with a view of the Seattle skyline that looks out through
the city toward the Sound. It’s a stunning vista, and I’m
momentarily paralyzed by the view. Wow.
I sit down, sh the questions from my backpack, and go through
them, inwardly cursing Kate for not providing me with a brief
biography. I know nothing about this man I’m about to interview.
He could be ninety or he could be thirty. The uncertainty is galling,
and my nerves resurface, making me dget. I’ve never been
comfortable with one-on-one interviews, preferring the anonymity
of a group discussion where I can sit inconspicuously at the back of
the room. To be honest, I prefer my own company, reading a classic
British novel, curled up in a chair in the campus library. Not sitting
twitching nervously in a colossal glass-and-stone edice.
I roll my eyes at myself. Get a grip, Steele. Judging from the
building, which is too clinical and modern, I guess Grey is in his
forties: t, tanned, and fair-haired to match the rest of the
personnel.
Another elegant, awlessly dressed blonde comes out of a large
door to the right. What is it with all the immaculate blondes? It’s
like Stepford here. Taking a deep breath, I stand up.
“Miss Steele?” the latest blonde asks.
“Yes,” I croak, and clear my throat. “Yes.” There, that sounded
more condent.
“Mr. Grey will see you in a moment. May I take your jacket?”
“Oh, please.” I struggle out of the jacket.
“Have you been oered any refreshment?”
“Um—no.” Oh dear, is Blonde Number One in trouble?
Blonde Number Two frowns and eyes the young woman at the
desk.
“Would you like tea, coee, water?” she asks, turning her
attention back to me.
“A glass of water. Thank you,” I murmur.
“Olivia, please fetch Miss Steele a glass of water.” Her voice is
stern. Olivia scoots up and scurries to a door on the other side of
the foyer.
“My apologies, Miss Steele, Olivia is our new intern. Please be
seated. Mr. Grey will be another ve minutes.”
Olivia returns with a glass of iced water.
“Here you go, Miss Steele.”
“Thank you.”
Blonde Number Two marches over to the large desk, her heels
clicking and echoing on the sandstone oor. She sits down, and they
both continue their work.
Perhaps Mr. Grey insists on all his employees being blonde. I’m
wondering idly if that’s legal, when the oce door opens and a tall,
elegantly dressed, attractive African American man with short
dreads exits. I have denitely worn the wrong clothes.
He turns and says through the door, “Golf this week, Grey?”
I don’t hear the reply. He turns, sees me, and smiles, his dark
eyes crinkling at the corners. Olivia has jumped up and called the
elevator. She seems to excel at jumping from her seat. She’s more
nervous than me!
“Good afternoon, ladies,” he says as he departs through the
sliding door.
“Mr. Grey will see you now, Miss Steele. Do go through,” Blonde
Number Two says. I stand rather shakily, trying to suppress my
nerves. Gathering up my backpack, I abandon my glass of water and
make my way to the partially open door.
“You don’t need to knock—just go in.” She smiles kindly.
I push open the door and stumble through, tripping over my own
feet and falling headrst into the oce.
Double crap—me and my two left feet! I am on my hands and
knees in the doorway to Mr. Grey’s oce, and gentle hands are
around me, helping me to stand. I am so embarrassed, damn my
clumsiness. I have to steel myself to glance up. Holy cow—he’s so
young.
“Miss Kavanagh.” He extends a long-ngered hand to me once
I’m upright. “I’m Christian Grey. Are you all right? Would you like
to sit?”
So young—and attractive, very attractive. He’s tall, dressed in a
ne gray suit, white shirt, and black tie with unruly dark copper-
colored hair and intense, bright gray eyes that regard me shrewdly.
It takes a moment for me to nd my voice.
“Um. Actually—” I mutter. If this guy is over thirty, then I’m a
monkey’s uncle. In a daze, I place my hand in his and we shake. As
our ngers touch, I feel an odd exhilarating shiver run through me.
I withdraw my hand hastily, embarrassed. Must be static. I blink
rapidly, my eyelids matching my heart rate.
“Miss Kavanagh is indisposed, so she sent me. I hope you don’t
mind, Mr. Grey.”
“And you are?” His voice is warm, possibly amused, but it’s
dicult to tell from his impassive expression. He looks mildly
interested but, above all, polite.
“Anastasia Steele. I’m studying English literature with Kate, um
… Katherine … um … Miss Kavanagh, at WSU Vancouver.”
“I see,” he says simply. I think I see the ghost of a smile in his
expression, but I’m not sure.
“Would you like to sit?” He waves me toward an L-shaped white
leather couch.
His oce is way too big for just one man. In front of the oor-to-
ceiling windows, there’s a modern dark wood desk that six people
could comfortably eat around. It matches the coee table by the
couch. Everything else is white—ceiling, oors, and walls, except
for the wall by the door, where a mosaic of small paintings hang,
thirty-six of them arranged in a square. They are exquisite—a series
of mundane, forgotten objects painted in such precise detail they
look like photographs. Displayed together, they are breathtaking.
“A local artist. Trouton,” says Grey when he catches my gaze.
“They’re lovely. Raising the ordinary to extraordinary,” I
murmur, distracted both by him and the paintings. He cocks his
head to one side and regards me intently.
“I couldn’t agree more, Miss Steele,” he replies, his voice soft,
and for some inexplicable reason I nd myself blushing.
Apart from the paintings, the rest of the oce is cold, clean, and
clinical. I wonder if it reects the personality of the Adonis who
sinks gracefully into one of the white leather chairs opposite me. I
shake my head, disturbed at the direction of my thoughts, and
retrieve Kate’s questions from my backpack. Next, I set up the
digital recorder and am all ngers and thumbs, dropping it twice on
the coee table in front of me. Mr. Grey says nothing, waiting
patiently—I hope—as I become increasingly embarrassed and
ustered. When I pluck up the courage to look at him, he’s
watching me, one hand relaxed in his lap and the other cupping his
chin and trailing his long index nger across his lips. I think he’s
trying to suppress a smile.
“S-sorry,” I stutter. “I’m not used to this.”
“Take all the time you need, Miss Steele,” he says.
“Do you mind if I record your answers?”
“After you’ve taken so much trouble to set up the recorder, you
ask me now?”
I ush. He’s teasing me? I hope. I blink at him, unsure what to
say, and I think he takes pity on me because he relents. “No, I don’t
mind.”
“Did Kate, I mean, Miss Kavanagh, explain what the interview
was for?”
“Yes. To appear in the graduation issue of the student newspaper
as I shall be conferring the degrees at this year’s graduation
ceremony.”
Oh! This is news to me, and I’m temporarily preoccupied by the
thought that someone not much older than me—okay, maybe six
years or so, and okay, mega-successful, but still—is going to present
me with my degree. I frown, dragging my wayward attention back
to the task at hand.
“Good.” I swallow nervously. “I have some questions, Mr. Grey.”
I smooth a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
“I thought you might,” he says, deadpan. He’s laughing at me.
My cheeks heat at the realization, and I sit up and square my
shoulders in an attempt to look taller and more intimidating.
Pressing the start button on the recorder, I try to look professional.
“You’re very young to have amassed such an empire. To what do
you owe your success?” I glance up at him. His smile is rueful, but
he looks vaguely disappointed.
“Business is all about people, Miss Steele, and I’m very good at
judging people. I know how they tick, what makes them ourish,
what doesn’t, what inspires them, and how to incentivize them. I
employ an exceptional team, and I reward them well.” He pauses
and xes me with his gray stare. “My belief is to achieve success in
any scheme one has to make oneself master of that scheme, know it
inside and out, know every detail. I work hard, very hard to do
that. I make decisions based on logic and facts. I have a natural gut
instinct that can spot and nurture a good solid idea and good
people. The bottom line is it’s always down to good people.”
“Maybe you’re just lucky.” This isn’t on Kate’s list—but he’s so
arrogant. His eyes are momentarily in surprise.
“I don’t subscribe to luck or chance, Miss Steele. The harder I
work the more luck I seem to have. It really is all about having the
right people on your team and directing their energies accordingly.
I think it was Harvey Firestone who said, ‘The growth and
development of people is the highest calling of leadership.’ ”
“You sound like a control freak.” The words are out of my mouth
before I can stop them.
“Oh, I exercise control in all things, Miss Steele,” he says without
a trace of humor in his smile. I look at him, and he holds my gaze
steadily, impassive. My heartbeat quickens, and my face ushes
again.
Why does he have such an unnerving eect on me? His
overwhelming good looks maybe? The way his eyes blaze at me?
The way he strokes his index nger against his lower lip? I wish
he’d stop doing that.
“Besides, immense power is acquired by assuring yourself in your
secret reveries that you were born to control things,” he continues,
his voice soft.
“Do you feel that you have immense power?” Control freak.
“I employ over forty thousand people, Miss Steele. That gives me
a certain sense of responsibility—power, if you will. If I were to
decide I was no longer interested in the telecommunications
business and sell, twenty thousand people would struggle to make
their mortgage payments after a month or so.”
My mouth drops open. I am staggered by his lack of humility.
“Don’t you have a board to answer to?” I ask, disgusted.
“I own my company. I don’t have to answer to a board.” He
raises an eyebrow at me. Of course, I would know this if I had done
some research. But holy crap, he’s arrogant. I change tack.
“And do you have any interests outside your work?”
“I have varied interests, Miss Steele.” A ghost of a smile touches
his lips. “Very varied.” And for some reason, I’m confounded and
heated by his steady gaze. His eyes are alight with some wicked
thought.
“But if you work so hard, what do you do to chill out?”
“Chill out?” He smiles, revealing perfect white teeth. I stop
breathing. He really is beautiful. No one should be this good-
looking.
“Well, to ‘chill out,’ as you put it—I sail, I y, I indulge in
various physical pursuits.” He shifts in his chair. “I’m a very
wealthy man, Miss Steele, and I have expensive and absorbing
hobbies.”
I glance quickly at Kate’s questions, wanting to get o this
subject.
“You invest in manufacturing. Why, specically?” I ask. Why
does he make me so uncomfortable?
“I like to build things. I like to know how things work: what
makes things tick, how to construct and deconstruct. And I have a
love of ships. What can I say?”
“That sounds like your heart talking rather than logic and facts.”
His mouth quirks up, and he stares appraisingly at me.
“Possibly. Though there are people who’d say I don’t have a
heart.”
“Why would they say that?”
“Because they know me well.” His lip curls in a wry smile.
“Would your friends say you’re easy to get to know?” And I
regret the question as soon as I say it. It’s not on Kate’s list.
“I’m a very private person, Miss Steele. I go a long way to
protect my privacy. I don’t often give interviews …”
“Why did you agree to do this one?”
“Because I’m a benefactor of the university, and for all intents
and purposes, I couldn’t get Miss Kavanagh o my back. She
badgered and badgered my PR people, and I admire that kind of
tenacity.”
I know how tenacious Kate can be. That’s why I’m sitting here
squirming uncomfortably under his penetrating gaze, when I should
be studying for my exams.
“You also invest in farming technologies. Why are you interested
in that area?”
“We can’t eat money, Miss Steele, and there are too many people
on this planet who don’t have enough to eat.”
“That sounds very philanthropic. Is it something you feel
passionately about? Feeding the world’s poor?”
He shrugs noncommittally.
“It’s shrewd business,” he murmurs, though I think he’s being
disingenuous. It doesn’t make sense—feeding the world’s poor? I
can’t see the nancial benet of this, only the virtue of the ideal. I
glance at the next question, confused by his attitude.
“Do you have a philosophy? If so, what is it?”
“I don’t have a philosophy as such. Maybe a guiding principle—
Carnegie’s: ‘A man who acquires the ability to take full possession
of his own mind may take possession of anything else to which he is
justly entitled.’ I’m very singular, driven. I like control—of myself
and those around me.”
“So you want to possess things?” You are a control freak.
“I want to deserve to possess them, but yes, bottom line, I do.”
“You sound like the ultimate consumer.”
“I am.” He smiles, but the smile doesn’t touch his eyes. Again,
this is at odds with someone who wants to feed the world, so I can’t
help thinking that we’re talking about something else, but I’m
mystied as to what it is. I swallow hard. The temperature in the
room is rising, or maybe it’s just me. I just want this interview to
be over. Surely Kate has enough material now. I glance at the next
question.
“You were adopted. How much do you think that’s shaped the
way you are?” Oh, this is personal. I stare at him, hoping he’s not
oended. His brow furrows.
“I have no way of knowing.”
My interest is piqued. “How old were you when you were
adopted?”
“That’s a matter of public record, Miss Steele.” His tone is stern.
Crap. Yes, of course—if I’d known I was doing this interview, I
would have done some research. Flustered, I move on quickly.
“You’ve had to sacrice family life for your work.”
“That’s not a question.” He’s terse.
“Sorry.” I squirm; he’s made me feel like an errant child. I try
again. “Have you had to sacrice family life for your work?”
“I have a family. I have a brother and a sister and two loving
parents. I’m not interested in extending my family beyond that.”
“Are you gay, Mr. Grey?”
He inhales sharply, and I cringe, mortied. Crap. Why didn’t I
employ some kind of lter before I read this straight out? How can
I tell him I’m just reading the questions? Damn Kate and her
curiosity!
“No, Anastasia, I’m not.” He raises his eyebrows, a cool gleam in
his eyes. He does not look pleased.
“I apologize. It’s, um … written here.” It’s the rst time he’s said
my name. My heartbeat has accelerated, and my cheeks are heating
up again. Nervously, I tuck my loosened hair behind my ear.
He cocks his head to one side.
“These aren’t your own questions?”
The blood drains from my head.
“Er … no. Kate—Miss Kavanagh—she compiled the questions.”
“Are you colleagues on the student paper?” Oh no. I have nothing
to do with the student paper. It’s her extracurricular activity, not
mine. My face is aame.
“No. She’s my roommate.”
He rubs his chin in quiet deliberation, his gray eyes appraising
me.
“Did you volunteer to do this interview?” he asks, his voice
deadly quiet.
Hang on, who’s supposed to be interviewing whom? His eyes
burn into me, and I’m compelled to answer with the truth.
“I was drafted. She’s not well.” My voice is weak and apologetic.
“That explains a great deal.”
There’s a knock at the door, and Blonde Number Two enters.
“Mr. Grey, forgive me for interrupting, but your next meeting is
in two minutes.”
“We’re not nished here, Andrea. Please cancel my next
meeting.”
Andrea hesitates, gaping at him. She appears lost. He turns his
head slowly to face her and raises his eyebrows. She ushes bright
pink. Oh, good. It’s not just me.
“Very well, Mr. Grey,” she mutters, then exits. He frowns, and
turns his attention back to me.
“Where were we, Miss Steele?”
Oh, we’re back to “Miss Steele” now.
“Please, don’t let me keep you from anything.”
“I want to know about you. I think that’s only fair.” His eyes are
alight with curiosity. Double crap. Where’s he going with this? He
places his elbows on the arms of the chair and steeples his ngers in
front of his mouth. His mouth is very … distracting. I swallow.
“There’s not much to know.”
“What are your plans after you graduate?”
I shrug, thrown by his interest. Move to Seattle with Kate, nd a
job. I haven’t really thought beyond my nals.
“I haven’t made any plans, Mr. Grey. I just need to get through
my nal exams.” Which I should be studying for right now, rather
than sitting in your palatial, swanky, sterile oce, feeling
uncomfortable under your penetrating gaze.
“We run an excellent internship program here,” he says quietly. I
raise my eyebrows in surprise. Is he oering me a job?
“Oh. I’ll bear that in mind,” I murmur, confounded. “Though I’m
not sure I’d t in here.” Oh no. I’m musing out loud again.
“Why do you say that?” He tilts his head to one side, intrigued, a
hint of a smile playing on his lips.
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” I’m uncoordinated, scruy, and I’m not
blonde.
“Not to me.” His gaze is intense, all humor gone, and strange
muscles deep in my belly clench suddenly. I tear my eyes away
from his scrutiny and stare blindly down at my knotted ngers.
What’s going on? I have to go—now. I lean forward to retrieve the
recorder.
“Would you like me to show you around?” he asks.
“I’m sure you’re far too busy, Mr. Grey, and I do have a long
drive.”
“You’re driving back to Vancouver?” He sounds surprised,
anxious even. He glances out of the window. It’s begun to rain.
“Well, you’d better drive carefully.” His tone is stern, authoritative.
Why should he care? “Did you get everything you need?” he adds.
“Yes, sir,” I reply, packing the recorder into my backpack. His
eyes narrow, speculatively.
“Thank you for the interview, Mr. Grey.”
“The pleasure’s been all mine,” he says, polite as ever.
As I rise, he stands and holds out his hand.
“Until we meet again, Miss Steele.” And it sounds like a
challenge, or a threat, I’m not sure which. I frown. When will we
ever meet again? I shake his hand once more, astounded that that
odd current between us is still there. It must be my nerves.
“Mr. Grey.” I nod at him. Moving with lithe athletic grace to the
door, he opens it wide.
“Just ensuring you make it through the door, Miss Steele.” He
gives me a small smile. Obviously, he’s referring to my earlier less-
than-elegant entry into his oce. I blush.
“That’s very considerate, Mr. Grey,” I snap, and his smile widens.
I’m glad you nd me entertaining, I glower inwardly, walking into
the foyer. I’m surprised when he follows me out. Andrea and Olivia
both look up, equally surprised.
“Did you have a coat?” Grey asks.
“A jacket.”
Olivia leaps up and retrieves my jacket, which Grey takes from
her before she can hand it to me. He holds it up and, feeling
ridiculously self-conscious, I shrug it on. Grey places his hands for a
moment on my shoulders. I gasp at the contact. If he notices my
reaction, he gives nothing away. His long index nger presses the
button summoning the elevator, and we stand waiting—awkwardly
on my part, coolly self-possessed on his. The doors open, and I
hurry in, desperate to escape. I really need to get out of here. When I
turn to look at him, he’s gazing at me and leaning against the
doorway beside the elevator with one hand on the wall. He really is
very, very good-looking. It’s unnerving.
“Anastasia,” he says as a farewell.
“Christian,” I reply. And mercifully, the doors close.
CHAPTER TWO
My heart is pounding. The elevator arrives on the rst oor, and I
scramble out as soon as the doors slide open, stumbling once but
fortunately not sprawling onto the immaculate sandstone oor. I
race for the wide glass doors, and suddenly I’m free in the bracing,
cleansing, damp air of Seattle. Raising my face, I welcome the cool,
refreshing rain. I close my eyes and take a deep, purifying breath,
trying to recover what’s left of my equilibrium.
No man has ever aected me the way Christian Grey has, and I
cannot fathom why. Is it his looks? His civility? Wealth? Power? I
don’t understand my irrational reaction. I breathe an enormous sigh
of relief. What in heaven’s name was that all about? Leaning
against one of the steel pillars of the building, I valiantly attempt to
calm down and gather my thoughts. I shake my head. What was
that? My heart steadies to its regular rhythm, and when I can
breathe normally again I head for the car.
AS I LEAVE THE city limits behind, I begin to feel foolish and
embarrassed as I replay the interview in my mind. Surely I’m
overreacting to something that’s imaginary. Okay, so he’s very
attractive, condent, commanding, at ease with himself—but on the
ip side, he’s arrogant, and for all his impeccable manners, he’s
autocratic and cold. Well, on the surface. An involuntary shiver runs
down my spine. He may be arrogant, but then he has a right to be—
he’s accomplished so much at such a young age. He doesn’t suer
fools gladly, but why should he? Again, I’m irritated that Kate
didn’t give me a brief biography.
While cruising toward Interstate 5, my mind continues to wander.
I’m truly perplexed as to what makes someone so driven to succeed.
Some of his answers were so cryptic—as if he had a hidden agenda.
And Kate’s questions—ugh! The adoption and asking him if he was
gay! I shudder. I can’t believe I said that. Ground, swallow me up
now! Every time I think of that question in the future, I will cringe
with embarrassment. Damn Katherine Kavanagh!
I check the speedometer. I’m driving more cautiously than I
would on any other occasion. And I know it’s the memory of those
penetrating gray eyes gazing at me and a stern voice telling me to
drive carefully. Shaking my head, I realize that Grey’s more like a
man twice his age.
Forget it, Ana, I scold myself. I decide that, all in all, it’s been a
very interesting experience, but I shouldn’t dwell on it. Put it behind
you. I never have to see him again. I’m immediately cheered by the
thought. I switch on the stereo and turn the volume up loud, sit
back and listen to thumping indie rock music as I press down on the
accelerator. As I hit Interstate 5, I realize I can drive as fast as I
want.
WE LIVE IN A small community of duplex apartments close to the
Vancouver campus of WSU. I’m lucky—Kate’s parents bought the
place for her, and I pay peanuts for rent. It’s been home for four
years now. As I pull up outside, I know Kate is going to want a
blow-by-blow account, and she is tenacious. Well, at least she has
the digital recorder. I hope I won’t have to elaborate much beyond
what was said during the interview.
“Ana! You’re back.” Kate sits in our living area, surrounded by
books. She’s clearly been studying for nals—she’s still in her pink
annel pajamas decorated with cute little rabbits, the ones she
reserves for the aftermath of breaking up with boyfriends, for
assorted illnesses, and for general moody depression. She bounds up
to me and hugs me hard.
“I was beginning to worry. I expected you back sooner.”
“Oh, I thought I made good time considering the interview ran
over.” I wave the digital recorder at her.
“Ana, thank you so much for doing this. I owe you, I know. How
was it? What was he like?” Oh no—here we go, the Katherine
Kavanagh Inquisition.
I struggle to answer her question. What can I say?
“I’m glad it’s over and I don’t have to see him again. He was
rather intimidating, you know.” I shrug. “He’s very focused, intense
even—and young. Really young.”
Kate gazes innocently at me. I frown.
“Don’t you look so innocent. Why didn’t you give me a
biography? He made me feel like such an idiot for skimping on
basic research.”
Kate clamps a hand to her mouth. “Jeez, Ana, I’m sorry—I didn’t
think.”
I hu.
“Mostly he was courteous, formal, slightly stuy—like he’s old
before his time. He doesn’t talk like a man of twentysomething.
How old is he, anyway?”
“Twenty-seven. Jeez, Ana, I’m sorry. I should have briefed you,
but I was in such a panic. Let me have the recorder and I’ll start
transcribing the interview.”
“You look better. Did you eat your soup?” I ask, keen to change
the subject.
“Yes, and it was delicious as usual. I’m feeling much better.” She
smiles at me in gratitude. I check my watch.
“I have to run. I can still make my shift at Clayton’s.”
“Ana, you’ll be exhausted.”
“I’ll be ne. I’ll see you later.”
I’VE WORKED AT CLAYTON’S since I started at WSU. It’s the largest
independent hardware store in the Portland area, and over the four
years I’ve worked here, I’ve come to know a little bit about most
everything we sell—although ironically, I’m crap at any DIY. I
leave all that to my dad.
I’M GLAD I CAN make my shift as it gives me something to focus on
that isn’t Christian Grey. We’re busy—it’s the start of the summer
season, and folks are redecorating their homes. Mrs. Clayton looks
relieved to see me.
“Ana! I thought you weren’t going to make it today.”
“My appointment didn’t take as long as I thought. I can do a
couple of hours.”
“I’m real pleased to see you.”
She sends me to the storeroom to start restocking shelves, and
I’m soon absorbed in the task.
WHEN I ARRIVE HOME later, Katherine is wearing headphones and
working on her laptop. Her nose is still pink, but she has her teeth
into a story, so she’s concentrating and typing furiously. I’m
thoroughly drained, exhausted by the long drive, by the grueling
interview, and by being swamped at Clayton’s. I slump on to the
couch, thinking about the essay I have to nish and all the studying
I haven’t done today because I was holed up with … him.
“You’ve got some good stu here, Ana. Well done. I can’t believe
you didn’t take him up on his oer to show you around. He
obviously wanted to spend more time with you.” She gives me a
eeting quizzical look.
I ush, and my heart rate inexplicably increases. That wasn’t the
reason, surely. He just wanted to show me around so I could see
that he was lord of all he surveyed. I realize I’m biting my lip, and I
hope Kate doesn’t notice. But she seems absorbed in her
transcription.
“I hear what you mean about formal. Did you take any notes?”
she asks.
“Um … no, I didn’t.”
“That’s ne. I can still make a ne article with this. Shame we
don’t have some original stills. Good-looking son of a bitch, isn’t
he?”
“I suppose so.” I try hard to sound disinterested, and I think I
succeed.
“Oh, come on, Ana—even you can’t be immune to his looks.” She
arches a perfect eyebrow at me.
Crap! I feel my cheeks heating so I distract her with attery,
always a good ploy.
“You probably would have got a lot more out of him.”
“I doubt that, Ana. Come on—he practically oered you a job.
Given that I foisted this on you at the last minute, you did very
well.” She glances up at me speculatively. I make a hasty retreat
into the kitchen.
“So what did you really think of him?” Damn, she’s inquisitive.
Why can’t she just let this go? Think of something—quick.
“He’s very driven, controlling, arrogant—scary, but very
charismatic. I can understand the fascination,” I add truthfully,
hoping this will shut her up once and for all.
“You, fascinated by a man? That’s a rst,” she snorts.
I start gathering the makings of a sandwich so she can’t see my
face.
“Why did you want to know if he was gay? Incidentally, that was
the most embarrassing question. I was mortied, and he was pissed
to be asked, too.” I scowl at the memory.
“Whenever he’s in the society pages, he never has a date.”
“It was embarrassing. The whole thing was embarrassing. I’m
glad I’ll never have to lay eyes on him again.”
“Oh, Ana, it can’t have been that bad. I think he sounds quite
taken with you.”
Taken with me? Now Kate’s being ridiculous.
“Would you like a sandwich?”
“Please.”
WE TALK NO MORE of Christian Grey that evening, much to my relief.
Once we’ve eaten, I’m able to sit at the dining table with Kate and,
while she works on her article, I work on my essay on Tess of the
d’Urbervilles. Damn, that woman was in the wrong place at the
wrong time in the wrong century. By the time I nish, it’s
midnight, and Kate has long since gone to bed. I make my way to
my room, exhausted, but pleased that I’ve accomplished so much
for a Monday.
I curl up in my white iron bed, wrap my mother’s quilt around
me, close my eyes, and I’m instantly asleep. That night I dream of
dark places, bleak, cold white oors, and gray eyes.
FOR THE REST OF the week, I throw myself into my studies and my job
at Clayton’s. Kate is busy, too, compiling her last edition of the
student newspaper before she has to relinquish it to the new editor
while also cramming for her nals. By Wednesday, she’s much
better, and I no longer have to endure the sight of her pink-annel-
with-too-many-rabbits PJs. I call my mom in Georgia to check on
her, but also so she can wish me luck on my nal exams. She
proceeds to tell me about her latest venture into candlemaking—my
mother is all about new business ventures. Fundamentally, she’s
bored and wants something to occupy her time, but she has the
attention span of a goldsh. It’ll be something new next week. She
worries me. I hope she hasn’t mortgaged the house to nance this
latest scheme. And I hope Bob—her relatively new but much older
husband—is keeping an eye on her now that I’m no longer there.
He does seem a lot more grounded than Husband Number Three.
“How are things with you, Ana?”
For a moment, I hesitate, and I have Mom’s full attention. “I’m
ne.”
“Ana? Have you met someone?” Wow … how does she do that? The
excitement in her voice is palpable.
“No, Mom, it’s nothing. You’ll be the rst to know if I do.”
“Ana, you really need to get out more, honey. You worry me.”
“Mom, I’m ne. How’s Bob?” As ever, distraction is the best
policy.
Later that evening, I call Ray, my stepdad, Mom’s Husband
Number Two, the man I consider my father and the man whose
name I bear. It’s a brief conversation. In fact, it’s not so much a
conversation as a one-sided series of grunts in response to my gentle
coaxing. Ray is not a talker. But he’s still alive, he’s still watching
soccer on TV (and going bowling or y-shing, or making furniture,
when he’s not). Ray is a skilled carpenter and the reason I know the
dierence between a hawk and a handsaw. All seems well with him.
FRIDAY NIGHT, KATE AND I are debating what to do with our evening—
we want some time o from our studies, from our work, and from
student newspapers—when the doorbell rings. Standing on our
doorstep is my good friend José clutching a bottle of champagne.
“José! Great to see you!” I give him a quick hug. “Come in.”
José is the rst person I met when I arrived at WSU, looking as
lost and lonely as I did. We recognized a kindred spirit in each other
that day, and we’ve been friends ever since. Not only do we share a
sense of humor, but we also discovered that Ray and José Senior
were in the same army unit together. As a result, our fathers have
become good friends, too.
José is studying engineering and is the rst in his family to make
it to college. He’s pretty damn bright, but his real passion is
photography. José has a great eye for a good picture.
“I have news.” He grins, his dark eyes twinkling.
“Don’t tell me—you’ve managed not to get kicked out for
another week,” I tease, and he scowls playfully at me.
“The Portland Place Gallery is going to exhibit my photos next
month.”
“That’s amazing—congratulations!” Delighted for him, I hug him
again. Kate beams at him, too.
“Way to go, José! I should put this in the paper. Nothing like last-
minute editorial changes on a Friday evening.” She feigns
annoyance.
“Let’s celebrate. I want you to come to the opening.” José looks
intently at me and I ush. “Both of you, of course,” he adds,
glancing nervously at Kate.
José and I are good friends, but I know deep down inside he’d
like to be more. He’s cute and funny, but he’s just not for me. He’s
more like the brother I never had. Katherine often teases me that
I’m missing the need-a-boyfriend gene, but the truth is I just
haven’t met anyone who … well, whom I’m attracted to, even
though part of me longs for the fabled trembling knees, heart-in-
my-mouth, butteries-in-my-belly moments.
Sometimes I wonder if there’s something wrong with me. Perhaps
I’ve spent too long in the company of my literary romantic heroes,
and consequently my ideals and expectations are far too high. But in
reality, nobody’s ever made me feel like that.
Until very recently, the unwelcome, still-small voice of my
subconscious whispers. NO! I banish the thought immediately. I am
not going there, not after that painful interview. Are you gay, Mr.
Grey? I wince at the memory. I know I’ve dreamed about him most
nights since then, but that’s just to purge the awful experience from
my system, surely.
I watch José open the bottle of champagne. He’s tall, and in his
jeans and T-shirt, he’s all shoulders and muscles, tanned skin, dark
hair, and burning dark eyes. Yes, José’s pretty hot, but I think he’s
nally getting the message: we’re just friends. The cork makes its
loud pop, and José looks up and smiles.
SATURDAY AT THE STORE is a nightmare. We are besieged by do-it-
yourselfers wanting to spruce up their homes. Mr. and Mrs. Clayton
and John and Patrick—the two other part-timers—and I are
besieged by customers. But there’s a lull around lunchtime, and
Mrs. Clayton asks me to check on some orders while I’m sitting
behind the counter at the register discreetly eating my bagel. I’m
engrossed in the task, checking catalog numbers against the items
we need and the items we’ve ordered, eyes icking from the order
book to the computer screen and back as I make sure the entries
match. Then, for some reason, I glance up … and nd myself locked
in the bold gray gaze of Christian Grey, who’s standing at the
counter, staring at me.
Heart failure.
“Miss Steele. What a pleasant surprise.” His gaze is unwavering
and intense.
Holy crap. What the hell is he doing here, looking all outdoorsy
with his tousled hair and in his cream chunky-knit sweater, jeans,
and walking boots? I think my mouth has popped open, and I can’t
locate my brain or my voice.
“Mr. Grey,” I whisper, because that’s all I can manage. There’s a
ghost of a smile on his lips and his eyes are alight with humor, as if
he’s enjoying some private joke.
“I was in the area,” he says by way of explanation. “I need to
stock up on a few things. It’s a pleasure to see you again, Miss
Steele.” His voice is warm and husky like dark melted chocolate
fudge caramel … or something.
I shake my head to gather my wits. My heart is pounding at a
frantic tempo, and for some reason I’m blushing furiously under his
steady scrutiny. I am utterly thrown by the sight of him standing
before me. My memories of him did not do him justice. He’s not
merely good-looking—he’s the epitome of male beauty,
breathtaking, and he’s here. Here in Clayton’s Hardware Store. Go
gure. Finally my cognitive functions are restored and reconnected
with the rest of my body.
“Ana. My name’s Ana,” I mutter. “What can I help you with, Mr.
Grey?”
He smiles, and again it’s like he’s privy to some big secret. It is
so disconcerting. Taking a deep breath, I put on my professional
I’ve-worked-in-this-shop-for-years façade. I can do this.
“There are a few items I need. To start with, I’d like some cable
ties,” he murmurs, his expression both cool and amused.
Cable ties?
“We stock various lengths. Shall I show you?” I mutter, my voice
soft and wavering. Get a grip, Steele.
A slight frown mars Grey’s rather lovely brow. “Please. Lead the
way, Miss Steele,” he says. I try for nonchalance as I come out from
behind the counter, but really I’m concentrating hard on not falling
over my own feet—my legs are suddenly the consistency of Jell-O.
I’m so glad I decided to wear my best jeans this morning.
“They’re with the electrical goods, aisle eight.” My voice is a
little too bright. I glance up at him and regret it almost
immediately. Damn, he’s handsome.
“After you,” he murmurs, gesturing with his long-ngered,
beautifully manicured hand.
With my heart almost strangling me—because it’s in my throat
trying to escape from my mouth—I head down one of the aisles to
the electrical section. Why is he in Portland? Why is he here at
Clayton’s? And from a very tiny, underused part of my brain—
probably located at the base of my medulla oblongata near where
my subconscious dwells—comes the thought: He’s here to see you.
No way! I dismiss it immediately. Why would this beautiful,
powerful, urbane man want to see me? The idea is preposterous,
and I kick it out of my head.
“Are you in Portland on business?” I ask, and my voice is too
high, like I’ve got my nger trapped in a door or something. Damn!
Try to be cool, Ana!
“I was visiting the WSU farming division. It’s based in Vancouver.
I’m currently funding some research there in crop rotation and soil
science,” he says matter-of-factly. See? Not here to nd you at all, my
subconscious sneers at me, loud, proud, and pouty. I ush at my
foolish, wayward thoughts.
“All part of your feed-the-world plan?” I tease.
“Something like that,” he acknowledges, and his lips quirk up in a
half smile.
He gazes at the selection of cable ties we stock at Clayton’s. What
on Earth is he going to do with those? I cannot picture him as a do-
it-yourselfer at all. His ngers trail across the various packages
displayed, and for some inexplicable reason, I have to look away.
He bends and selects a packet.
“These will do,” he says with his oh-so-secret smile.
“Is there anything else?”
“I’d like some masking tape.”
Masking tape?
“Are you redecorating?” The words are out before I can stop
them. Surely he hires laborers or has sta to help him decorate?
“No, not redecorating,” he says quickly, then smirks, and I have
the uncanny feeling that he’s laughing at me.
Am I that funny? Funny looking?
“This way,” I murmur, embarrassed. “Masking tape is in the
decorating aisle.”
I glance behind me as he follows.
“Have you worked here long?” His voice is low, and he’s gazing
at me, concentrating hard. I blush brightly. Why the hell does he
have this eect on me? I feel like I’m fourteen years old—gauche,
as always, and out of place. Eyes front, Steele!
“Four years,” I mutter as we reach our goal. To distract myself, I
reach down and select the two widths of masking tape that we
stock.
“I’ll take that one,” Grey says softly, pointing to the wider tape,
which I pass to him. Our ngers brush very briey, and the current
is there again, zapping through me like I’ve touched an exposed
wire. I gasp involuntarily as I feel it all the way down to
somewhere dark and unexplored, deep in my belly. Desperately, I
scrabble around for my equilibrium.
“Anything else?” My voice is husky and breathy. His eyes widen
slightly.
“Some rope, I think.” His voice mirrors mine, husky.
“This way.” I duck my head down to hide my recurring blush and
move toward the aisle.
“What sort were you after? We have synthetic and natural
lament rope … twine … cable cord …” I halt at his expression, his
eyes darkening. Holy cow.
“I’ll take ve yards of the natural lament rope, please.”
Quickly, with trembling ngers, I measure out ve yards against
the xed ruler, aware that his hot gray gaze is on me. I dare not
look at him. Jeez, could I feel any more self-conscious? Taking my
Stanley knife from the back pocket of my jeans, I cut it then coil it
neatly before tying it in a slipknot. By some miracle, I manage not
to remove a nger with my knife.
“Were you a Girl Scout?” he asks, sculptured, sensual lips curled
in amusement. Don’t look at his mouth!
“Organized group activities aren’t really my thing, Mr. Grey.”
He arches a brow.
“What is your thing, Anastasia?” he asks, his voice soft, and his
secret smile is back. I gaze at him, unable to express myself. I’m on
shifting tectonic plates. Try to be cool, Ana, my tortured
subconscious begs on bended knee.
“Books,” I whisper, but inside, my subconscious is screaming:
You! You are my thing! I slap it down instantly, mortied that my
psyche is having ideas way out of its league.
“What kind of books?” He cocks his head to one side. Why is he so
interested?
“Oh, you know. The usual. The classics. British literature,
mainly.”
He rubs his chin with his long index nger and thumb as he
contemplates my answer. Or perhaps he’s just very bored and
trying to hide it.
“Anything else you need?” I have to get o this subject—those
ngers on that face are beguiling.
“I don’t know. What else would you recommend?”
What would I recommend? I don’t even know what you’re doing.
“For a do-it-yourselfer?”
He nods, his eyes alive with wicked humor. I ush, and my gaze
strays to his snug jeans.
“Coveralls,” I reply, and I know I’m no longer screening what’s
coming out of my mouth.
He raises an eyebrow, amused yet again.
“You wouldn’t want to ruin your clothing.” I gesture vaguely in
the direction of his jeans.
“I could always take them o.” He smirks.
“Um.” I feel the color in my cheeks rising again. I must be the
color of The Communist Manifesto. Stop talking. Stop talking NOW.
“I’ll take some coveralls. Heaven forbid I should ruin any
clothing,” he says dryly.
I try to dismiss the unwelcome image of him without jeans.
“Do you need anything else?” I squeak as I hand him the blue
coveralls.
He ignores my inquiry.
“How’s the article coming along?”
He’s nally asked me an easy question, away from all the
innuendo and the confusing double-talk … a question I can answer.
I grasp it tightly with two hands as if it were a life raft, and I go for
honesty.
“I’m not writing it, Katherine is. Miss Kavanagh. My roommate,
she’s the writer. She’s very happy with it. She’s the editor of the
newspaper, and she was devastated that she couldn’t do the
interview in person.” I feel like I’ve come up for air—at last, a
normal topic of conversation. “Her only concern is that she doesn’t
have any original photographs of you.”
“What sort of photographs does she want?”
Okay. I hadn’t factored in this response. I shake my head, because
I just don’t know.
“Well, I’m around. Tomorrow, perhaps …”
“You’d be willing to do a photo shoot?” My voice is squeaky
again. Kate will be in seventh heaven if I can pull this o. And you
might see him again tomorrow, that dark place at the base of my brain
whispers seductively at me. I dismiss the thought—of all the silly,
ridiculous …
“Kate will be delighted—if we can nd a photographer.” I’m so
pleased, I smile at him broadly. His lips part, like he’s taking a
sharp intake of breath, and he blinks. For a fraction of a second, he
looks lost somehow, and the Earth shifts slightly on its axis, the
tectonic plates sliding into a new position.
Oh my. Christian Grey’s lost look.
“Let me know about tomorrow.” Reaching into his back pocket,
he pulls out his wallet. “My card. It has my cell number on it. You’ll
need to call before ten in the morning.”
“Okay.” I grin up at him. Kate is going to be thrilled.
“Ana!”
Paul has materialized at the other end of the aisle. He’s Mr.
Clayton’s youngest brother. I’d heard he was home from Princeton,
but I wasn’t expecting to see him today.
“Er, excuse me for a moment, Mr. Grey.” Grey frowns as I turn
away from him.
Paul has always been a buddy, and in this strange moment that
I’m having with the rich, powerful, awesomely o-the-charts
attractive control freak Grey, it’s great to talk to someone who’s
normal. Paul hugs me hard, taking me by surprise.
“Ana, hi, it’s so good to see you!” he gushes.
“Hello, Paul, how are you? You home for your brother’s
birthday?”
“Yep. You’re looking well, Ana, really well.” He grins as he
examines me at arm’s length. Then he releases me but keeps a
possessive arm draped over my shoulder. I shue from foot to foot,
embarrassed. It’s good to see Paul, but he’s always been
overfamiliar.
When I glance up at Christian Grey, he’s watching us like a hawk,
his eyes hooded and speculative, his mouth a hard, impassive line.
He’s changed from the weirdly attentive customer to someone else
—someone cold and distant.
“Paul, I’m with a customer. Someone you should meet,” I say,
trying to defuse the antagonism I see in Grey’s expression. I drag
Paul over to meet him, and they size each other up. The atmosphere
is suddenly arctic.
“Er, Paul, this is Christian Grey. Mr. Grey, this is Paul Clayton.
His brother owns the place.” And for some irrational reason, I feel I
have to explain a bit more.
“I’ve known Paul ever since I’ve worked here, though we don’t
see each other that often. He’s back from Princeton, where he’s
studying business administration.” I’m babbling … Stop now!
“Mr. Clayton.” Grey holds his hand out, his look unreadable.
“Mr. Grey.” Paul returns his handshake. “Wait up—not the
Christian Grey? Of Grey Enterprises Holdings?” Paul goes from
surly to awestruck in less than a nanosecond. Grey gives him a
polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Wow—is there anything I can get you?”
“Anastasia has it covered, Mr. Clayton. She’s been very
attentive.” His expression is impassive, but his words … it’s like
he’s saying something else entirely. It’s baing.
“Cool,” Paul responds. “Catch you later, Ana.”
“Sure, Paul.” I watch him disappear toward the stockroom.
“Anything else, Mr. Grey?”
“Just these items.” His tone is clipped and cool. Damn … have I
oended him? Taking a deep breath, I turn and head for the
register. What is his problem?
I ring up the rope, coveralls, masking tape, and cable ties.
“That will be forty-three dollars, please.” I glance up at Grey, and
I wish I hadn’t. He’s watching me closely, intently. It’s unnerving.
“Would you like a bag?” I ask as I take his credit card.
“Please, Anastasia.” His tongue caresses my name, and my heart
once again is frantic. I can hardly breathe. Hurriedly, I place his
purchases in a plastic bag.
“You’ll call me if you want me to do the photo shoot?” He’s all
business once more. I nod, rendered speechless yet again, and hand
back his credit card.
“Good. Until tomorrow, perhaps.” He turns to leave, then pauses.
“Oh—and Anastasia, I’m glad Miss Kavanagh couldn’t do the
interview.” He smiles, then strides with renewed purpose out of the
store, slinging the plastic bag over his shoulder, leaving me a
quivering mass of raging female hormones. I spend several minutes
staring at the closed door through which he’s just left before I
return to planet Earth.
Okay—I like him. There, I’ve admitted it to myself. I cannot hide
from my feelings anymore. I’ve never felt like this before. I nd
him attractive, very attractive. But it’s a lost cause, I know, and I
sigh with bittersweet regret. It was just a coincidence, his coming
here. But still, I can admire him from afar, surely. No harm can
come of that. And if I nd a photographer, I can do some serious
admiring tomorrow. I bite my lip in anticipation and nd myself
grinning like a schoolgirl. I need to phone Kate and organize a
photo shoot.
CHAPTER THREE
Kate is ecstatic.
“But what was he doing at Clayton’s?” Her curiosity oozes
through the phone. I’m in the depths of the stockroom, trying to
keep my voice casual.
“He was in the area.”
“I think that is one huge coincidence, Ana. You don’t think he was
there to see you?” My heart lurches at the prospect, but it’s a short-
lived joy. The dull, disappointing reality is that he was here on
business.
“He was visiting the farming division of WSU. He’s funding some
research,” I mutter.
“Oh yes. He’s given the department a $2.5 million grant.” Wow.
“How do you know this?”
“Ana, I’m a journalist, and I’ve written a prole on the guy. It’s
my job to know this.”
“Okay, Carla Bernstein, keep your hair on. So do you want these
photos?”
“Of course I do. The question is, who’s going to do them and
where.”
“We could ask him where. He says he’s staying in the area.”
“You can contact him?”
“I have his cell phone number.”
Kate gasps.
“The richest, most elusive, most enigmatic bachelor in
Washington State just gave you his cell phone number?”
“Er … yes.”
“Ana! He likes you. No doubt about it.” Her tone is emphatic.
“Kate, he’s just trying to be nice.” But even as I say the words, I
know they’re not true—Christian Grey doesn’t do nice. He does
polite, maybe. And a small, quiet voice whispers, Perhaps Kate is
right. My scalp prickles at the idea that maybe, just maybe, he might
like me. After all, he did say he was glad Kate didn’t do the
interview. I hug myself with quiet glee, rocking from side to side,
entertaining the possibility that he might like me. Kate brings me
back to the now.
“I don’t know who we’ll get to do the shoot. Levi, our regular
photographer, can’t. He’s home in Idaho Falls for the weekend.
He’ll be pissed that he blew an opportunity to photograph one of
America’s leading entrepreneurs.”
“Hmm … What about José?”
“Great idea! You ask him—he’ll do anything for you. Then call
Grey and nd out where he wants us.” Kate is irritatingly cavalier
about José.
“I think you should call him.”
“Who, José?” Kate scos.
“No, Grey.”
“Ana, you’re the one with the relationship.”
“Relationship?” I squeak at her, my voice rising several octaves.
“I barely know the guy.”
“At least you’ve met him,” she says bitterly. “And it looks like he
wants to know you better. Ana, just call him,” she snaps and hangs
up. She is so bossy sometimes. I frown at my cell, sticking my
tongue out at it.
I’m just leaving a message for José when Paul enters the
stockroom looking for sandpaper.
“We’re kind of busy out there, Ana,” he says without acrimony.
“Yeah, um, sorry,” I mutter, turning to leave.
“So, how come you know Christian Grey?” Paul’s voice is
unconvincingly nonchalant.
“I had to interview him for our student newspaper. Kate wasn’t
well.” I shrug, trying to sound casual and doing no better than him.
“Christian Grey in Clayton’s. Go gure,” Paul snorts, amazed. He
shakes his head as if to clear it. “Anyway, want to grab a drink or
something this evening?”
Whenever he’s home he asks me on a date, and I always say no.
It’s a ritual. I’ve never considered it a good idea to date the boss’s
brother, and besides, Paul is cute in a wholesome all-American boy-
next-door kind of way, but he’s no literary hero, not by any stretch
of the imagination. Is Grey? my subconscious asks me, her eyebrow
guratively raised. I slap her down.
“Don’t you have a family dinner or something for your brother?”
“That’s tomorrow.”
“Maybe some other time, Paul. I need to study tonight. I have my
nals next week.”
“Ana, one of these days you’ll say yes.” He smiles as I escape to
the store oor.
“BUT I DO PLACES, Ana, not people,” José groans.
“José, please?” I beg. I pace the living room of our apartment,
clutching my cell and staring out the window at the fading evening
light.
“Give me that phone.” Kate grabs the handset from me, tossing
her silken reddish-blond hair over her shoulder.
“Listen here, José Rodriguez, if you want our newspaper to cover
the opening of your show, you’ll do this shoot for us tomorrow,
capiche?” Kate can be awesomely tough. “Good. Ana will call back
with the location and the call time. We’ll see you tomorrow.” She
snaps my cell phone o.
“Sorted. All we need to do now is decide where and when. Call
him.” She holds the phone out to me. My stomach twists. “Call
Grey, now!”
I scowl at her and reach into my back pocket for his business
card. I take a deep, steadying breath, and with shaking ngers, I
dial the number.
He answers on the second ring. His tone is clipped, calm, and
cold.
“Grey.”
“Er … Mr. Grey? It’s Anastasia Steele.” I don’t recognize my own
voice, I’m so nervous. There’s a brief pause. Inside I’m quaking.
“Miss Steele. How nice to hear from you.” His voice has changed.
He’s surprised, I think, and he sounds so … warm—seductive even.
My breath hitches, and I ush. I’m suddenly conscious that
Katherine Kavanagh is staring at me, her mouth open, and I dart
into the kitchen to avoid her unwanted scrutiny.
“Um—we’d like to go ahead with the photo shoot for the article.”
Breathe, Ana, breathe. My lungs drag in a hasty breath. “Tomorrow,
if that’s okay. Where would be convenient for you, sir?”
I can almost hear his sphinxlike smile through the phone.
“I’m staying at the Heathman in Portland. Shall we say nine
thirty tomorrow morning?”
“Okay, we’ll see you there.” I am all gushing and breathy—like a
child, not a grown woman who can vote and drink legally in the
state of Washington.
“I look forward to it, Miss Steele.” I visualize the wicked gleam in
his eyes. How can he make seven little words hold so much tantalizing
promise? I hang up. Kate is in the kitchen, and she’s staring at me
with a look of complete and utter consternation on her face.
“Anastasia Rose Steele. You like him! I’ve never seen or heard
you so … so … aected by anyone before. You’re actually
blushing.”
“Oh, Kate, you know I blush all the time. It’s an occupational
hazard with me. Don’t be ridiculous,” I snap. She blinks at me with
surprise—I very rarely have hissy ts—and I briey relent. “I just
nd him … intimidating, that’s all.”
“Heathman, that gures,” mutters Kate. “I’ll give the manager a
call and negotiate a space for the shoot.”
“I’ll make supper. Then I need to study.” I cannot hide my
irritation with her as I open one of the cupboards to make supper.
I AM RESTLESS THAT night, tossing and turning, dreaming of smoky
gray eyes, coveralls, long legs, long ngers, and dark, dark
unexplored places. I wake twice in the night, my heart pounding.
Oh, I’m going to look just great tomorrow with so little sleep, I scold
myself. I punch my pillow and try to settle.
THE HEATHMAN IS NESTLED in the heart of downtown Portland. Its
impressive brown stone edice was completed just in time for the
crash of the late 1920s. José, Travis, and I are traveling in my
Beetle, and Kate is in her CLK, since we can’t all t in my car.
Travis is José’s friend and gopher, here to help out with the
lighting. Kate has managed to acquire the use of a room at the
Heathman free of charge for the morning in exchange for a credit in
the article. When she explains at reception that we’re here to
photograph Christian Grey, CEO, we are instantly upgraded to a
suite. Just a regular-sized suite, however, as apparently Mr. Grey is
already occupying the largest one in the building. An over-keen
marketing executive shows us up to the suite—he’s terribly young
and very nervous for some reason. I suspect Kate’s beauty and
commanding manner disarm him, because he’s putty in her hands.
The rooms are elegant, understated, and opulently furnished.
It’s nine. We have half an hour to set up. Kate is in full ow.
“José, I think we’ll shoot against that wall, do you agree?” She
doesn’t wait for his reply. “Travis, clear the chairs. Ana, could you
ask housekeeping to bring up some refreshments? And let Grey
know where we are.”
Yes, mistress. She is so domineering. I roll my eyes but do as I’m
told.
Half an hour later, Christian Grey walks into our suite.
Holy crap! He’s wearing a white shirt, open at the collar, and gray
annel pants that hang from his hips. His unruly hair is still damp
from a shower. My mouth goes dry looking at him … he’s so
freaking hot. Grey is followed into the suite by a man in his mid-
thirties, all buzz cut and stubble in a sharp dark suit and tie who
stands silently in the corner. His hazel eyes watch us impassively.
“Miss Steele, we meet again.” Grey extends his hand, and I shake
it, blinking rapidly. Oh my … he really is quite … As I touch his
hand, I’m aware of that delicious current running right through me,
lighting me up, making me blush, and I’m sure my erratic breathing
must be audible.
“Mr. Grey, this is Katherine Kavanagh,” I mutter, waving a hand
toward Kate, who comes forward, looking him squarely in the eye.
“The tenacious Miss Kavanagh. How do you do?” He gives her a
small smile, looking genuinely amused. “I trust you’re feeling
better? Anastasia said you were unwell last week.”
“I’m ne, thank you, Mr. Grey.” She shakes his hand rmly
without batting an eyelid. I remind myself that Kate has been to the
best private schools in Washington. Her family has money, and
she’s grown up condent and sure of her place in the world. She
doesn’t take any crap. I am in awe of her.
“Thank you for taking the time to do this.” She gives him a polite,
professional smile.
“It’s a pleasure,” he answers, turning his gaze on me, and I ush
again. Damn it.
“This is José Rodriguez, our photographer,” I say, grinning at
José, who smiles with aection back at me. His eyes cool when he
looks from me to Grey.
“Mr. Grey.” He nods.
“Mr. Rodriguez.” Grey’s expression changes, too, as he appraises
José.
“Where would you like me?” Grey asks him. His tone sounds
vaguely threatening. But Katherine is not about to let José run the
show.
“Mr. Grey—if you could sit here, please? Be careful of the
lighting cables. And then we’ll do a few standing, too.” She directs
him to a chair set up against the wall.
Travis switches on the lights, momentarily blinding Grey, and
mutters an apology. Then Travis and I stand back and watch as José
proceeds to snap away. He takes several photographs handheld,
asking Grey to turn this way, then that, to move his arm, then put it
down again. Moving to the tripod, José takes several more, while
Grey sits and poses, patiently and naturally, for about twenty
minutes. My wish has come true: I can stand and admire Grey from
not so afar. Twice our eyes lock, and I have to tear myself away
from his cloudy gaze.
“Enough sitting.” Katherine wades in again. “Standing, Mr.
Grey?” she asks.
He stands, and Travis scurries in to remove the chair. The shutter
on José’s Nikon starts clicking again.
“I think we have enough,” José announces ve minutes later.
“Great,” says Kate. “Thank you again, Mr. Grey.” She shakes his
hand, as does José.
“I look forward to reading the article, Miss Kavanagh,” murmurs
Grey, and turns to me, standing by the door. “Will you walk with
me, Miss Steele?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say, completely thrown. I glance anxiously at Kate, who
shrugs at me. I notice José scowling behind her.
“Good day to you all,” says Grey as he opens the door, standing
aside to allow me out rst.
Holy hell … what’s this about? What does he want? I pause in the
hotel corridor, dgeting nervously as Grey emerges from the room
followed by Mr. Buzz Cut in his sharp suit.
“I’ll call you, Taylor,” he murmurs to Buzz Cut. Taylor wanders
back down the corridor, and Grey turns his burning gray gaze to
me. Crap … have I done something wrong?
“I wondered if you would join me for coee this morning.”
My heart slams into my mouth. A date? Christian Grey is asking me
on a date. He’s asking if you want a coee. Maybe he thinks you
haven’t woken up yet, my subconscious whines at me in a sneering
mood again. I clear my throat, trying to control my nerves.
“I have to drive everyone home,” I murmur apologetically,
twisting my hands and ngers in front of me.
“Taylor,” he calls, making me jump. Taylor, who had been
retreating down the corridor, turns and heads back toward us.
“Are they based at the university?” Grey asks, his voice soft and
inquiring. I nod, too stunned to speak.
“Taylor can take them. He’s my driver. We have a large 4x4 here,
so he’ll be able to take the equipment, too.”
“Mr. Grey?” Taylor asks when he reaches us, giving nothing
away.
“Please, can you drive the photographer, his assistant, and Miss
Kavanagh back home?”
“Certainly, sir,” Taylor replies.
“There. Now can you join me for coee?” Grey smiles as if it’s a
done deal.
I frown.
“Um—Mr. Grey, er—this really … look, Taylor doesn’t have to
drive them home.” I ash a brief look at Taylor, who remains
stoically impassive. “I’ll swap vehicles with Kate, if you give me a
moment.”
Grey smiles a dazzling, unguarded, natural, all-teeth-showing,
glorious smile. Oh my … He opens the door of the suite so I can go
in. I scoot around him to reenter the room, nding Katherine in
deep discussion with José.
“Ana, I think he denitely likes you,” she says with no preamble
whatsoever. José glares at me with disapproval. “But I don’t trust
him,” she adds. I raise my hand up in the hope that she’ll stop
talking. By some miracle, she does.
“Kate, if you take Wanda, can I take your car?”
“Why?”
“Christian Grey has asked me to go for coee with him.”
Her mouth pops open. Speechless Kate! I savor the moment. She
grabs me by my arm and drags me into the bedroom that’s o the
living area of the suite.
“Ana, there’s something about him.” Her tone is full of warning.
“He’s gorgeous, I agree, but I think he’s dangerous. Especially for
someone like you.”
“What do you mean, someone like me?” I demand, aronted.
“An innocent like you, Ana. You know what I mean,” she says a
little irritated. I ush.
“Kate, it’s just coee. I’m starting my exams this week, and I
need to study, so I won’t be long.”
She purses her lips as if considering my request. Finally, she
shes her car keys out of her pocket and hands them to me. I hand
her mine.
“I’ll see you later. Don’t be long, or I’ll send out search and
rescue.”
“Thanks.” I hug her.
I emerge from the suite to nd Christian Grey waiting, leaning up
against the wall, looking like a male model in a pose for some
glossy high-end magazine.
“Okay, let’s do coee,” I murmur, ushing a beet red.
He grins.
“After you, Miss Steele.” He stands up straight, holding his hand
out for me to go rst. I make my way down the corridor, my knees
shaky, my stomach full of butteries, and my heart in my mouth
thumping a dramatic, uneven beat. I am going to have coee with
Christian Grey … and I hate coee.
We walk together down the wide hotel corridor to the elevators.
What should I say to him? My mind is suddenly paralyzed with
apprehension. What are we going to talk about? What on Earth do I
have in common with him? His soft, warm voice startles me from
my reverie.
“How long have you known Katherine Kavanagh?”
Oh, an easy question for starters.
“Since our freshman year. She’s a good friend.”
“Hmm,” he replies noncommittally. What is he thinking?
At the elevators, he presses the call button, and the bell rings
almost immediately. The doors slide open, revealing a young couple
in a passionate embrace inside. Surprised and embarrassed, they
jump apart, staring guiltily in every direction but ours. Grey and I
step into the elevator.
I am struggling to maintain a straight face, so I gaze down at the
oor, feeling my cheeks turning pink. When I peek up at Grey
through my lashes, he has a hint of a smile on his lips, but it’s very
hard to tell. The young couple says nothing, and we travel down to
the rst oor in embarrassed silence. We don’t even have bland
piped elevator music to distract us.
The doors open and, much to my surprise, Grey takes my hand,
clasping it with his long, cool ngers. I feel the current run through
me, and my already rapid heartbeat accelerates. As he leads me out
of the elevator, we can hear the suppressed giggles of the couple
erupting behind us. Grey grins.
“What is it about elevators?” he mutters.
We cross the expansive, bustling lobby of the hotel toward the
entrance, but Grey avoids the revolving door, and I wonder if that’s
because he’d have to let go of my hand.
Outside, it’s a mild May Sunday. The sun is shining and the trac
is light. Grey turns left and strolls to the corner, where we wait for
the crosswalk to change. He’s still holding my hand. I’m in the street,
and Christian Grey is holding my hand. No one has ever held my
hand. I feel giddy, and I tingle all over. I attempt to smother the
ridiculous grin that threatens to split my face in two. Try to be cool,
Ana, my subconscious implores me. The green man appears, and
we’re o again.
We walk four blocks before we reach the Portland Coee House,
where Grey releases me to hold the door open so I can step inside.
“Why don’t you choose a table while I get the drinks? What
would you like?” he asks, polite as ever.
“I’ll have … um—English Breakfast tea, bag out.”
He raises his eyebrows.
“No coee?”
“I’m not keen on coee.”
He smiles.
“Okay, bag out tea. Sugar?”
For a moment, I’m stunned, thinking it’s an endearment, but
fortunately my subconscious kicks in with pursed lips. No, stupid—
do you take sugar?
“No thanks.” I stare down at my knotted ngers.
“Anything to eat?”
“No thank you.” I shake my head, and he heads to the counter.
I surreptitiously gaze at him from beneath my lashes as he stands
in line waiting to be served. I could watch him all day … he’s tall,
broad shouldered, and slim, and the way those pants hang from his
hips … Oh my. Once or twice he runs his long, graceful ngers
through his now dry but still disorderly hair. Hmm … I’d like to do
that. The thought comes unbidden into my mind, and my face
ames. I bite my lip and stare down at my hands again, not liking
where my wayward thoughts are headed.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Grey is back, startling me.
I go crimson. I was just thinking about running my ngers through
your hair and wondering if it would feel soft to touch. I shake my head.
He’s carrying a tray, which he sets down on the small, round birch-
veneer table. He hands me a cup and saucer, a small teapot, and a
side plate bearing a lone teabag labeled TWININGS ENGLISH BREAKFAST—
my favorite. He has a coee that bears a wonderful leaf pattern
imprinted in the milk. How do they do that? I wonder idly. He’s also
bought himself a blueberry mun. Putting the tray aside, he sits
opposite me and crosses his long legs. He looks so comfortable, so
at ease with his body, I envy him. Here’s me, all gawky and
uncoordinated, barely able to get from A to B without falling at on
my face.
“Your thoughts?” he prompts me.
“This is my favorite tea.” My voice is quiet, breathy. I simply
can’t believe I’m sitting opposite Christian Grey in a coee shop in
Portland. He frowns. He knows I’m hiding something. I pop the
teabag into the teapot and almost immediately sh it out again with
my teaspoon. As I place the used teabag back on the side plate, he
cocks his head, gazing quizzically at me.
“I like my tea black and weak,” I mutter as an explanation.
“I see. Is he your boyfriend?”
Whoa … What?
“Who?”
“The photographer. José Rodriguez.”
I laugh, nervous but curious. What gave him that impression?
“No. José’s a good friend of mine, that’s all. Why did you think
he was my boyfriend?”
“The way you smiled at him, and he at you.” His gaze holds mine.
He’s so unnerving. I want to look away but I’m caught—
spellbound.
“He’s more like family,” I whisper.
Grey nods, seemingly satised with my response, and glances
down at his blueberry mun. His long ngers deftly peel back the
paper, and I watch, fascinated.
“Do you want some?” he asks, and that amused, secret smile is
back.
“No thanks.” I frown and stare down at my hands again.
“And the boy I met yesterday, at the store. He’s not your
boyfriend?”
“No. Paul’s just a friend. I told you yesterday.” Oh, this is getting
silly. “Why do you ask?”
“You seem nervous around men.”
Holy crap, that’s personal. I’m just nervous around you, Grey.
“I nd you intimidating.” I ush scarlet, but mentally pat myself
on the back for my candor, and gaze at my hands again. I hear his
sharp intake of breath.
“You should nd me intimidating.” He nods. “You’re very honest.
Please don’t look down. I like to see your face.”
Oh. I glance at him, and he gives me an encouraging but wry
smile.
“It gives me some sort of clue what you might be thinking,” he
breathes. “You’re a mystery, Miss Steele.”
Mysterious? Me?
“There’s nothing mysterious about me.”
“I think you’re very self-contained,” he murmurs.
Am I? Wow … how am I managing that? This is bewildering. Me,
self-contained? No way.
“Except when you blush, of course, which is often. I just wish I
knew what you were blushing about.” He pops a small piece of
mun into his mouth and starts to chew it slowly, not taking his
eyes o me. And as if on cue, I blush. Crap!
“Do you always make such personal observations?”
“I hadn’t realized I was. Have I oended you?” He sounds
surprised.
“No,” I answer truthfully.
“Good.”
“But you’re very high-handed.”
He raises his eyebrows and, if I’m not mistaken, ushes slightly,
too.
“I’m used to getting my own way, Anastasia,” he murmurs. “In all
things.”
“I don’t doubt it. Why haven’t you asked me to call you by your
rst name?” I’m surprised by my audacity. Why has this
conversation become so serious? This isn’t going the way I thought
it was going to go. I can’t believe I’m feeling so antagonistic
toward him. It’s like he’s trying to warn me o.
“The only people who use my given name are my family and a
few close friends. That’s the way I like it.”
Oh. He still hasn’t said, “Call me Christian.” He is a control freak,
there’s no other explanation, and part of me is thinking maybe it
would have been better if Kate had interviewed him. Two control
freaks together. Plus, of course, she’s almost blond—well,
strawberry blond—like all the women in his oce. And she’s
beautiful, my subconscious reminds me. I don’t like the idea of
Christian and Kate. I take a sip of my tea, and Grey eats another
small piece of his mun.
“Are you an only child?” he asks.
Whoa … he keeps changing direction.
“Yes.”
“Tell me about your parents.”
Why does he want to know this? It’s so dull.
“My mom lives in Georgia with her new husband, Bob. My
stepdad lives in Montesano.”
“Your father?”
“My father died when I was a baby.”
“I’m sorry,” he mutters, and a eeting, troubled look crosses his
face.
“I don’t remember him.”
“And your mother remarried?”
I snort.
“You could say that.”
He frowns at me.
“You’re not giving much away, are you?” he says dryly, rubbing
his chin as if in deep thought.
“Neither are you.”
“You’ve interviewed me once already, and I can recollect some
quite probing questions then.” He smirks at me.
Holy shit. He’s remembering the “gay” question. Once again, I’m
mortied. In years to come, I know I’ll need intensive therapy to
not feel this embarrassed every time I recall the moment. I start
babbling about my mother—anything to block that memory.
“My mom is wonderful. She’s an incurable romantic. She’s
currently on her fourth husband.”
Christian raises his eyebrows in surprise.
“I miss her,” I continue. “She has Bob now. I just hope he can
keep an eye on her and pick up the pieces when her harebrained
schemes don’t go as planned.” I smile fondly. I haven’t seen my
mom for so long. Christian is watching me intently, taking
occasional sips of his coee. I really shouldn’t look at his mouth.
It’s unsettling.
“Do you get along with your stepfather?”
“Of course. I grew up with him. He’s the only father I know.”
“And what’s he like?”
“Ray? He’s … taciturn.”
“That’s it?” Grey asks, surprised.
I shrug. What does this man expect? My life story?
“Taciturn like his stepdaughter,” Grey prompts.
I refrain from rolling my eyes at him.
“He likes soccer—European soccer especially—and bowling, and
y-shing, and making furniture. He’s a carpenter. Ex-army.” I sigh.
“You lived with him?”
“Yes. My mom met Husband Number Three when I was fteen. I
stayed with Ray.”
He frowns as if he doesn’t understand.
“You didn’t want to live with your mom?” he asks.
This really is none of his business.
“Husband Number Three lived in Texas. My home was in
Montesano. And … you know, my mom was newly married.” I stop.
My mom never talks about Husband Number Three. Where is Grey
going with this? This is none of his business. Two can play at this
game.
“Tell me about your parents,” I ask.
He shrugs.
“My dad’s a lawyer, my mom is a pediatrician. They live in
Seattle.”
Oh … he’s had an auent upbringing. And I wonder about a
successful couple who adopts three kids, and one of them turns into
a beautiful man who takes on the business world and conquers it
single-handed. What drove him to be that way? His folks must be
proud.
“What do your siblings do?”
“Elliot’s in construction, and my little sister is in Paris, studying
cookery under some renowned French chef.” His eyes cloud with
irritation. He doesn’t want to talk about his family or himself.
“I hear Paris is lovely,” I murmur. Why doesn’t he want to talk
about his family? Is it because he’s adopted?
“It’s beautiful. Have you been?” he asks, his irritation forgotten.
“I’ve never left mainland USA.” So now we’re back to banalities.
What is he hiding?
“Would you like to go?”
“To Paris?” I squeak. This has thrown me—who wouldn’t want to
go to Paris? “Of course,” I concede. “But it’s England that I’d really
like to visit.”
He cocks his head to one side, running his index nger across his
lower lip … oh my.
“Because?”
I blink rapidly. Concentrate, Steele.
“It’s the home of Shakespeare, Austen, the Brontë sisters, Thomas
Hardy. I’d like to see the places that inspired those people to write
such wonderful books.”
All this talk of literary greats reminds me that I should be
studying. I glance at my watch. “I’d better go. I have to study.”
“For your exams?”
“Yes. They start Tuesday.”
“Where’s Miss Kavanagh’s car?”
“In the hotel parking lot.”
“I’ll walk you back.”
“Thank you for the tea, Mr. Grey.”
He smiles his odd I’ve-got-a-whopping-big-secret smile.
“You’re welcome, Anastasia. It’s my pleasure. Come,” he
commands, and holds his hand out to me. I take it, bemused, and
follow him out of the coee shop.
We stroll back to the hotel, and I’d like to say it’s in
companionable silence. He at least looks his usual calm, collected
self. As for me, I’m desperately trying to gauge how our little coee
morning has gone. I feel like I’ve been interviewed for a job, but
I’m not sure what for.
“Do you always wear jeans?” he asks out of the blue.
“Mostly.”
He nods. We’re back at the intersection, across the road from the
hotel. My mind is reeling. What an odd question … And I’m aware
that our time together is limited. This is it. This was it, and I’ve
completely blown it, I know. Perhaps he has someone.
“Do you have a girlfriend?” I blurt out. Holy crap—I just said that
out loud?
His lips quirk up in a half smile, and he peers down at me.
“No, Anastasia. I don’t do the girlfriend thing,” he says softly.
Oh … what does that mean? He’s not gay. Oh, maybe he is! He
must have lied to me in his interview. And for a moment, I think
he’s going to follow up with some explanation, some clue to this
cryptic statement—but he doesn’t. I have to go. I have to try to
reassemble my thoughts. I have to get away from him. I walk
forward, and I trip, stumbling headlong into the road.
“Shit, Ana!” Grey cries. He tugs the hand that he’s holding so
hard that I fall back against him just as a cyclist whips past,
narrowly missing me, heading the wrong way up this one-way
street.
It all happens so fast—one minute I’m falling, the next I’m in his
arms and he’s holding me tightly against his chest. I inhale his
clean, wholesome scent. He smells of freshly laundered linen and
some expensive body wash. It’s intoxicating. I inhale deeply.
“Are you okay?” he whispers. He has one arm around me,
clasping me to him, while the ngers of his other hand softly trace
my face, gently probing, examining me. His thumb brushes my
lower lip, and his breath hitches. He’s staring into my eyes, and I
hold his anxious, burning gaze for a moment, or maybe it’s
forever … but eventually, my attention is drawn to his beautiful
mouth. And for the rst time in twenty-one years, I want to be
kissed. I want to feel his mouth on mine.
CHAPTER FOUR
Kiss me, damn it! I implore him, but I can’t move. I’m paralyzed
with a strange, unfamiliar need, completely captivated by him. I’m
staring at Christian Grey’s mouth, mesmerized, and he’s looking
down at me, his gaze hooded, his eyes darkening. He’s breathing
harder than usual, and I’ve stopped breathing altogether. I’m in your
arms. Kiss me, please. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and
gives me a small shake of his head as if in answer to my silent
question. When he opens his eyes again, it’s with some new
purpose, a steely resolve.
“Anastasia, you should steer clear of me. I’m not the man for
you,” he whispers. What? Where is this coming from? Surely I should
be the judge of that. I frown, and my head swims with rejection.
“Breathe, Anastasia, breathe. I’m going to stand you up and let
you go,” he says quietly, and he gently pushes me away.
Adrenaline has spiked through my body, from the near miss with
the cyclist or the heady proximity to Christian, leaving me wired
and weak. NO! my psyche screams as he pulls away, leaving me
bereft. He has his hands on my shoulders, holding me at arm’s
length, carefully watching my reactions. And the only thing I can
think is that I wanted to be kissed, made it pretty damned obvious,
and he didn’t do it. He doesn’t want me. He really doesn’t want me.
I have royally screwed up the coee morning.
“I’ve got this,” I breathe, nding my voice. “Thank you,” I
mutter, awash with humiliation. How could I have misread the
situation between us so utterly? I need to get away from him.
“For what?” He frowns. He hasn’t taken his hands o me.
“For saving me,” I whisper.
“That idiot was riding the wrong way. I’m glad I was here. I
shudder to think what could have happened to you. Do you want to
come and sit down in the hotel for a moment?” He releases me, his
hands by his sides, and I’m standing in front of him feeling like a
fool.
With a shake, I clear my head. I just want to go. All my vague,
unarticulated hopes have been dashed. He doesn’t want me. What
was I thinking? I scold myself. What would Christian Grey want with
you? my subconscious mocks me. I wrap my arms around myself
and turn to face the road and note with relief that the green man
has appeared. I quickly make my way across, conscious that Grey is
behind me. Outside the hotel, I turn briey to face him but cannot
look him in the eye.
“Thanks for the tea and doing the photo shoot,” I murmur.
“Anastasia … I …” He stops, and the anguish in his voice
demands my attention, so I peer unwillingly up at him. His gray
eyes are bleak as he runs his hand through his hair. He looks torn,
frustrated, his expression stark, all his careful control has
evaporated.
“What, Christian?” I snap irritably after he says … nothing. I just
want to go. I need to take my fragile, wounded pride away and
somehow nurse it back to health.
“Good luck with your exams,” he murmurs.
Huh? This is why he looks so desolate? This is the big sendo?
Just to wish me luck in my exams?
“Thanks.” I can’t disguise the sarcasm in my voice. “Good-bye,
Mr. Grey.” I turn on my heel, vaguely amazed that I don’t trip, and
without giving him a second glance, I disappear down the sidewalk
toward the underground garage.
Once underneath the dark, cold concrete of the garage with its
bleak uorescent light, I lean against the wall and put my head in
my hands. What was I thinking? Unbidden and unwelcome tears
pool in my eyes. Why am I crying? I sink to the ground, angry at
myself for this senseless reaction. Drawing up my knees, I fold in on
myself. I want to make myself as small as possible. Perhaps this
nonsensical pain will be smaller the smaller I am. Placing my head
on my knees, I let the irrational tears fall unrestrained. I am crying
over the loss of something I never had. How ridiculous. Mourning
something that never was—my dashed hopes, my dashed dreams,
and my soured expectations.
I have never been on the receiving end of rejection. Okay … so I
was always one of the last to be picked for basketball or volleyball,
but I understood that—running and doing something else at the
same time like bouncing or throwing a ball is not my thing. I am a
serious liability in any sporting eld.
Romantically, though, I’ve never put myself out there, ever. A
lifetime of insecurity—I’m too pale, too skinny, too scruy,
uncoordinated, my long list of faults goes on. So I have always been
the one to rebu any would-be admirers. There was that guy in my
chemistry class who liked me, but no one has ever sparked my
interest—no one except Christian Damn Grey. Maybe I should be
kinder to the likes of Paul Clayton and José Rodriguez, though I’m
sure neither of them has been found sobbing alone in dark places.
Perhaps I just need a good cry.
Stop! Stop now! my subconscious is metaphorically screaming at
me, arms folded, leaning on one leg and tapping her foot in
frustration. Get in the car, go home, do your studying. Forget about
him … Now! And stop all this self-pitying, wallowing crap.
I take a deep, steadying breath and stand up. Get it together, Steele.
I head for Kate’s car, wiping the tears o my face as I do. I will not
think of him again. I can just chalk this incident up to experience
and concentrate on my exams.
KATE IS SITTING AT the dining table at her laptop when I arrive. Her
welcoming smile fades when she sees me.
“Ana, what’s wrong?”
Oh no … not the Katherine Kavanagh Inquisition. I shake my
head in a back-o-now-Kavanagh way—but I might as well be
dealing with a blind, deaf mute.
“You’ve been crying.” She has an exceptional gift for stating the
damned obvious sometimes. “What did that bastard do to you?” she
growls, and her face—jeez, she’s scary.
“Nothing, Kate.” That’s actually the problem. The thought brings
a wry smile to my face.
“Then why have you been crying? You never cry,” she says, her
voice softening. She stands, her green eyes brimming with concern.
She puts her arms around me and hugs me. I need to say something
just to get her to back o.
“I was nearly knocked over by a cyclist.” It’s the best that I can
do, but it distracts her momentarily from … him.
“Jeez, Ana—are you okay? Were you hurt?” She holds me at
arm’s length and does a quick visual checkup on me.
“No. Christian saved me,” I whisper. “But I was quite shaken.”
“I’m not surprised. How was coee? I know you hate coee.”
“I had tea. It was ne, nothing to report really. I don’t know why
he asked me.”
“He likes you, Ana.” She drops her arms.
“Not anymore. I won’t be seeing him again.” Yes, I manage to
sound matter-of-fact.
“Oh?”
Damn it. She’s intrigued. I head into the kitchen so that she can’t
see my face.
“Yeah … he’s a little out of my league, Kate,” I say as dryly as I
can manage.
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, Kate, it’s obvious.” I whirl around and face her as she stands
in the kitchen doorway.
“Not to me,” she says. “Okay, he’s got more money than you, but
then he has more money than most people in America!”
“Kate he’s—” I shrug.
“Ana! For heaven’s sake—how many times do I have to tell you?
You’re a total babe,” she interrupts me. Oh no. She’s o on this
tirade again.
“Kate, please. I need to study.” I cut her short. She frowns.
“Do you want to see the article? It’s nished. José took some
great pictures.”
Do I need a visual reminder of the beautiful Christian I-Don’t-
Want-You Grey?
“Sure.” I magic a smile on my face and stroll over to the laptop.
And there he is, staring at me in black and white, staring at me and
nding me lacking.
I pretend to read the article, all the time meeting his steady gray
gaze, searching the photo for some clue as to why he’s not the man
for me—his own words to me. And it’s suddenly blindingly obvious.
He’s too gloriously good-looking. We are poles apart and from two
very dierent worlds. I have a vision of myself as Icarus ying too
close to the sun and crashing and burning as a result. His words
make sense. He’s not the man for me. This is what he meant, and it
makes his rejection easier to accept … almost. I can live with this. I
understand.
“Very good, Kate,” I manage. “I’m going to study.” I am not
going to think about him again for now, I vow to myself, and
opening my course notes, I start to read.
IT’S ONLY WHEN I’M in bed, trying to sleep, that I allow my thoughts to
drift through my strange morning. I keep coming back to the I don’t
do the girlfriend thing quote, and I’m angry that I didn’t pounce on
this information sooner, before I was in his arms mentally begging
him with every ber of my being to kiss me. He’d said it there and
then. He didn’t want me as a girlfriend. I turn onto my side. Idly, I
wonder if perhaps he’s celibate. I close my eyes and begin to drift.
Maybe he’s saving himself. Well, not for you. My sleepy
subconscious has a nal swipe at me before unleashing itself on my
dreams.
And that night, I dream of gray eyes and leafy patterns in milk,
and I’m running through dark places with eerie strip lighting, and I
don’t know if I’m running toward something or away from it … it’s
just not clear.
I put my pen down. Finished. My nal exam is over. A Cheshire cat
grin spreads over my face. It’s probably the rst time all week that
I’ve smiled. It’s Friday, and we shall be celebrating tonight, really
celebrating. I might even get drunk! I’ve never been drunk before. I
glance across the hall at Kate, and she’s still scribbling furiously,
ve minutes to the nish. This is it, the end of my academic career.
I shall never have to sit in rows of anxious, isolated students again.
Inside I’m doing graceful cartwheels around my head, knowing full
well that’s the only place I can do graceful cartwheels. Kate stops
writing and puts her pen down. She glances across at me, and I
catch her Cheshire cat smile, too.
We head back to our apartment together in her Mercedes,
refusing to discuss our nal paper. Kate is more concerned about
what she’s going to wear to the bar this evening. I am busily shing
around in my purse for my keys.
“Ana, there’s a package for you.” Kate is standing on the steps up
to the front door holding a brown paper parcel. Odd. I haven’t
ordered anything from Amazon recently. Kate gives me the parcel
and takes my keys to open the front door. It’s addressed to Miss
Anastasia Steele. There’s no sender’s address or name. Perhaps it’s
from my mom or Ray.
“It’s probably from my folks.”
“Open it!” Kate is excited as she heads into the kitchen for our
exams-are-nished-hurrah champagne.
I open the parcel, and inside I nd a half leather box containing
three seemingly identical old cloth-covered books in mint condition
and a plain white card. Written on one side, in black ink in neat
cursive handwriting, is:
Why didn’t you tell me there was danger? Why didn’t you warn me?
Ladies know what to guard against, because they read novels that tell them of these
tricks …
I recognize the quote from Tess. I am stunned by the coincidence
as I’ve just spent three hours writing about the novels of Thomas
Hardy in my nal examination. Perhaps there is no
coincidence … perhaps it’s deliberate. I inspect the books closely,
three volumes of Tess of the d’Urbervilles. I open the front cover of
one of the books. Written in an old typeface on the front plate is:
London: Jack R. Osgood, McIlvaine and Co., 1891.
Holy shit—they are rst editions. They must be worth a fortune,
and I know immediately who’s sent them. Kate is at my shoulder
gazing at the books. She picks up the card.
“First editions,” I whisper.
“No.” Kate’s eyes are wide with disbelief. “Grey?”
I nod. “Can’t think of anyone else.”
“What does this card mean?”
“I have no idea. I think it’s a warning—honestly, he keeps
warning me o. I have no idea why. It’s not like I’m beating his
door down.” I frown.
“I know you don’t want to talk about him, Ana, but he’s seriously
into you. Warnings or no.”
I have not let myself dwell on Christian Grey for the past week.
Okay … so his gray eyes are still haunting my dreams, and I know
it will take an eternity to expunge the feel of his arms around me
and his wonderful fragrance from my brain. Why has he sent me
this? He told me that I wasn’t for him.
“I’ve found one Tess rst edition for sale in New York for
fourteen thousand dollars. But yours look in much better condition.
They must have cost more.” Kate is consulting her good friend
Google.
“This quote—Tess says it to her mother after Alec d’Urberville
has had his wicked way with her.”
“I know,” muses Kate. “What is he trying to say?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care. I can’t accept these from him. I’ll
send them back with an equally baing quote from some obscure
part of the book.”
“The bit where Angel Clare says fuck o?” Kate asks with a
completely straight face.
“Yes, that bit.” I giggle. I love Kate; she’s loyal and supportive. I
repack the books and leave them on the dining table. Kate hands me
a glass of champagne.
“To the end of exams and our new life in Seattle.” She grins.
“To the end of exams, our new life in Seattle, and excellent
results.” We clink glasses and drink.
THE BAR IS LOUD and hectic, full of soon-to-be graduates out to get
trashed. José joins us. He won’t graduate for another year, but he’s
in the mood to party and gets us into the spirit of our newfound
freedom by buying a pitcher of margaritas for us all. As I down my
fth glass, I know this is not a good idea on top of the champagne.
“So what now, Ana?” José shouts at me over the noise.
“Kate and I are moving to Seattle. Kate’s parents have bought a
condo there for her.”
“Dios mío, how the other half live. But you’ll be back for my
show?”
“Of course, José, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I smile, and he
puts his arm around my waist and pulls me close.
“It means a lot to me that you’ll be there, Ana,” he whispers in
my ear. “Another margarita?”
“José Luis Rodriguez—are you trying to get me drunk? Because I
think it’s working.” I giggle. “I think I’d better have a beer. I’ll go
get us a pitcher.”
“More drink, Ana!” Kate bellows.
Kate has the constitution of an ox. She’s got her arm draped over
Levi, one of our fellow English students and her usual photographer
on the student newspaper. He’s given up taking photos of the
drunkenness that surrounds him. He only has eyes for Kate. She’s all
tiny camisole, tight jeans, and high heels, hair piled high with
tendrils hanging down softly around her face, her usual stunning
self. Me, I’m more of a Converse and T-shirt kind of girl, but I’m
wearing my most attering jeans. I move out of José’s hold and get
up from our table.
Whoa. Head spin.
I have to grab the back of the chair. Tequila-based cocktails are
not a good idea.
I make my way to the bar and decide that I should visit the
bathroom while I am on my feet. Good thinking, Ana. I stagger o
through the crowd. Of course, there’s a line, but at least it’s quiet
and cool in the corridor. I reach for my cell phone to relieve the
boredom of waiting. Hmm … Who did I last call? Was it José? Before
that, a number I don’t recognize. Oh yes. Grey, I think this is his
number. I giggle. I have no idea what the time is; maybe I’ll wake
him. Perhaps he can tell me why he sent me those books and the
cryptic message. If he wants me to stay away, he should leave me
alone. I suppress a drunken grin and hit the “call” button. He
answers on the second ring.
“Anastasia?” He’s surprised to hear from me. Well, frankly, I’m
surprised to be calling him. Then my befuddled brain
registers … how does he know it’s me?
“Why did you send me the books?” I slur at him.
“Anastasia, are you okay? You sound strange.” His voice is lled
with concern.
“I’m not the strange one, you are.” There—that told him, my
courage fuelled by alcohol.
“Anastasia, have you been drinking?”
“What’s it to you?”
“I’m … curious. Where are you?”
“In a bar.”
“Which bar?” He sounds exasperated.
“A bar in Portland.”
“How are you getting home?”
“I’ll nd a way.” This conversation is not going how I expected.
“Which bar are you in?”
“Why did you send me the books, Christian?”
“Anastasia, where are you? Tell me now.” His tone is so … so
dictatorial, his usual control freak. I imagine him as an old-time
movie director wearing jodhpurs, holding an old-fashioned
megaphone and a riding crop. The image makes me laugh out loud.
“You’re so … domineering.” I giggle.
“Ana, so help me, where the fuck are you?”
Christian Grey is swearing at me. I giggle again. “I’m in Portland
…’s a long way from Seattle.”
“Where in Portland?”
“Good night, Christian.”
“Ana!”
I hang up. Ha! Though he didn’t tell me about the books. I frown.
Mission not accomplished. I am really quite drunk—my head swims
uncomfortably as I shue with the line. Well, the object of the
exercise was to get drunk. I have succeeded. This is what it’s like—
probably not an experience to be repeated. The line has moved, and
it’s now my turn. I stare blankly at the poster on the back of the
toilet door that extols the virtues of safe sex. Holy crap, did I just
call Christian Grey? Shit. My phone rings and it makes me jump. I
yelp in surprise.
“Hi,” I bleat timidly in to the phone. I hadn’t reckoned on this.
“I’m coming to get you,” he says, and hangs up. Only Christian
Grey could sound so calm and so threatening at the same time.
Holy crap. I pull my jeans up. My heart is thumping. Coming to
get me? Oh no. I’m going to be sick … no … I’m ne. Hang on.
He’s just messing with my head. I didn’t tell him where I was. He
can’t nd me here. Besides, it will take him hours to get here from
Seattle, and we’ll be long gone by then. I wash my hands and check
my face in the mirror. I look ushed and slightly unfocused.
Hmm … tequila.
I wait at the bar for what feels like an eternity for the pitcher of
beer and eventually return to the table.
“You’ve been gone so long,” Kate scolds me. “Where were you?”
“I was in line for the restroom.”
José and Levi are having some heated debate about our local
baseball team. José pauses in his tirade to pour us all beers, and I
take a long sip.
“Kate, I think I’d better step outside and get some fresh air.”
“Ana, you are such a lightweight.”
“I’ll be ve minutes.”
I make my way through the crowd again. I am beginning to feel
nauseated, my head is spinning uncomfortably, and I’m a little
unsteady on my feet. More unsteady than usual.
Drinking in the cool evening air in the parking lot makes me
realize how drunk I am. My vision has been aected, and I’m really
seeing double of everything like in old reruns of Tom and Jerry
cartoons. I think I’m going to be sick. Why did I let myself get this
messed up?
“Ana,” José has joined me. “You okay?”
“I think I’ve just had a bit too much to drink.” I smile weakly at
him.
“Me, too,” he murmurs, and his dark eyes are regarding me
intently. “Do you need a hand?” he asks and steps closer, putting his
arm around me.
“José, I’m okay. I’ve got this.” I try to push him away rather
feebly.
“Ana, please,” he whispers, and now he’s holding me in his arms,
pulling me close.
“José, what are you doing?”
“You know I like you Ana, please.” He has one hand at the small
of my back holding me against him, the other at my chin tipping
back my head. Holy fuck … he’s going to kiss me.
“No, José, stop—no.” I push him, but he’s a wall of hard muscle,
and I cannot shift him. His hand has slipped into my hair, and he’s
holding my head in place.
“Please, Ana, cariño,” he whispers against my lips. His breath is
soft and smells too sweet—of margarita and beer. He gently trails
kisses along my jaw up to the side of my mouth. I feel panicky,
drunk, and out of control. The feeling is suocating.
“José, no,” I plead. I don’t want this. You are my friend, and I
think I’m going to throw up.
“I think the lady said no,” a voice in the dark says quietly. Holy
shit! Christian Grey, he’s here. How? José releases me.
“Grey,” he says tersely. I glance anxiously up at Christian. He’s
glowering at José, and he’s furious. Crap. My stomach heaves, and I
double over, my body no longer able to tolerate the alcohol, and I
vomit spectacularly on to the ground.
“Ugh—Dios mío, Ana!” José jumps back in disgust. Grey grabs my
hair and pulls it out of the ring line and gently leads me over to a
raised owerbed on the edge of the parking lot. I note, with deep
gratitude, that it’s in relative darkness.
“If you’re going to throw up again, do it here. I’ll hold you.” He
has one arm around my shoulders—the other is holding my hair in a
makeshift ponytail down my back so it’s o my face. I try
awkwardly to push him away, but I vomit again … and again. Oh,
shit … how long is this going to last? Even when my stomach’s empty
and nothing is coming up, horrible dry heaves rack my body. I vow
silently that I’ll never ever drink again. This is just too appalling for
words. Finally, it stops.
My hands are resting on the brick wall of the owerbed, barely
holding me up. Vomiting profusely is exhausting. Grey takes his
hands o me and passes me a handkerchief. Only he would have a
monogrammed, freshly laundered linen handkerchief. CTG. I didn’t
know you could still buy these. Vaguely I wonder what the T stands
for as I wipe my mouth. I cannot bring myself to look at him. I’m
swamped with shame, disgusted with myself. I want to be
swallowed up by the azaleas in the owerbed and be anywhere but
here.
José is still hovering by the entrance to the bar, watching us. I
groan and put my head in my hands. This has to be the single worst
moment of my life. My head is still swimming as I try to remember
a worse one—and I can only come up with Christian’s rejection—
and this is so, so many shades darker in terms of humiliation. I risk
a peek at him. He’s staring down at me, his face composed, giving
nothing away. Turning, I glance at José, who looks pretty
shamefaced himself and, like me, intimidated by Grey. I glare at
him. I have a few choice words for my so-called friend, none of
which I can repeat in front of Christian Grey, CEO. Ana, who are you
kidding? He’s just seen you hurl all over the ground and into the local
ora. There’s no disguising your lack of ladylike behavior.
“I’ll, er … see you inside,” José mutters, but we both ignore him,
and he slinks o back into the building. I’m on my own with Grey.
Double crap. What should I say to him? Apologize for the phone
call.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, staring at the handkerchief, which I am
furiously worrying with my ngers. It’s so soft.
“What are you sorry for, Anastasia?”
Damn it, he wants his damned pound of esh.
“The phone call, mainly. Being sick. Oh, the list is endless,” I
murmur, feeling my skin coloring up. Please, please, can I die now?
“We’ve all been here, perhaps not quite as dramatically as you,”
he says dryly. “It’s about knowing your limits, Anastasia. I mean,
I’m all for pushing limits, but really this is beyond the pale. Do you
make a habit of this kind of behavior?”
My head buzzes with excess alcohol and irritation. What the hell
has it got to do with him? I didn’t invite him here. He sounds like a
middle-aged man scolding me like an errant child. Part of me wants
to say that if I want to get drunk every night like this, then it’s my
decision and nothing to do with him—but I’m not brave enough.
Not now that I’ve thrown up in front of him. Why is he still
standing there?
“No,” I say contritely. “I’ve never been drunk before and right
now I have no desire to ever be again.”
I just don’t understand why he’s here. I begin to feel faint. He
notices my dizziness and grabs me before I fall and hoists me into
his arms, holding me close to his chest like a child.
“Come on, I’ll take you home,” he murmurs.
“I need to tell Kate.” I’m in his arms again.
“My brother can tell her.”
“What?”
“My brother Elliot is talking to Miss Kavanagh.”
“Oh?” I don’t understand.
“He was with me when you phoned.”
“In Seattle?” I’m confused.
“No, I’m staying at the Heathman.”
Still? Why?
“How did you nd me?”
“I tracked your cell phone, Anastasia.”
Oh, of course he did. How is that possible? Is it legal? Stalker, my
subconscious whispers at me through the cloud of tequila that’s still
oating in my brain, but somehow, because it’s him, I don’t mind.
“Do you have a jacket or a purse?”
“Er … yes, I came with both. Christian, please, I need to tell Kate.
She’ll worry.” His mouth presses into a hard line, and he sighs
heavily.
“If you must.”
He sets me down and, taking my hand, leads me back into the
bar. I feel weak, still drunk, embarrassed, exhausted, mortied,
and, on some strange level, absolutely o-the-charts thrilled. He’s
clutching my hand—such a confusing array of emotions. I’ll need at
least a week to process them all.
It’s noisy, crowded, and the music has started so there is a large
crowd on the dance oor. Kate is not at our table, and José has
disappeared. Levi looks lost and forlorn on his own.
“Where’s Kate?” I shout at Levi above the noise. My head is
beginning to pound in time to the thumping bass line of the music.
“Dancing,” Levi shouts, and I can tell he’s mad. He’s eyeing
Christian suspiciously. I struggle into my black jacket and place my
small shoulder bag over my head so it sits at my hip. I’m ready to
go, once I’ve seen Kate.
I touch Christian’s arm and lean up and shout in his ear, “She’s on
the dance oor,” brushing his hair with my nose, smelling his clean,
fresh smell. All those forbidden, unfamiliar feelings that I have tried
to deny surface and run amok through my drained body. I ush, and
somewhere deep, deep down my muscles clench deliciously.
He rolls his eyes at me and takes my hand again and leads me to
the bar. He’s served immediately, no waiting for Mr. Control Freak
Grey. Does everything come so easily to him? I can’t hear what he
orders. He hands me a very large glass of iced water.
“Drink.” He shouts his order at me.
The moving lights are twisting and turning in time to the music,
casting strange colored light and shadows all over the bar and the
clientele. He’s alternately green, blue, white, and a demonic red.
He’s watching me intently. I take a tentative sip.
“All of it,” he shouts.
He’s so overbearing. He runs his hand through his unruly hair. He
looks frustrated, angry. What is his problem? Apart from a silly
drunk girl calling him in the middle of the night so he thinks she
needs rescuing. And it turns out she does from her over-amorous
friend. Then seeing her being violently ill at his feet. Oh, Ana … are
you ever going to live this down? My subconscious is guratively
tutting and glaring at me over her half-moon specs. I sway a little,
and he puts his hand on my shoulder to steady me. I do as I’m told
and drink the entire glass. It makes me feel queasy. Taking the glass
from me, he places it on the bar. I notice through a blur what he’s
wearing: a loose white linen shirt, snug jeans, black Converse
sneakers, and a dark pinstriped jacket. His shirt is unbuttoned at the
top, and I see a sprinkling of hair in the gap. In my groggy frame of
mind, he looks yummy.
He takes my hand once more. Holy cow—he’s leading me onto the
dance oor. Shit. I do not dance. He can sense my reluctance, and
under the colored lights I see his amused, sardonic smile. He gives
my hand a sharp tug, and I’m in his arms again, and he starts to
move, taking me with him. Boy, he can dance, and I can’t believe
that I’m following him step for step. Maybe it’s because I’m drunk
that I can keep up. He’s holding me tight against him, his body
against mine … if he wasn’t clutching me so tightly, I’m sure I
would swoon at his feet. In the back of my mind, my mother’s
often-recited warning comes to me: Never trust a man who can dance.
He moves us through the crowded throng of dancers to the other
side of the dance oor, and we are beside Kate and Elliot,
Christian’s brother. The music is pounding away, loud and leery,
outside and inside my head. Oh no. Kate is making her moves. She’s
dancing her ass o, and she only ever does that if she likes
someone. Really likes someone. It means there’ll be three of us for
breakfast tomorrow morning. Kate!
Christian leans over and shouts in Elliot’s ear. I cannot hear what
he says. Elliot is tall with wide shoulders, curly blond hair, and
light, wickedly gleaming eyes. I can’t tell their color under the
pulsating heat of the ashing lights. Elliot grins and pulls Kate into
his arms, where she is more than happy to be … Kate! Even in my
inebriated state, I am shocked. She’s only just met him. She nods at
whatever Elliot says and grins at me and waves. Christian propels
us o the dance oor in double time.
But I never got to talk to her. Is she okay? I can see where things
are heading for her and him. I need to do the safe-sex lecture. In the
back of my mind, I hope she reads one of the posters on the inside
of the bathroom door. My thoughts crash through my brain,
ghting the drunk, fuzzy feeling. It’s so warm in here, so loud, so
colorful—too bright. My head begins to swim, oh no … and I can
feel the oor coming up to meet my face, or so it feels. The last
thing I hear before I pass out in Christian Grey’s arms is his harsh
epithet.
“Fuck!”
CHAPTER FIVE
It’s very quiet. The light is muted. I am comfortable and warm, in
this bed. Hmm … I open my eyes, and for a moment I’m tranquil
and serene, enjoying the strange, unfamiliar surroundings. I have no
idea where I am. The headboard behind me is in the shape of a
massive sun. It’s oddly familiar. The room is large and airy and
plushly furnished in browns and golds and beiges. I have seen it
before. Where? My befuddled brain struggles through its recent
visual memories. Holy crap. I’m in the Heathman Hotel … in a
suite. I have stood in a room similar to this with Kate. This looks
bigger. Oh, shit. I’m in Christian Grey’s suite. How did I get here?
Fractured memories of the previous night come slowly back to
haunt me. The drinking—oh no, the drinking—the phone call—oh no,
the phone call—the vomiting—oh no, the vomiting. José and then
Christian. Oh no. I cringe inwardly. I don’t remember coming here.
I’m wearing my T-shirt, bra, and panties. No socks. No jeans. Holy
shit.
I glance at the bedside table. On it is a glass of orange juice and
two tablets. Advil. Control freak that he is, he thinks of everything.
I sit up and take the tablets. Actually, I don’t feel that bad, probably
much better than I deserve. The orange juice tastes divine. It’s
thirst-quenching and refreshing.
There’s a knock on the door. My heart leaps into my mouth, and I
can’t seem to nd my voice. He opens the door anyway and strolls
in.
Holy hell, he’s been working out. He’s in gray sweatpants that
hang, in that way, o his hips and a gray sleeveless T-shirt which is
dark with sweat, like his hair. Christian Grey’s sweat; the notion does
odd things to me. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I feel like a
two-year-old; if I close my eyes, then I’m not really here.
“Good morning, Anastasia. How are you feeling?”
“Better than I deserve,” I mumble.
I peek up at him. He places a large shopping bag on a chair and
grasps each end of the towel that he has around his neck. He’s
staring at me, gray eyes dark, and as usual, I have no idea what he’s
thinking. He hides his thoughts and feelings so well.
“How did I get here?” My voice is small, contrite.
He sits down on the edge of the bed. He’s close enough for me to
touch, for me to smell. Oh my … sweat and body wash and
Christian. It’s a heady cocktail—so much better than a margarita,
and now I can speak from experience.
“After you passed out, I didn’t want to risk the leather upholstery
in my car taking you all the way to your apartment. So I brought
you here,” he says phlegmatically.
“Did you put me to bed?”
“Yes.” His face is impassive.
“Did I throw up again?” My voice is quieter.
“No.”
“Did you undress me?” I whisper.
“Yes.” He quirks an eyebrow at me as I blush furiously.
“We didn’t—?” I whisper, my mouth drying in mortied horror
as I can’t complete the question. I stare at my hands.
“Anastasia, you were comatose. Necrophilia is not my thing. I like
my women sentient and receptive,” he says dryly.
“I’m so sorry.”
His mouth lifts slightly in a wry smile.
“It was a very diverting evening. Not one that I’ll forget in a
while.”
Me, neither—oh, he’s laughing at me, the bastard. I didn’t ask
him to come and get me. Somehow I’ve been made to feel like the
villain of the piece.
“You didn’t have to track me down with whatever James Bond
gadgetry you’re developing for the highest bidder,” I snap. He
stares at me, surprised and, if I’m not mistaken, a little wounded.
“First, the technology to track cell phones is available over the
Internet. Second, my company does not invest or manufacture any
kind of surveillance devices. And third, if I hadn’t come to get you,
you’d probably be waking up in the photographer’s bed, and from
what I can remember, you weren’t overly enthused about him
pressing his suit,” he says acidly.
Pressing his suit! I glance up at Christian. He’s glaring at me, eyes
blazing, aggrieved. I try to bite my lip, but I fail to repress my
giggle.
“Which medieval chronicle did you escape from? You sound like a
courtly knight.”
His mood visibly shifts. His eyes soften and his expression warms,
and there’s a trace of a smile on his lips.
“Anastasia, I don’t think so. Dark knight, maybe.” His smile is
sardonic, and he shakes his head. “Did you eat last night?” His tone
is accusatory. I shake my head. What major transgression have I
committed now? His jaw clenches, but his face remains impassive.
“You need to eat. That’s why you were so ill. Honestly, it’s
drinking rule number one.” He runs his hand through his hair, and I
know it’s because he’s exasperated.
“Are you going to continue to scold me?”
“Is that what I’m doing?”
“I think so.”
“You’re lucky I’m just scolding you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if you were mine, you wouldn’t be able to sit down for a
week after the stunt you pulled yesterday. You didn’t eat, you got
drunk, you put yourself at risk.” He closes his eyes, dread etched
briey on his face, and he shudders. When he opens his eyes, he
glares at me. “I hate to think what could have happened to you.”
I scowl back at him. What is his problem? What’s it to him? If I
was his … Well, I’m not. Though maybe part of me would like to
be. The thought pierces through the irritation I feel at his high-
handed words. I ush at the waywardness of my subconscious—
she’s doing her happy dance in a bright red hula skirt at the thought
of being his.
“I would have been ne. I was with Kate.”
“And the photographer?” he snaps at me.
Hmm … young José. I’ll need to face him at some point.
“José just got out of line.” I shrug.
“Well, the next time he gets out of line, maybe someone should
teach him some manners.”
“You are quite the disciplinarian,” I hiss.
“Oh, Anastasia, you have no idea.” His eyes narrow, and then he
grins wickedly. It’s disarming. One minute, I’m confused and angry,
the next, I’m gazing at his gorgeous smile. Wow … I am entranced,
and it’s because his smile is so rare. I quite forget what he’s talking
about.
“I’m going to have a shower. Unless you’d like to shower rst?”
He cocks his head to one side, still grinning. My heartbeat has
picked up, and my medulla oblongata has neglected to re any
synapses to make me breathe. His grin widens, and he reaches over
and runs his thumb down my cheek and across my lower lip.
“Breathe, Anastasia,” he whispers then stands back up. “Breakfast
will be here in fteen minutes. You must be famished.” He heads
into the bathroom and closes the door.
I let out the breath that I’ve been holding. Why is he so damned
attractive? Right now I want to go and join him in the shower. I
have never felt this way about anyone. My hormones are racing.
My skin tingles where his thumb traced over my face and lower lip.
I’m squirming with a needy, achy … discomfort. I don’t understand
this reaction. Hmm … Desire. This is desire. This is what it feels like.
I lie back on the soft feather-lled pillows. If you were mine. Oh
my—what would I do to be his? He’s the only man who has ever set
the blood racing through my body. Yet he’s so antagonizing, too;
he’s dicult, complicated, and confusing. One minute he rebus
me, the next he sends me fourteen-thousand-dollar books, then he
tracks me like a stalker. And for all that, I have spent the night in
his hotel suite, and I feel safe. Protected. He cares enough to come
and rescue me from some mistakenly perceived danger. He’s not a
dark knight at all but a white knight in shining, dazzling armor—a
classic romantic hero—Sir Gawain or Sir Lancelot.
I scramble out of his bed frantically searching for my jeans. He
emerges from the bathroom wet and glistening from the shower,
still unshaven, with just a towel around his waist, and there am I—
all bare legs and awkward gawkiness. He’s surprised to see me out
of bed.
“If you’re looking for your jeans, I’ve sent them to the laundry.”
His gaze is dark. “They were spattered with your vomit.”
“Oh.” I ush scarlet. Why oh why does he always catch me o
balance?
“I sent Taylor out for another pair and some shoes. They’re in the
bag on the chair.”
Clean clothes. What an unexpected bonus.
“Um … I’ll have a shower,” I mutter. “Thanks.” What else can I
say? I grab the bag and dart into the bathroom away from the
unnerving proximity of naked Christian. Michelangelo’s David has
nothing on him.
In the bathroom, it’s all hot and steamy. I strip o my clothes and
quickly clamber into the shower, anxious to be under the cleansing
stream of water. It cascades over me, and I hold up my face into the
welcoming torrent. I want Christian Grey. I want him badly. Simple
fact. For the rst time in my life, I want to go to bed with a man. I
want to feel his hands and his mouth on me.
He said he likes his women sentient. He’s probably not celibate
then. But he’s not made a pass at me, unlike Paul or José. I don’t
understand. Does he want me? He wouldn’t kiss me last week. Am I
repellent to him? And yet I’m here and he brought me here. I just
don’t know what his game is. What’s he thinking? You’ve slept in his
bed all night, and he’s not touched you, Ana. You do the math. My
subconscious has reared her ugly, snide head. I ignore her.
The water is warm and soothing. Hmm … I could stay under this
shower, in his bathroom, forever. I reach for the body wash and it
smells of him. It’s a delicious smell. I rub it all over myself,
fantasizing that it’s him—him rubbing this heavenly scented soap
onto my body, across my breasts, over my stomach, between my
thighs with his long-ngered hands. Oh my. My heartbeat picks up
again. This feels so … so good.
“Breakfast is here.” He knocks on the door, startling me.
“O-okay,” I stutter as I’m yanked cruelly out of my erotic
daydream.
I climb out of the shower and grab two towels. I put my hair in
one and wrap it Carmen Miranda style on my head. Hastily, I dry
myself, ignoring the pleasurable feel of the towel rubbing against
my oversensitized skin.
I inspect the bag of jeans. Not only has Taylor brought me jeans
and new Converse, but also a pale blue shirt, socks, and underwear.
Oh my. A clean bra and panties—actually, to describe them in such
a mundane, utilitarian way does not do them justice. They are
exquisitely designed fancy European lingerie. All pale blue lace and
nery. Wow. I am in awe and slightly daunted by this underwear.
What’s more, they t perfectly. But of course they do. I ush to
think of Buzz Cut in some lingerie store buying this for me. I
wonder what else is in his job description.
I dress quickly. The rest of the clothing is a perfect t. I
brusquely towel-dry my hair and try desperately to bring it under
control. But, as usual, it refuses to cooperate, and my only option is
to restrain it with a hair tie which I don’t have. I should have one in
my purse, wherever it is. I take a deep breath. Time to face Mr.
Confusing.
I’m relieved to nd the bedroom empty. I hunt quickly for my
purse—but it’s not in here. Taking another deep breath, I enter the
living area of the suite. It’s huge. There’s an opulent, plush seating
area, all overstued couches and soft cushions, an elaborate coee
table with a stack of large glossy books, a study area with the
latest-generation iMac, and an enormous plasma screen TV on the
wall. Christian is sitting at a dining table on the other side of the
room reading a newspaper. It’s the size of a tennis court or
something, not that I play tennis, though I have watched Kate a few
times. Kate!
“Crap, Kate,” I croak. Christian peers up at me.
“She knows you’re here and still alive. I texted Elliot,” he says
with just a trace of humor.
Oh no. I remember her fervent dancing of the night before. All
her patented moves used with maximum eect to seduce Christian’s
brother, no less! What’s she going to think about me being here?
I’ve never stayed out before. She’s still with Elliot. She’s only done
this twice before, and both times I’ve had to endure the hideous
pink PJs for a week from the fallout. She’s going to think I’ve had a
one-night stand, too.
Christian stares at me imperiously. He’s wearing a white linen
shirt, collar and cus undone.
“Sit,” he commands, pointing to a place at the table. I make my
way across the room and sit down opposite him as I’ve been
directed. The table is laden with food.
“I didn’t know what you liked, so I ordered a selection from the
breakfast menu.” He gives me a crooked, apologetic smile.
“That’s very proigate of you,” I murmur, bewildered by the
choice, though I am hungry.
“Yes, it is.” He sounds guilty.
I opt for pancakes, maple syrup, scrambled eggs, and bacon.
Christian tries to hide a smile as he returns to his egg white omelet.
The food is delicious.
“Tea?” he asks.
“Yes, please.”
He passes me a small teapot of hot water and on the saucer is a
Twinings English Breakfast teabag. Jeez, he remembers how I like
my tea.
“Your hair’s very damp,” he scolds.
“I couldn’t nd the hair dryer,” I mutter, embarrassed. Not that I
looked.
Christian’s mouth presses into a hard line, but he doesn’t say
anything.
“Thank you for the clothes.”
“It’s a pleasure, Anastasia. That color suits you.”
I blush and stare down at my ngers.
“You know, you really should learn to take a compliment.” His
tone is castigating.
“I should give you some money for these clothes.”
He glares at me as if I have oended him on some level. I hurry
on.
“You’ve already given me the books, which, of course, I can’t
accept. But these clothes … please let me pay you back.” I smile
tentatively at him.
“Anastasia, trust me, I can aord it.”
“That’s not the point. Why should you buy these for me?”
“Because I can.” His eyes ash with a wicked gleam.
“Just because you can doesn’t mean that you should,” I reply
quietly as he arches an eyebrow at me, his eyes twinkling, and
suddenly I feel that we’re talking about something else, but I don’t
know what it is. Which reminds me …
“Why did you send me the books, Christian?” My voice is soft. He
puts down his cutlery and regards me intently, his eyes burning
with some unfathomable emotion. Holy crap—my mouth dries.
“Well, when you were nearly run over by the cyclist—and I was
holding you and you were looking up at me—all ‘kiss me, kiss me,
Christian’ ”—he pauses and shrugs—“I felt I owed you an apology
and a warning.” He runs his hand through his hair. “Anastasia, I’m
not a hearts and owers kind of man … I don’t do romance. My
tastes are very singular. You should steer clear of me.” He closes his
eyes as if in defeat. “There’s something about you, though, and I’m
nding it impossible to stay away. But I think you’ve gured that
out already.”
My appetite vanishes. He can’t stay away!
“Then don’t,” I whisper.
He gasps, his eyes wide. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Enlighten me, then.”
We sit gazing at each other, neither of us touching our food.
“You’re not celibate, then?” I breathe.
Amusement lights up his eyes.
“No, Anastasia, I’m not celibate.” He pauses for this information
to sink in, and I ush scarlet. The mouth-to-brain lter is broken
again. I can’t believe I’ve just said that out loud.
“What are your plans for the next few days?” he asks, his voice
low.
“I’m working today, from midday. What time is it?” I panic
suddenly.
“It’s just after ten; you’ve plenty of time. What about
tomorrow?” He has his elbows on the table, and his chin is resting
on his long, steepled ngers.
“Kate and I are going to start packing. We’re moving to Seattle
next weekend, and I’m working at Clayton’s all this week.”
“You have a place in Seattle already?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“I can’t remember the address. It’s in the Pike Market District.”
“Not far from me.” He smiles. “So what are you going to do for
work in Seattle?”
Where is he going with all these questions? The Christian Grey
Inquisition is almost as irritating as the Katherine Kavanagh
Inquisition.
“I’ve applied for some internships. I’m waiting to hear.”
“Have you applied to my company as I suggested?”
I ush … Of course not. “Um … no.”
“And what’s wrong with my company?”
“Your company or your company?” I smirk.
“Are you smirking at me, Miss Steele?” He tilts his head to one
side, and I think he looks amused, but it’s hard to tell. I ush and
glance down at my unnished breakfast. I can’t look him in the eye
when he uses that tone of voice.
“I’d like to bite that lip,” he whispers darkly.
I gasp, completely unaware that I am chewing my bottom lip and
my mouth pops open. That has to be the sexiest thing anybody has
ever said to me. My heartbeat spikes, and I think I’m panting. Jeez,
I’m a quivering, mess, and he hasn’t even touched me. I squirm in
my seat and meet his dark glare.
“Why don’t you?” I challenge quietly.
“Because I’m not going to touch you, Anastasia—not until I have
your written consent to do so.” His lips hint at a smile.
What?
“What does that mean?”
“Exactly what I say.” He sighs and shakes his head at me, amused
but exasperated, too. “I need to show you, Anastasia. What time do
you nish work this evening?”
“About eight.”
“Well, we could go to Seattle this evening or next Saturday for
dinner at my place, and I’ll acquaint you with the facts then. The
choice is yours.”
“Why can’t you tell me now?”
“Because I’m enjoying my breakfast and your company. Once
you’re enlightened, you probably won’t want to see me again.”
What does that mean? Does he white-slave small children to some
godforsaken part of the planet? Is he part of some underworld
crime syndicate? It would explain why he’s so rich. Is he deeply
religious? Is he impotent? Surely not—he could prove that to me
right now. I ush scarlet thinking about the possibilities. This is
getting me nowhere. I’d like to solve the riddle that is Christian
Grey sooner rather than later. If it means that whatever secret he
has is so gross that I don’t want to know him anymore, then, quite
frankly, it will be a relief. Don’t lie to yourself—my subconscious
yells at me—it’ll have to be pretty damned bad to have you running for
the hills.
“Tonight.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“Like Eve, you’re so quick to eat from the tree of knowledge.” He
smirks.
“Are you smirking at me, Mr. Grey?” I ask sweetly. Pompous ass.
He narrows his eyes at me and picks up his BlackBerry. He
presses one number.
“Taylor. I’m going to need Charlie Tango.”
Charlie Tango! Who’s he?
“From Portland at, say, twenty thirty … No, standby at
Escala … All night.”
All night!
“Yes. On call tomorrow morning. I’ll pilot from Portland to
Seattle.”
Pilot?
“Standby pilot from twenty-two thirty.” He puts the phone down.
No please or thank you.
“Do people always do what you tell them?”
“Usually, if they want to keep their jobs,” he says, deadpan.
“And if they don’t work for you?”
“Oh, I can be very persuasive, Anastasia. You should nish your
breakfast. And then I’ll drop you o at home. I’ll pick you up at
Clayton’s at eight when you nish. We’ll y up to Seattle.”
I blink at him rapidly.
“Fly?”
“Yes. I have a helicopter.”
I gape at him. I have my second date with Christian Oh-So-
Mysterious Grey. From coee to helicopter rides. Wow.
“We’ll go by helicopter to Seattle?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He grins wickedly. “Because I can. Finish your breakfast.”
How can I eat now? I’m going to Seattle by helicopter with
Christian Grey. And he wants to bite my lip … I squirm at the
thought.
“Eat,” he says more sharply. “Anastasia, I have an issue with
wasted food … eat.”
“I can’t eat all this.” I gape at what’s left on the table.
“Eat what’s on your plate. If you’d eaten properly yesterday, you
wouldn’t be here, and I wouldn’t be declaring my hand so soon.”
His mouth sets in a grim line. He looks angry.
I frown and return to my now cold food. I’m too excited to eat,
Christian. Don’t you understand? my subconscious explains. But I’m
too much of a coward to voice these thoughts aloud, especially
when he looks so sullen. Hmm, like a small boy. I nd the thought
amusing.
“What’s so funny?” he asks. I shake my head, not daring tell him,
and keep my eyes on my food. Swallowing my last piece of
pancake, I peek up at him. He’s eyeing me speculatively.
“Good girl,” he says. “I’ll take you home when you’ve dried your
hair. I don’t want you getting ill.” There’s some kind of unspoken
promise in his words. What does he mean? I leave the table,
wondering for a moment if I should ask permission but dismissing
the idea. Sounds like a dangerous precedent to set. I head back to
his bedroom. A thought stops me.
“Where did you sleep last night?” I turn to gaze at him still sitting
in the dining room chair. I can’t see any blankets or sheets out here
—perhaps he’s had them tidied away.
“In my bed,” he says simply, his gaze impassive again.
“Oh.”
“Yes, it was quite a novelty for me, too.” He smiles.
“Not having … sex.” There—I said the word. I blush—of course.
“No.” He shakes his head and frowns as if recalling something
uncomfortable. “Sleeping with someone.” He picks up his
newspaper and continues to read.
What in heaven’s name does that mean? He’s never slept with
anyone? He’s a virgin? Somehow I doubt that. I stand staring at him
in disbelief. He is the most mystifying person I’ve ever met. And it
dawns on me that I have slept with Christian Grey, and I kick
myself—what would I have given to be conscious to watch him
sleep? See him vulnerable. Somehow, I nd that hard to imagine.
Well, allegedly all will be revealed tonight.
In his bedroom, I hunt through a chest of drawers and nd the
hair dryer. Using my ngers, I dry my hair the best I can. When
I’ve nished, I head into the bathroom. I want to brush my teeth. I
eye Christian’s toothbrush. It would be like having him in my
mouth. Hmm … Glancing guiltily over my shoulder at the door, I
feel the bristles on the toothbrush. They are damp. He must have
used it already. Grabbing it quickly, I squirt toothpaste on it and
brush my teeth in double time. I feel so naughty. It’s such a thrill.
Grabbing my T-shirt, bra, and panties from yesterday, I put them
in the shopping bag that Taylor brought and head back to the living
area to hunt for my bag and jacket. Deep joy, there is a hair tie in
my bag. Christian is watching me as I tie my hair back, his
expression unreadable. I feel his eyes follow me as I sit down and
wait for him to nish. He’s on his BlackBerry talking to someone.
“They want two? … How much will that cost? … Okay, and what
safety measures do we have in place? … And they’ll go via
Suez? … How safe is Ben Sudan? … And when do they arrive in
Darfur? … Okay, let’s do it. Keep me abreast of progress.” He
hangs up.
“Ready to go?”
I nod. I wonder what his conversation was about. He slips on a
navy pinstriped jacket, picks up his car keys, and heads for the
door.
“After you, Miss Steele,” he murmurs, opening the door for me.
He looks casually elegant.
I pause, fractionally too long, drinking in the sight of him. And to
think I slept with him last night and, after all the tequila and the
throwing up, he’s still here. What’s more, he wants to take me to
Seattle. Why me? I don’t understand it. I head out the door
recalling his words—There’s something about you—well, the feeling
is entirely mutual, Mr. Grey, and I aim to nd out what his secret
is.
We walk in silence down the corridor toward the elevator. As we
wait, I peek up at him through my lashes, and he looks out of the
corner of his eyes down at me. I smile, and his lips twitch.
The elevator arrives, and we step in. We’re alone. Suddenly, for
some inexplicable reason, possibly our proximity in such an
enclosed space, the atmosphere between us changes, charged with
an electric, exhilarating anticipation. My breathing alters as my
heart races. His head turns fractionally toward me, his eyes darkest
slate. I bite my lip.
“Oh, fuck the paperwork,” he growls. He lunges at me, pushing
me against the wall of the elevator. Before I know it, he’s got both
of my hands in one of his in a viselike grip above my head, and he’s
pinning me to the wall using his hips. Holy shit. His other hand
grabs my hair and yanks down, bringing my face up, and his lips are
on mine. It’s only just not painful. I moan into his mouth, giving his
tongue an opening. He takes full advantage, his tongue expertly
exploring my mouth. I have never been kissed like this. My tongue
tentatively strokes his and joins his in a slow, erotic dance that’s all
about touch and sensation, all bump and grind. He brings his hand
up to grasp my chin and holds me in place. I’m helpless, my hands
pinned, my face held, and his hips restraining me. His erection is
against my belly. Oh my … He wants me. Christian Grey, Greek
god, wants me, and I want him, here … now, in the elevator.
“You. Are. So. Sweet,” he murmurs, each word a staccato.
The elevator stops, the doors open, and he pushes away from me
in the blink of an eye, leaving me hanging. Three men in business
suits look at both of us and smirk as they climb on board. My heart
rate is through the roof, I feel like I’ve run an uphill race. I want to
lean over and grasp my knees … but that’s just too obvious.
I glance up at him. He looks so cool and calm, like he’s been
doing the Seattle Times crossword. How unfair. Is he totally
unaected by my presence? He glances at me out of the corner of
his eyes, and he gently blows out a deep breath. Oh, he’s aected
all right—and my very small inner goddess sways in a gentle
victorious samba. The businessmen exit on the second oor. We
have one more oor to travel.
“You’ve brushed your teeth,” he says, staring at me.
“I used your toothbrush.”
His lips quirk up in a half smile. “Oh, Anastasia Steele, what am I
going to do with you?”
The doors open at the rst oor, and he takes my hand and pulls
me out.
“What is it about elevators?” he mutters, more to himself than to
me as he strides across the lobby. I struggle to keep up with him
because my wits have been thoroughly and royally scattered all
over the oor and walls of elevator three in the Heathman Hotel.
CHAPTER SIX
Christian opens the passenger-side door to the black Audi SUV, and
I clamber in. It’s a beast of a car. He hasn’t mentioned the outburst
of passion that exploded in the elevator. Should I? Should we talk
about it or pretend that it didn’t happen? It hardly seems real, my
rst proper no-holds-barred kiss. As time ticks on, I assign it
mythical, Arthurian legend, Lost City of Atlantis status. It never
happened, it never existed. Perhaps I imagined it all. No. I touch my
lips, swollen from his kiss. It denitely happened. I am a changed
woman. I want this man desperately, and he wanted me.
I glance at him. Christian is his usual polite, slightly distant self.
How confusing.
He starts the engine and reverses out of his space in the parking
lot. He switches on the sound system. The car interior is lled with
the sweetest, most magical music of two women singing. Oh
wow … all my senses are in disarray, so this is doubly aecting. It
sends delicious shivers up my spine. Christian pulls out onto
Southwest Park Avenue, and he drives with easy, lazy condence.
“What are we listening to?”
“It’s ‘The Flower Duet’ by Delibes, from the opera Lakmé. Do you
like it?”
“Christian, it’s wonderful.”
“It is, isn’t it?” He grins, glancing at me. And for a eeting
moment, he seems his age: young, carefree, and heart-stoppingly
beautiful. Is this the key to him? Music? I sit and listen to the
angelic voices teasing and seducing me.
“Can I hear that again?”
“Of course.” Christian pushes a button, and the music is caressing
me once more. It’s a gentle, slow, sweet, and sure assault on my
aural senses.
“You like classical music?” I ask, hoping for a rare insight into his
personal preferences.
“My taste is eclectic, Anastasia, everything from Thomas Tallis to
the Kings of Leon. It depends on my mood. You?”
“Me, too. Though I don’t know who Thomas Tallis is.”
He turns and gazes at me briey before his eyes are back on the
road.
“I’ll play it for you sometime. He’s a sixteenth-century British
composer. Tudor, church choral music.” Christian grins at me.
“Sounds very esoteric, I know, but it’s also magical.”
He presses a button and the Kings of Leon start singing.
Hmm … this I know. “Sex on Fire.” How appropriate. The music is
interrupted by the sound of a cell phone ringing over the sound
system speakers. Christian hits a button on the steering wheel.
“Grey,” he snaps. He’s so brusque.
“Mr. Grey, it’s Welch here. I have the information you require.”
A rasping, disembodied voice comes over the speakers.
“Good. E-mail it to me. Anything to add?”
“No, sir.”
He presses the button, then the call ceases and the music is back.
No good-bye or thanks. I’m so glad that I never seriously
entertained the thought of working for him. I shudder at the very
idea. He’s just too controlling and cold with his employees. The
music cuts o again for the phone.
“Grey.”
“The NDA has been e-mailed to you, Mr. Grey.” A woman’s voice.
“Good. That’s all, Andrea.”
“Good day, sir.”
Christian hangs up by pressing a button on the steering wheel.
The music is on very briey when the phone rings again. Holy hell,
is this his life—constant nagging phone calls?
“Grey,” he snaps.
“Hi, Christian, d’you get laid?”
“Hello, Elliot—I’m on speakerphone, and I’m not alone in the
car.” Christian sighs.
“Who’s with you?”
Christian rolls his eyes. “Anastasia Steele.”
“Hi, Ana!”
Ana!
“Hello, Elliot.”
“Heard a lot about you,” Elliot murmurs huskily. Christian
frowns.
“Don’t believe a word Kate says.”
Elliot laughs.
“I’m dropping Anastasia o now.” Christian emphasizes my full
name. “Shall I pick you up?”
“Sure.”
“See you shortly.” Christian hangs up, and the music is back.
“Why do you insist on calling me Anastasia?”
“Because it’s your name.”
“I prefer Ana.”
“Do you now?”
We are almost at my apartment. It’s not taken long.
“Anastasia,” he muses. I scowl at him, but he ignores my
expression. “What happened in the elevator—it won’t happen again,
well, not unless it’s premeditated.”
He pulls up outside my duplex. I belatedly realize he’s not asked
me where I live—yet he knows. But then he sent the books; of
course he knows where I live. What able, cell phone–tracking,
helicopter-owning stalker wouldn’t?
Why won’t he kiss me again? I pout at the thought. I don’t
understand. Honestly, his surname should be Cryptic, not Grey. He
climbs out of the car, walking with easy, long-legged grace around
to my side to open the door, ever the gentleman—except perhaps in
rare, precious moments in elevators. I ush at the memory of his
mouth on mine, and the thought that I’d been unable to touch him
enters my mind. I wanted to run my ngers through his decadent,
untidy hair, but I’d been unable to move my hands. I am
retrospectively frustrated.
“I liked what happened in the elevator,” I murmur as I climb out
of the car. I’m not sure if I hear an audible gasp, but I choose to
ignore it and head up the steps to the front door.
Kate and Elliot are sitting at our dining table. The fourteen-
thousand-dollar books have disappeared. Thank heavens. I have
plans for them. She has the most un-Kate-like ridiculous grin on her
face, and she looks mussed up in a sexy kind of way. Christian
follows me into the living room, and in spite of her I’ve-been-
having-a-good-time-all-night grin, Kate eyes him suspiciously.
“Hi, Ana.” She leaps up to hug me, then holds me at arm’s length
so she can examine me. She frowns and turns to Christian.
“Good morning, Christian,” she says, and her tone is a little
hostile.
“Miss Kavanagh,” he says in his sti, formal way.
“Christian, her name is Kate,” Elliot grumbles.
“Kate.” Christian gives her a polite nod and glares at Elliot, who
grins and rises to hug me, too.
“Hi, Ana.” He smiles, his blue eyes twinkling, and I like him
immediately. He’s obviously nothing like Christian, but then they’re
adopted brothers.
“Hi, Elliot.” I smile at him, and I’m aware that I’m biting my lip.
“Elliot, we’d better go,” Christian says mildly.
“Sure.” He turns to Kate and pulls her into his arms and gives her
a long, lingering kiss.
Jeez … get a room. I stare at my feet, embarrassed. I glance up at
Christian, and he’s watching me intently. I narrow my eyes at him.
Why can’t you kiss me like that? Elliot continues to kiss Kate,
sweeping her o her feet and dipping her in a dramatic hold so that
her hair touches the ground as he kisses her hard.
“Laters, baby.” He grins.
Kate just melts. I’ve never seen her melt before—the words
“comely” and “compliant” come to mind. Compliant Kate. Boy,
Elliot must be good. Christian rolls his eyes and stares down at me,
his expression unreadable, although maybe he’s mildly amused. He
tucks a stray strand of my hair that has worked its way free from
my ponytail behind my ear. My breath hitches at the contact, and I
lean my head into his ngers. His eyes soften, and he runs his
thumb across my lower lip. My blood sears in my veins. And all too
quickly, his touch is gone.
“Laters, baby,” he murmurs, and I have to laugh because it’s so
unlike him. But even though I know he’s being irreverent, the
endearment tugs at something deep inside me.
“I’ll pick you up at eight.” He turns to leave, opening the front
door and stepping out onto the porch. Elliot follows him to the car
but turns and blows Kate another kiss, and I feel an unwelcome
pang of jealousy.
“So, did you?” Kate asks as we watch them climb into the car and
drive o, the burning curiosity evident in her voice.
“No,” I snap irritably, hoping that will halt the questions. We
head back into the apartment. “You obviously did, though.” I can’t
contain my envy. Kate always manages to ensnare men. She is
irresistible, beautiful, sexy, funny, forward … all the things that I’m
not. But her answering grin is infectious.
“And I’m seeing him again this evening.” She claps her hands and
jumps up and down like a small child. She cannot contain her
excitement and happiness, and I can’t help but feel happy for her. A
happy Kate … this is going to be interesting.
“Christian is taking me to Seattle this evening.”
“Seattle?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe you will then?”
“Oh, I hope so.”
“You like him, then?”
“Yes.”
“Like him enough to …?”
“Yes.”
She raises her eyebrows.
“Wow. Ana Steele, nally falling for a man, and it’s Christian
Grey—hot, sexy billionaire.”
“Oh yeah—it’s all about the money.” I smirk, and we both fall
into a t of giggles.
“Is that a new blouse?” she asks, and I let her have all the
unexciting details about my night.
“Has he kissed you yet?” she asks as she makes coee.
I blush.
“Once.”
“Once!” she scos.
I nod, rather shamefaced. “He’s very reserved.”
She frowns. “That’s odd.”
“I don’t think odd covers it, really.”
“We need to make sure you’re simply irresistible for this
evening,” she says with determination.
Oh no … this sounds like it will be time consuming, humiliating,
and painful.
“I have to be at work in an hour.”
“I can work with that time frame. Come on.” Kate grabs my hand
and takes me into her bedroom.
THE DAY DRAGS AT Clayton’s even though we’re busy. We’ve hit the
summer season, so I have to spend two hours restocking the shelves
once the shop is closed. It’s mindless work, and it gives me too
much time to think. I’ve not really had a chance all day.
Under Kate’s tireless and frankly intrusive instruction, my legs
and underarms are shaved to perfection, my eyebrows plucked, and
I am bued all over. It has been a most unpleasant experience. But
she assures me that this is what men expect these days. What else
will he expect? I have to convince Kate that this is what I want to
do. For some strange reason, she doesn’t trust him, maybe because
he’s so sti and formal. She says she can’t put her nger on it, but I
have promised to text her when I arrive in Seattle. I haven’t told
her about the helicopter; she’d freak.
I also have the José issue. He’s left three messages and seven
missed calls on my cell. He’s also called home twice. Kate has been
very vague as to where I am. He’ll know she’s covering for me.
Kate doesn’t do vague. But I have decided to let him stew. I’m still
too angry with him.
Christian mentioned some kind of written paperwork, and I don’t
know if he was joking or if I’m going to have to sign something.
It’s frustrating trying to guess. And on top of all the angst, I can
barely contain my excitement or my nerves. Tonight’s the night!
After all this time, am I ready for this? My inner goddess glares at
me, tapping her small foot impatiently. She’s been ready for this for
years, and she’s ready for anything with Christian Grey, but I still
don’t understand what he sees in me … mousey Ana Steele—it
makes no sense.
He is punctual, of course, and waiting for me when I leave
Clayton’s. He climbs out of the back of the Audi to open the door
and smiles warmly at me.
“Good evening, Miss Steele,” he says.
“Mr. Grey.” I nod politely to him as I climb into the backseat of
the car. Taylor is sitting in the driver’s seat.
“Hello, Taylor,” I say.
“Good evening, Miss Steele.” His voice is polite and professional.
Christian climbs in the other side and clasps my hand, giving it a
gentle squeeze that echoes through my body.
“How was work?” he asks.
“Very long,” I reply, and my voice is husky, too low, and full of
need.
“Yes, it’s been a long day for me, too.”
“What did you do?” I manage.
“I went hiking with Elliot.” His thumb strokes my knuckles, back
and forth, and my heart skips a beat as my breathing accelerates.
How does he do this to me? He’s only touching a very small area of
my body, and the hormones are ying.
The drive to the heliport is short and, before I know it, we arrive.
I wonder where the fabled helicopter might be. We’re in a built-up
area of the city, and even I know helicopters need space to take o
and land. Taylor parks, climbs out, and opens the door for me.
Christian is beside me in an instant and takes my hand again.
“Ready?” he asks. I nod and want to say, For anything, but I can’t
articulate the words as I’m too nervous, too excited.
“Taylor.” He nods curtly at his driver, and we head into the
building, straight to a set of elevators. Elevator! The memory of our
kiss this morning comes back to haunt me. I have thought of
nothing else all day, daydreaming at the register at Clayton’s.
Twice Mr. Clayton had to shout my name to bring me back to
Earth. To say I’ve been distracted would be the understatement of
the year. Christian glances down at me, a slight smile on his lips.
Ha! He’s thinking about it, too.
“It’s only three oors,” he says dryly, his eyes dancing with
amusement. He’s telepathic, surely. It’s spooky.
I try to keep my face impassive as we enter the elevator. The
doors close, and it’s there, the weird electrical attraction crackling
between us, enslaving me. I close my eyes in a vain attempt to
ignore it. He tightens his grip on my hand, and ve seconds later
the doors open onto the roof of the building. And there it is, a white
helicopter with the name GREY ENTERPRISES HOLDINGS, INC. written in
blue with the company logo on the side. Surely this is misuse of
company property.
He leads me to a small oce where an old-timer sits behind the
desk.
“Here’s your ight plan, Mr. Grey. All external checks are done.
It’s ready and waiting, sir. You’re free to go.”
“Thank you, Joe.” Christian smiles warmly at him.
Oh. Someone deserving of the polite treatment from Christian.
Perhaps he’s not an employee. I stare at the old guy in awe.
“Let’s go,” Christian says, and we make our way toward the
helicopter. When we’re up close, it’s much bigger than I thought. I
expected it to be a roadster version for two, but it has at least seven
seats. Christian opens the door and directs me to one of the seats at
the very front.
“Sit—don’t touch anything,” he orders as he climbs in behind me.
He shuts the door with a slam. I’m glad that the area is oodlit,
otherwise I’d nd it dicult to see inside the small cockpit. I sit
down in my allotted seat, and he crouches beside me to strap me
into the harness. It’s a four-point harness with all the straps
connecting to one central buckle. He tightens both of the upper
straps, so I can hardly move. He’s so close and intent on what he’s
doing. If I could only lean forward, my nose would be in his hair.
He smells clean, fresh, heavenly, but I’m fastened securely into my
seat and eectively immobile. He glances up and smiles, like he’s
enjoying his usual private joke, his eyes heated. He’s so
tantalizingly close. I hold my breath as he pulls at one of the upper
straps.
“You’re secure, no escaping,” he whispers. “Breathe, Anastasia,”
he adds softly. Reaching up, he caresses my cheek, running his long
ngers down to my chin, which he grasps between his thumb and
forenger. He leans forward and plants a brief, chaste kiss, leaving
me reeling, my insides clenching at the thrilling, unexpected touch
of his lips.
“I like this harness,” he whispers.
What?
He sits down beside me and buckles himself into his seat, then
begins a protracted procedure of checking gauges and ipping
switches and buttons from the mind-boggling array of dials and
lights and switches in front of me. Little lights wink and ash from
various dials, and the whole of the instrument panel lights up.
“Put your cans on,” he says, pointing to a set of headphones in
front of me. I pull them on, and the rotor blades start. They are
deafening. He puts his headphones on and continues ipping various
switches.
“I’m just going through all the preight checks.” Christian’s
disembodied voice is in my ears through the headphones. I turn and
grin at him.
“Do you know what you are doing?” I ask. He turns and smiles at
me.
“I’ve been a fully qualied pilot for four years, Anastasia. You’re
safe with me.” He gives me a wolsh grin. “Well, while we’re
ying,” he adds, and winks at me.
Winking … Christian!
“Are you ready?”
I nod, wide-eyed.
“Okay, tower. PDX, this is Charlie Tango Golf–Golf Echo Hotel,
cleared for take-o. Please conrm, over.”
“Charlie Tango—you are clear. PDX to call, proceed to one four
thousand, heading zero one zero, over.”
“Roger, tower, Charlie Tango set, over and out. Here we go,” he
adds to me, and the helicopter rises slowly and smoothly into the
air.
Portland disappears in front of us as we head into U.S. airspace,
though my stomach remains rmly in Oregon. Whoa! All the bright
lights shrink until they are twinkling sweetly below us. It’s like
looking out from inside a sh bowl. Once we’re higher, there really
is nothing to see. It’s pitch-black, not even the moon to shed any
light on our journey. How can he see where we’re going?
“Eerie, isn’t it?” Christian’s voice is in my ears.
“How do you know you’re going the right way?”
“Here.” He points his long index nger at one of the gauges, and
it shows an electronic compass. “This is an EC135 Eurocopter. One
of the safest in its class. It’s equipped for night ight.” He glances
and grins at me.
“There’s a helipad on top of the building I live in. That’s where
we’re heading.”
Of course there’s a helipad where he lives. I am so out of my
league here. His face is softly illuminated by the lights on the
instrument panel. He’s concentrating hard, and he’s continually
glancing at the various dials in front of him. I drink in his features
from beneath my lashes. He has a beautiful prole. Straight nose,
square jawed—I’d like to run my tongue along his jaw. He hasn’t
shaved, and his stubble makes the prospect doubly tempting.
Hmm … I’d like to feel how rough it is beneath my tongue, my
ngers, against my face.
“When you y at night, you y blind. You have to trust the
instrumentation,” he says, interrupting my erotic reverie.
“How long will the ight be?” I manage breathlessly. I wasn’t
thinking about sex at all, no, no way.
“Less than an hour—the wind is in our favor.”
Hmm, less than an hour to Seattle … that’s not bad going. No
wonder we’re ying.
I have less than an hour before the big reveal. All the muscles
clench deep in my belly. I have a serious case of butteries. They
are ourishing in my stomach. Holy shit, what has he got in store
for me?
“You okay, Anastasia?”
“Yes.” My answer is short, clipped, squeezed out through my
nerves.
I think he smiles, but it’s dicult to tell in the darkness. Christian
icks yet another switch.
“PDX, this is Charlie Tango now at one four thousand, over.” He
exchanges information with air trac control. It all sounds very
professional to me. I think we’re moving from Portland’s airspace
to Seattle International Airport’s. “Understood, Sea-Tac, standing
by, over and out.”
“Look, over there.” He points to a small pinpoint of light in the
far distance. “That’s Seattle.”
“Do you always impress women this way? ‘Come and y in my
helicopter’?” I ask, genuinely interested.
“I’ve never brought a girl up here, Anastasia. It’s another rst for
me.” His voice is quiet, serious.
Oh, that was an unexpected answer. Another rst? Oh, the
sleeping thing, perhaps?
“Are you impressed?”
“I’m awed, Christian.”
He smiles.
“Awed?” And for a brief moment, he’s his age again.
I nod. “You’re just so … competent.”
“Why, thank you, Miss Steele,” he says politely. I think he’s
pleased, but I’m not sure.
We ride in the dark night in silence for a while. The bright spot
that is Seattle is slowly getting bigger.
“Sea-Tac tower to Charlie Tango. Flight plan to Escala in place.
Please proceed. And stand by. Over.”
“This is Charlie Tango, understood, Sea-Tac. Standing by, over and
out.”
“You obviously enjoy this,” I murmur.
“What?” He glances at me. He looks quizzical in the half light of
the instruments.
“Flying,” I reply.
“It requires control and concentration … how could I not love it?
Though my favorite is soaring.”
“Soaring?”
“Yes. Gliding, to the layperson. Gliders and helicopters—I y
them both.”
“Oh.” Expensive hobbies. I remember him telling me during the
interview. I like reading and occasionally going to the movies. I am
out of my depth here.
“Charlie Tango, come in, please, over.” The disembodied voice of
air trac control interrupts my reverie. Christian answers, sounding
in control and condent.
Seattle is getting closer. We are on the very outskirts now. Wow!
It looks absolutely stunning. Seattle at night, from the sky …
“Looks good, doesn’t it?” Christian murmurs.
I nod enthusiastically. It looks otherworldly—unreal—and I feel
like I’m on a giant lm set; José’s favorite lm maybe, Blade
Runner. The memory of José’s attempted kiss haunts me. I’m
beginning to feel a bit cruel not calling him back. He can wait until
tomorrow … surely.
“We’ll be there in a few minutes,” Christian mutters, and
suddenly my blood is pounding in my ears as my heartbeat
accelerates and adrenaline spikes through my system. He starts
talking to air trac control again, but I am no longer listening. I
think I’m going to faint. My fate is in his hands.
We are now ying among the buildings, and up ahead I can see a
tall skyscraper with a helipad on top. The word “Escala” is painted
in white on top of the building. It’s getting nearer and nearer,
bigger and bigger … like my anxiety. God, I hope I don’t let him
down. He’ll nd me lacking in some way. I wish I’d listened to Kate
and borrowed one of her dresses, but I like my black jeans, and I’m
wearing a soft mint-green shirt and Kate’s black jacket. I look smart
enough. I grip the edge of my seat tighter and tighter. I can do this. I
can do this. I chant this mantra as the skyscraper looms below us.
The helicopter slows and hovers, and Christian sets it down on
the helipad on top of the building. My heart is in my mouth. I can’t
decide if it’s from nervous anticipation, relief that we’ve arrived
alive, or fear that I will fail in some way. He switches the ignition
o and the rotor blades slow and quiet until all I hear is the sound
of my own erratic breathing. Christian takes his headphones o and
reaches across and pulls mine o, too.
“We’re here,” he says softly.
His look is so intense, half in shadow and half in the bright white
light from the landing lights. Dark knight and white knight, it’s a
tting metaphor for Christian. He looks strained. His jaw is
clenched and his eyes are tight. He unfastens his seatbelt and
reaches over to unbuckle mine. His face is inches from mine.
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. You know
that, don’t you?” His tone is so earnest, desperate even, his eyes
impassioned. He takes me by surprise.
“I’d never do anything I didn’t want to do, Christian.” And as I
say the words, I don’t quite feel their conviction, because at this
moment in time, I’d probably do anything for this man seated
beside me. But this does the trick. He’s mollied.
He eyes me warily for a moment and somehow, even though he’s
so tall, he manages to ease his way gracefully to the door of the
helicopter and open it. He jumps out, waiting for me to follow, and
takes my hand as I clamber down on to the helipad. It’s very windy
on top of the building, and I’m nervous about the fact that I’m
standing at least thirty stories high in an unenclosed space. Christian
wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me tightly against him.
“Come,” he shouts above the noise of the wind. He drags me over
to an elevator and, after tapping a number into a keypad, the doors
open. It’s warm inside and all mirrored glass. I can see Christian to
innity everywhere I look, and the wonderful thing is he’s holding
me to innity, too. Christian taps another code into the keypad,
then the doors close and the elevator descends.
Moments later, we’re in an all-white foyer. In the middle is a
round, dark wood table, and on it is an unbelievably huge bunch of
white owers. On the walls there are paintings everywhere. He
opens a set of double doors, and the white theme continues across a
wide corridor where directly opposite, is the entrance to a palatial
room. It’s the main living area, double height. “Huge” is too small a
word for it. The far wall is glass and leads onto a balcony that
overlooks Seattle.
To the right is an imposing U-shaped sofa that could seat ten
adults comfortably. It faces a state-of-the-art stainless-steel—or
maybe platinum, for all I know—modern replace. The re is lit
and aming gently. On the left beside us, by the entry way, is the
kitchen area. All white with dark wood worktops and a breakfast
bar that seats six.
Near the kitchen area, in front of the glass wall, is a dining table
surrounded by sixteen chairs. And tucked in the corner is a full-
sized, shiny black grand piano. Oh yes … he probably plays the
piano, too. There is art of all shapes and sizes on all the walls. In
fact, this apartment looks more like a gallery than a place to live.
“Can I take your jacket?” Christian asks. I shake my head. I’m
still cold from the wind on the helipad.
“Would you like a drink?” he asks. I blink at him. After last night!
Is he trying to be funny? For one second, I think about asking for a
margarita—but I don’t have the nerve.
“I’m going to have a glass of white wine. Would you like to join
me?”
“Yes, please,” I murmur.
I am standing in this enormous room feeling out of place. I walk
over to the glass wall, and I realize that the lower half of the wall
opens concertina style onto the balcony. Seattle is lit up and lively
in the background. I walk back to the kitchen area—it takes a few
seconds, it’s so far from the glass wall—and Christian is opening a
bottle of wine. He’s removed his jacket.
“Pouilly Fumé okay with you?”
“I know nothing about wine, Christian. I’m sure it will be ne.”
My voice is soft and hesitant. My heart is thumping. I want to run.
This is seriously rich. Seriously over-the-top Bill Gates–style
wealthy. What am I doing here? You know very well what you’re
doing here, my subconscious sneers at me. Yes, I want to be in
Christian Grey’s bed.
“Here.” He hands me a glass of wine. Even the glasses are
rich … heavy, contemporary crystal. I take a sip, and the wine is
light, crisp, and delicious.
“You’re very quiet, and you’re not even blushing. In fact, I think
this is the palest I’ve ever seen you, Anastasia,” he murmurs. “Are
you hungry?”
I shake my head. Not for food. “It’s a very big place you have
here.”
“Big?”
“Big.”
“It’s big,” he agrees, and his eyes glow with amusement. I take
another sip of wine.
“Do you play?” I point my chin at the piano.
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“Yes.”
“Of course you do. Is there anything you can’t do well?”
“Yes … a few things.” He takes a sip of his wine. He doesn’t take
his eyes o me. I feel them following me as I turn and glance
around this vast room. “Room” is the wrong word. It’s not a room
—it’s a mission statement.
“Do you want to sit?”
I nod, and he takes my hand and leads me to the large o-white
couch. As I sit, I’m struck by the fact that I feel like Tess
Durbeyeld looking at the new house that belongs to the notorious
Alec d’Urberville. The thought makes me smile.
“What’s so amusing?” He sits down beside me, turning to face
me. He rests his head on his right hand, his elbow propped on the
back of the couch.
“Why did you give me Tess of the d’Urbervilles specically?” I ask.
Christian stares at me for a moment. I think he’s surprised by my
question.
“Well, you said you liked Thomas Hardy.”
“Is that the only reason?” Even I can hear the disappointment in
my voice. His mouth presses into a hard line.
“It seemed appropriate. I could hold you to some impossibly high
ideal like Angel Clare or debase you completely like Alec
d’Urberville,” he murmurs, and his eyes ash dark and dangerous.
“If there are only two choices, I’ll take the debasement.” I
whisper, gazing at him. My subconscious is staring at me in awe. He
gasps.
“Anastasia, stop biting your lip, please. It’s very distracting. You
don’t know what you’re saying.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
He frowns.
“Yes. Would you excuse me for a moment?” He disappears
through a wide doorway on the far side of the room. He’s gone for
a couple of minutes and returns with a document.
“This is a nondisclosure agreement.” He shrugs and has the grace
to look a little embarrassed. “My lawyer insists on it.” He hands it
to me. I’m completely bemused. “If you’re going for option two,
debasement, you’ll need to sign this.”
“And if I don’t want to sign anything?”
“Then it’s Angel Clare high ideals, well, for most of the book
anyway.”
“What does this agreement mean?”
“It means you cannot disclose anything about us. Anything, to
anyone.”
I stare at him in disbelief. Holy shit. It’s bad, really bad, and now
I’m very curious to know.
“Okay. I’ll sign.”
He hands me a pen.
“Aren’t you even going to read it?”
“No.”
He frowns.
“Anastasia, you should always read anything you sign,” he
admonishes me.
“Christian, what you fail to understand is that I wouldn’t talk
about us to anyone anyway. Even Kate. So it’s immaterial whether I
sign an agreement or not. If it means so much to you, or your
lawyer … whom you obviously talk to, then ne. I’ll sign.”
He gazes down at me, and he nods gravely.
“Fair point well made, Miss Steele.”
I lavishly sign on the dotted line of both copies and hand one
back to him. Folding the other, I place it my purse and take a large
swig of my wine. I’m sounding so much braver than I’m actually
feeling.
“Does this mean you’re going to make love to me tonight,
Christian?” Holy shit. Did I just say that? His mouth drops open
slightly, but he recovers quickly.
“No, Anastasia, it doesn’t. First, I don’t make love. I fuck … hard.
Second, there’s a lot more paperwork to do. And third, you don’t
yet know what you’re in for. You could still run for the hills. Come,
I want to show you my playroom.”
My mouth drops open. Fuck hard! Holy shit, that sounds
so … hot. But why are we looking at a playroom? I am mystied.
“You want to play on your Xbox?” I ask. He laughs loudly.
“No, Anastasia, no Xbox, no Playstation. Come.” He stands,
holding out his hand. I let him lead me back out to the corridor. On
the right of the double doors, where we came in, another door leads
to a staircase. We go up to the second oor and turn right.
Producing a key from his pocket, he unlocks yet another door and
takes a deep breath.
“You can leave anytime. The helicopter is on standby to take you
whenever you want to go; you can stay the night and go home in
the morning. It’s ne whatever you decide.”
“Just open the damn door, Christian.”
He opens the door and stands back to let me in. I gaze at him
once more. I so want to know what’s in here. Taking a deep breath
I walk in.
And it feels like I’ve time-traveled back to the sixteenth century
and the Spanish Inquisition.
Holy fuck.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The rst thing I notice is the smell: leather, wood, polish with a
faint citrus scent. It’s very pleasant, and the lighting is soft, subtle.
In fact, I can’t see the source, but it’s around the cornice in the
room, emitting an ambient glow. The walls and ceiling are a deep,
dark burgundy, giving a womb-like eect to the spacious room, and
the oor is old, old varnished wood. There is a large wooden cross
like an X fastened to the wall facing the door. It’s made of high-
polished mahogany, and there are restraining cus on each corner.
Above it is an expansive iron grid suspended from the ceiling, eight-
foot square at least, and from it hang all manner of ropes, chains,
and glinting shackles. By the door, two long, polished, ornately
carved poles, like spindles from a banister but longer, hang like
curtain rods across the wall. From them swing a startling
assortment of paddles, whips, riding crops, and funny-looking
feathery implements.
Beside the door stands a substantial mahogany chest of drawers,
each drawer slim as if designed to contain specimens in a crusty old
museum. I wonder briey what the drawers actually do hold. Do I
want to know? In the far corner is an oxblood leather padded bench,
and xed to the wall beside it is a wooden, polished rack that looks
like a pool or billiard cue holder, but on closer inspection, it holds
canes of varying lengths and widths. There’s a stout six-foot-long
table in the opposite corner—polished wood with intricately carved
legs—and two matching stools underneath.
But what dominates the room is a bed. It’s bigger than king sized,
an ornately carved rococo four-poster with a at top. It looks late
nineteenth century. Under the canopy, I can see more gleaming
chains and cus. There is no bedding … just a mattress covered in
red leather and red satin cushions piled at one end.
At the foot of the bed, set apart a few feet, is a large oxblood
chestereld couch, just stuck in the middle of the room facing the
bed. An odd arrangement … to have a couch facing the bed, and I
smile to myself—I’ve picked on the couch as odd, when really it’s
the most mundane piece of furniture in the room. I glance up and
stare at the ceiling. There are carabiners all over the ceiling at odd
intervals. I vaguely wonder what they’re for. Weirdly, all the wood,
dark walls, moody lighting, and oxblood leather makes the room
kind of soft and romantic … I know it’s anything but; this is
Christian’s version of soft and romantic.
I turn, and he’s regarding me intently, as I knew he would be, his
expression completely unreadable. I walk farther into the room, and
he follows me. The feathery thing has me intrigued. I touch it
hesitantly. It’s suede, like a small cat-o’-nine-tails but bushier, and
there are very small plastic beads on the end.
“It’s called a ogger.” Christian’s voice is quiet and soft.
A ogger … hmm. I think I’m in shock. My subconscious has
emigrated or been struck dumb or simply keeled over and expired. I
am numb. I can observe and absorb but not articulate my feelings
about all this, because I’m in shock. What is the appropriate
response to nding out a potential lover is a complete freaky sadist
or masochist? Fear … yes … that seems to be the overriding feeling.
I recognize it now. But weirdly not of him—I don’t think he’d hurt
me, well, not without my consent. So many questions cloud my
mind. Why? How? When? How often? Who? I walk toward the bed
and run my hands down one of the intricately carved posts. The
post is very sturdy, the craftsmanship outstanding.
“Say something,” Christian commands, his voice deceptively soft.
“Do you do this to people or do they do it to you?”
His mouth quirks up, either amused or relieved.
“People?” He blinks a couple of times as he considers his answer.
“I do this to women who want me to.”
I don’t understand.
“If you have willing volunteers, why am I here?”
“Because I want to do this with you, very much.”
“Oh,” I gasp. Why?
I wander to the far corner of the room and pat the waist-high
padded bench and run my ngers over the leather. He likes to hurt
women. The thought depresses me.
“You’re a sadist?”
“I’m a Dominant.” His eyes are a scorching gray, intense.
“What does that mean?” I whisper.
“It means I want you to willingly surrender yourself to me, in all
things.”
I frown at him as I try to assimilate this idea.
“Why would I do that?”
“To please me,” he whispers as he cocks his head to one side, and
I see a ghost of a smile.
Please him! He wants me to please him! I think my mouth drops
open. Please Christian Grey. And I realize, in that moment, that yes,
that’s exactly what I want to do. I want him to be damned delighted
with me. It’s a revelation.
“In very simple terms, I want you to want to please me,” he says
softly. His voice is hypnotic.
“How do I do that?” My mouth is dry, and I wish I had more
wine. Okay, I understand the pleasing bit, but I am puzzled by the
soft-boudoir Elizabethan-torture setup. Do I want to know the
answer?
“I have rules, and I want you to comply with them. They are for
your benet and for my pleasure. If you follow these rules to my
satisfaction, I shall reward you. If you don’t, I shall punish you, and
you will learn,” he whispers. I glance at the rack of canes as he says
this.
“And where does all this t in?” I wave my hand in the general
direction of the room.
“It’s all part of the incentive package. Both reward and
punishment.”
“So you’ll get your kicks by exerting your will over me.”
“It’s about gaining your trust and your respect, so you’ll let me
exert my will over you. I will gain a great deal of pleasure, joy
even, in your submission. The more you submit, the greater my joy
—it’s a very simple equation.”
“Okay, and what do I get out of this?”
He shrugs and looks almost apologetic.
“Me,” he says simply.
Oh my. Christian rakes his hand through his hair as he gazes at
me.
“You’re not giving anything away, Anastasia,” he murmurs,
exasperated. “Let’s go back downstairs where I can concentrate
better. It’s very distracting having you in here.” He holds his hand
out to me, and now I’m hesitant to take it.
Kate had said he was dangerous; she was so right. How did she
know? He’s dangerous to my health, because I know I’m going to
say yes. And part of me doesn’t want to. Part of me wants to run
screaming from this room and all it represents. I am so out of my
depth here.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Anastasia.”
I know he speaks the truth. I take his hand, and he leads me out
the door.
“If you do this, let me show you.” Rather than going back
downstairs, he turns right out of the playroom, as he calls it, and
down a corridor. We pass several doors until we reach the one at
the end. Beyond it is a bedroom with a large double bed, all in
white … everything—furniture, walls, bedding. It’s sterile and cold
but with the most glorious view of Seattle through the glass wall.
“This will be your room. You can decorate it how you like, have
whatever you like in here.”
“My room? You’re expecting me to move in?” I can’t hide the
horror in my voice.
“Not full time. Just, say, Friday evening through Sunday. We
have to talk about all that, negotiate. If you want to do this,” he
adds, his voice quiet and hesitant.
“I’ll sleep here?”
“Yes.”
“Not with you.”
“No. I told you, I don’t sleep with anyone, except you when
you’re stupeed with drink.” His voice is reprimanding.
My mouth presses in a hard line. This is what I cannot reconcile.
Kind, caring Christian, who rescues me from inebriation and holds
me gently while I’m throwing up into the azaleas, and the monster
who possesses whips and chains in a special room.
“Where do you sleep?”
“My room is downstairs. Come, you must be hungry.”
“Weirdly, I seem to have lost my appetite,” I murmur petulantly.
“You must eat, Anastasia,” he scolds, and, taking my hand, leads
me back downstairs.
Back in the impossibly big room, I am lled with deep
trepidation. I am on the edge of a precipice, and I have to decide
whether to jump.
“I’m fully aware that this is a dark path I’m leading you down,
Anastasia, which is why I really want you to think about this. You
must have some questions,” he says as he wanders into the kitchen
area, releasing my hand.
I do. But where to start?
“You’ve signed your NDA; you can ask me anything you want and
I’ll answer.”
I stand at the breakfast bar watching him as he opens the
refrigerator and pulls out a plate of dierent cheeses with two large
bunches of green and red grapes. He sets the plate down on the
worktop and proceeds to cut up a French baguette.
“Sit.” He points to one of the stools at the breakfast bar, and I
obey his command. If I’m going to do this, I’m going to have to get
used to it. I realize he’s been this bossy since I met him.
“You mentioned paperwork.”
“Yes.”
“What paperwork?”
“Well, apart from the NDA, a contract saying what we will and
won’t do. I need to know your limits, and you need to know mine.
This is consensual, Anastasia.”
“And if I don’t want to do this?”
“That’s ne,” he says carefully.
“But we won’t have any sort of relationship?” I ask.
“No.”
“Why?”
“This is the only sort of relationship I’m interested in.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “It’s the way I am.”
“How did you become this way?”
“Why is anyone the way they are? That’s kind of hard to answer.
Why do some people like cheese and other people hate it? Do you
like cheese? Mrs. Jones—my housekeeper—has left this for supper.”
He takes some large white plates from a cupboard and places one in
front of me.
We’re talking about cheese … Holy crap.
“What are your rules that I have to follow?”
“I have them written down. We’ll go through them once we’ve
eaten.”
Food. How can I eat now?
“I’m really not hungry,” I whisper.
“You will eat,” he says simply. Dominating Christian, it all becomes
clear. “Would you like another glass of wine?”
“Yes, please.”
He pours wine into my glass and comes to sit beside me. I take a
hasty sip.
“Help yourself to food, Anastasia.”
I take a small bunch of grapes. This I can manage. He narrows his
eyes.
“Have you been like this for a while?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Is it easy to nd women who want to do this?”
He raises an eyebrow at me.
“You’d be amazed,” he says dryly.
“Then why me? I really don’t understand.”
“Anastasia, I’ve told you. There’s something about you. I can’t
leave you alone.” He smiles ironically. “I’m like a moth to a ame.”
His voice darkens. “I want you very badly, especially now, when
you’re biting your lip again.” He takes a deep breath and swallows.
My stomach somersaults—he wants me … in a weird way, true,
but this beautiful, strange, kinky man wants me.
“I think you have that cliché the wrong way around,” I grumble. I
am the moth and he is the ame, and I’m going to get burned. I
know.
“Eat!”
“No. I haven’t signed anything yet, so I think I’ll hang on to my
free will for a bit longer, if that’s okay with you.”
His eyes soften, and his lips turn up in a smile.
“As you wish, Miss Steele.”
“How many women?” I blurt out the question, but I’m so curious.
“Fifteen.”
Oh … not as many as I thought.
“For long periods of time?”
“Some of them, yes.”
“Have you ever hurt anyone?”
“Yes.”
Holy shit.
“Badly?”
“No.”
“Will you hurt me?”
“What do you mean?”
“Physically, will you hurt me?”
“I will punish you when you require it, and it will be painful.”
I think I feel a little faint. I take another sip of wine. Alcohol—
this will make me brave.
“Have you ever been beaten?” I ask.
“Yes.”
Oh … that surprises me. Before I can question him on this
revelation further, he interrupts my train of thought.
“Let’s discuss this in my study. I want to show you something.”
This is hard to process. Here I was foolishly thinking that I’d
spend a night of unparalleled passion in this man’s bed, and we’re
negotiating this weird arrangement.
I follow him into his study, a spacious room with another oor-to-
ceiling window that opens out onto the balcony. He sits on the desk,
motions for me to sit on a leather chair in front of him, and hands
me a piece of paper.
“These are the rules. They may be subject to change. They form
part of the contract, which you can also have. Read these rules and
let’s discuss.”
RULES
Obedience:
The Submissive will obey any instructions given by the Dominant immediately
without hesitation or reservation and in an expeditious manner. The Submissive will
agree to any sexual activity deemed t and pleasurable by the Dominant excepting
those activities that are outlined in hard limits (Appendix 2). She will do so eagerly
and without hesitation.
Sleep:
The Submissive will ensure she achieves a minimum of seven hours’ sleep a night
when she is not with the Dominant.
Food:
The Submissive will eat regularly to maintain her health and well-being from a
prescribed list of foods (Appendix 4). The Submissive will not snack between meals,
with the exception of fruit.
Clothes:
During the Term, the Submissive will wear clothing only approved by the Dominant.
The Dominant will provide a clothing budget for the Submissive, which the Submissive
shall utilize. The Dominant shall accompany the Submissive to purchase clothing on
an ad hoc basis. If the Dominant so requires, the Submissive shall wear during the
Term any adornments the Dominant shall require, in the presence of the Dominant and
at any other time the Dominant deems t.
Exercise:
The Dominant shall provide the Submissive with a personal trainer four times a week
in hour-long sessions at times to be mutually agreed between the personal trainer and
the Submissive. The personal trainer will report to the Dominant on the Submissive’s
progress.
Personal Hygiene/Beauty:
The Submissive will keep herself clean and shaved and/or waxed at all times. The
Submissive will visit a beauty salon of the Dominant’s choosing at times to be decided
by the Dominant and undergo whatever treatments the Dominant sees t.
Personal Safety:
The Submissive will not drink to excess, smoke, take recreational drugs, or put herself
in any unnecessary danger.
Personal Qualities:
The Submissive will not enter into any sexual relations with anyone other than the
Dominant. The Submissive will conduct herself in a respectful and modest manner at
all times. She must recognize that her behavior is a direct reection on the Dominant.
She shall be held accountable for any misdeeds, wrongdoings, and misbehavior
committed when not in the presence of the Dominant.
Failure to comply with any of the above will result in immediate punishment, the
nature of which shall be determined by the Dominant.
Holy fuck.
“Hard limits?” I ask.
“Yes. What you won’t do, what I won’t do, we need to specify in
our agreement.”
“I’m not sure about accepting money for clothes. It feels wrong.”
I shift uncomfortably, the word “ho” rattling around my head.
“I want to lavish money on you. Let me buy you some clothes. I
may need you to accompany me to functions, and I want you
dressed well. I’m sure your salary, when you do get a job, won’t
cover the kind of clothes I’d like you to wear.”
“I don’t have to wear them when I’m not with you?”
“No.”
“Okay.” Think of them as a uniform.
“I don’t want to exercise four times a week.”
“Anastasia, I need you supple, strong, and with stamina. Trust
me, you need to exercise.”
“But surely not four times a week. How about three?”
“I want you to do four.”
“I thought this was a negotiation?”
He purses his lips at me. “Okay, Miss Steele, another point well
made. How about an hour on three days and one day half an hour?”
“Three days, three hours. I get the impression you’re going to
keep me exercised when I’m here.”
He smiles wickedly, and his eyes glow as if relieved. “Yes, I am.
Okay, agreed. Are you sure you don’t want to intern at my
company? You’re a good negotiator.”
“No, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I stare down at his rules.
Waxing! Waxing what? Everything? Ugh.
“So, limits. These are mine.” He hands me another piece of paper.
HARD LIMITS
No acts involving re play.
No acts involving urination or defecation and the products thereof.
No acts involving needles, knives, piercing, or blood.
No acts involving gynecological medical instruments.
No acts involving children or animals.
No acts that will leave any permanent marks on the skin.
No acts involving breath control.
No activity that involves the direct contact of electric current (whether alternating or
direct), re, or ames to the body.
Ugh. He has to write these down! Of course—they all look very
sensible and, frankly, necessary … Any sane person wouldn’t want
to be involved in this sort of thing, surely. Though I now feel a little
queasy.
“Is there anything you’d like to add?” he asks kindly.
Crap. I’ve no idea. I am completely stumped. He gazes at me and
furrows his brow.
“Is there anything you won’t do?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
I squirm uncomfortably and bite my lip.
“I’ve never done anything like this.”
“Well, when you’ve had sex, was there anything that you didn’t
like doing?”
For the rst time in what seems to be ages, I blush.
“You can tell me, Anastasia. We have to be honest with each
other or this isn’t going to work.”
I squirm uncomfortably again and stare at my knotted ngers.
“Tell me,” he commands.
“Well … I haven’t had sex before, so I don’t know.” My voice is
small. I peek up at him, and he’s gaping at me, frozen, and pale—
really pale.
“Never?” he whispers. I shake my head.
“You’re a virgin?” he breathes. I nod, ushing again. He closes
his eyes and looks to be counting to ten. When he opens them
again, he’s angry, glaring at me.
“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?” he growls.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Christian is running his hands through his hair and pacing up and
down his study. Two hands—that’s double exasperation. His usual
concrete control seems to have slipped a notch.
“I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me,” he castigates me.
“The subject never came up. I’m not in the habit of revealing my
sexual status to everyone I meet. I mean, we hardly know each
other.” I’m staring at my hands. Why am I feeling guilty? Why is he
so mad? I peek up at him.
“Well, you know a lot more about me now,” he snaps, his mouth
presses into a hard line. “I knew you were inexperienced, but a
virgin!” He says it like it’s a really dirty word. “Hell, Ana, I just
showed you …” he groans. “May God forgive me. Have you ever
been kissed, apart from by me?”
“Of course I have.” I try my best to look aronted. Okay … maybe
twice.
“And a nice young man hasn’t swept you o your feet? I just
don’t understand. You’re twenty-one, nearly twenty-two. You’re
beautiful.” He runs his hand through his hair again.
Beautiful. I ush with pleasure. Christian Grey thinks I’m
beautiful. I knot my ngers together, staring at them hard, trying to
conceal my goofy grin. Perhaps he’s farsighted. My subconscious has
reared her somnambulant head. Where was she when I needed her?
“And you’re seriously discussing what I want to do, when you
have no experience.” His brows knit together. “How have you
avoided sex? Tell me, please.”
I shrug.
“No one’s really, you know …” Come up to scratch, only you.
And you turn out to be some kind of monster. “Why are you so
angry with me?” I whisper.
“I’m not angry with you, I’m angry with myself. I just
assumed …” He sighs. He regards me shrewdly and then shakes his
head. “Do you want to go?” he asks, his voice gentle.
“No, unless you want me to go,” I murmur. Oh no … I don’t want
to leave.
“Of course not. I like having you here.” He frowns as he says this
and then glances at his watch. “It’s late.” And he turns to look at
me. “You’re biting your lip.” His voice is husky, and he’s eyeing me
speculatively.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s just that I want to bite it, too, hard.”
I gasp … how can he say things like that to me and not expect me
to be aected.
“Come,” he murmurs.
“What?”
“We’re going to rectify the situation right now.”
“What do you mean? What situation?”
“Your situation. Ana, I’m going to make love to you, now.”
“Oh.” The oor has fallen away. I’m a situation. I’m holding my
breath.
“That’s if you want to, I mean, I don’t want to push my luck.”
“I thought you didn’t make love. I thought you fucked hard.” I
swallow, my mouth suddenly dry.
He gives me a wicked grin, the eects of which travel all the way
down there.
“I can make an exception, or maybe combine the two, we’ll see. I
really want to make love to you. Please, come to bed with me. I
want our arrangement to work, but you really need to have some
idea what you’re getting yourself into. We can start your training
tonight—with the basics. This doesn’t mean I’ve come over all
hearts and owers; it’s a means to an end, but one that I want, and
hopefully you do, too.” His gaze is intense.
I ush … oh my … wishes do come true.
“But I haven’t done all the things you require from your list of
rules.” My voice is all breathy, hesitant.
“Forget about the rules. Forget about all those details for tonight.
I want you. I’ve wanted you since you fell into my oce, and I
know you want me. You wouldn’t be sitting here calmly discussing
punishment and hard limits if you didn’t. Please, Ana, spend the
night with me.” He holds his hand out to me, his eyes are bright,
fervent … excited, and I put my hand in his. He pulls me up and
into his arms so I can feel the length of his body against mine, this
swift action taking me by surprise. He runs his ngers around the
nape of my neck, winds my ponytail around his wrist, and gently
pulls so I’m forced to look up at him. He gazes down at me.
“You are one brave young woman,” he whispers. “I am in awe of
you.”
His words are like some kind of incendiary device; my blood
ames. He leans down and kisses my lips gently, and he sucks at my
lower lip.
“I want to bite this lip,” he murmurs against my mouth, and
carefully he tugs at it with his teeth. I moan, and he smiles.
“Please, Ana, let me make love to you.”
“Yes,” I whisper, because that’s why I’m here. His smile is
triumphant as he releases me and takes my hand and leads me
through the apartment.
His bedroom is vast. The ceiling-height windows look out on lit-
up Seattle high-rises. The walls are white, and the furnishings are
pale blue. The enormous bed is ultramodern, made of rough, gray
wood like driftwood, four posts but no canopy. On the wall above it
is a stunning painting of the sea.
I am quaking like a leaf. This is it. Finally, after all this time, I’m
going to do it, with none other than Christian Grey. My breath is
shallow, and I can’t take my eyes o him. He removes his watch
and places it on top of a chest of drawers that matches the bed, and
removes his jacket, placing it on a chair. He’s dressed in his white
linen shirt and jeans. He is heart-stoppingly beautiful. His dark
copper hair is a mess, his shirt hanging out—his gray eyes bold and
dazzling. He steps out of his Converse shoes and reaches down and
takes his socks o individually. Christian Grey’s
feet … wow … what is it about naked feet? Turning, he gazes at
me, his expression soft.
“I assume you’re not on the pill.”
What? Shit.
“I didn’t think so.” He opens the top drawer of the chest and
removes a packet of condoms. He gazes at me intently.
“Be prepared,” he murmurs. “Do you want the blinds drawn?”
“I don’t mind,” I whisper. “I thought you didn’t let anyone sleep
in your bed.”
“Who says we’re going to sleep?” he murmurs.
“Oh.” Holy hell.
He strolls slowly toward me. Condent, sexy, eyes blazing, and
my heart begins to pound. My blood’s pumping through my body.
Desire, thick and hot, pools in my belly. He stands in front of me,
staring down into my eyes. He’s so freaking hot.
“Let’s get this jacket o, shall we?” he says softly, and takes hold
of the lapels and gently slides my jacket o my shoulders. He places
it on the chair.
“Do you have any idea how much I want you, Ana Steele?” he
whispers. My breath hitches. I cannot take my eyes o his. He
reaches up and gently runs his ngers down my cheek to my chin.
“Do you have any idea what I’m going to do to you?” he adds,
caressing my chin.
The muscles inside the deepest, darkest part of me clench in the
most delicious fashion. The pain is so sweet and sharp I want to
close my eyes, but I’m hypnotized by his eyes staring fervently into
mine. Leaning down, he kisses me. His lips are demanding, rm and
slow, molding mine. He starts unbuttoning my shirt while he places
feather-like kisses across my jaw, my chin, and the corners of my
mouth. Slowly he peels it o me and lets it fall to the oor. He
stands back and gazes at me. I’m in the pale blue lacy perfect-t
bra. Thank heavens.
“Oh, Ana,” he breathes. “You have the most beautiful skin, pale
and awless. I want to kiss every single inch of it.”
I ush. Oh my … Why did he say he couldn’t make love? I will do
anything he wants. He grasps my hair tie, pulls it free, and gasps as
my hair cascades down around my shoulders.
“I like brunettes,” he murmurs, and both of his hands are in my
hair, grasping each side of my head. His kiss is demanding, his
tongue and lips coaxing mine. I moan, and my tongue tentatively
meets his. He puts his arms around me and hauls me against his
body, squeezing me tightly. One hand remains in my hair, the other
travels down my spine to my waist and down to my behind. His
hand exes over my backside and squeezes gently. He holds me
against his hips, and I feel his erection, which he languidly pushes
into me.
I moan once more into his mouth. I can hardly contain the riotous
feelings—or are they hormones?—that rampage through my body. I
want him so badly. Gripping his upper arms, I feel his biceps. He’s
surprisingly strong … muscular. Tentatively, I move my hands up to
his face and into his hair. It’s so soft, unruly. I tug gently, and he
groans. He eases me toward the bed, until I feel it behind my knees.
I think he’s going to push me down on to it, but he doesn’t.
Releasing me, he suddenly drops to his knees. He grabs my hips
with both his hands and runs his tongue around my navel, then
gently nips his way to my hipbone, then across my belly to my
other hipbone.
“Ah,” I groan.
Seeing him on his knees in front of me, feeling his mouth on me,
it’s so unexpected, and hot. My hands stay in his hair, pulling gently
as I try to quiet my too-loud breathing. He gazes up at me through
impossibly long lashes, his eyes a scorching smoky gray. His hands
reach up and undo the button on my jeans, and he leisurely pulls
down the zipper. Without taking his eyes o mine, his hands move
beneath the waistband, skimming me and moving to my behind. His
hands glide slowly down my backside to my thighs, removing my
jeans as they go. I cannot look away. He stops and licks his lips,
never breaking eye contact. He leans forward, running his nose up
the apex between my thighs. I feel him. There.
“You smell so good,” he murmurs, and closes his eyes, a look of
pure pleasure on his face, and I practically convulse. He reaches up
and tugs the duvet o the bed, then pushes me gently so I fall on to
the mattress.
Still kneeling, he grasps my foot and undoes my Converse, pulling
o my shoe and sock. I raise myself up on my elbows to see what
he’s doing. I’m panting … wanting. He lifts my foot by the heel and
runs his thumbnail up my instep. It’s almost painful, but I feel the
movement echoed in my groin. I gasp. Not taking his eyes o mine,
again he runs his tongue along my instep and then his teeth. Shit. I
groan … how can I feel this there? I fall back onto the bed,
moaning. I hear his soft chuckle.
“Oh, Ana, what I could do to you,” he whispers. He removes my
other shoe and sock, then stands and removes my jeans completely.
I’m lying on his bed dressed only in my bra and panties, and he’s
staring down at me.
“You’re very beautiful, Anastasia Steele. I can’t wait to be inside
you.”
Holy shit. His words. He’s so seductive. He takes my breath away.
“Show me how you pleasure yourself.”
What? I frown.
“Don’t be coy, Ana, show me,” he whispers.
I shake my head. “I don’t know what you mean.” My voice is
hoarse. I hardly recognize it, laced with desire.
“How do you make yourself come? I want to see.”
I shake my head.
“I don’t,” I mumble. He raises his eyebrows, astonished for a
moment, and his eyes darken, and he shakes his head in disbelief.
“Well, we’ll have to see what we can do about that.” His voice is
soft, challenging, a delicious sensual threat. He undoes the buttons
of his jeans and slowly pulls his jeans down, his eyes on mine the
whole time. He leans down over me and, grasping each of my
ankles, quickly jerks my legs apart and crawls onto the bed between
my legs. He hovers over me. I am squirming with need.
“Keep still,” he murmurs, and then he leans down and kisses the
inside of my thigh, trailing kisses up, over the thin lacy material of
my panties, kissing me.
Oh … I can’t keep still. How can I not move? I wriggle beneath
him.
“We’re going to have to work on keeping you still, baby.” He
trails kisses up my belly, and his tongue dips into my navel. Still
he’s heading north, kissing me across my torso. My skin is burning.
I’m ushed, too hot, too cold, and I’m clawing at the sheet beneath
me. He lies down beside me and his hand trails up from my hip, to
my waist, and up to my breast. He gazes down at me, his expression
unreadable, and gently cups my breast.
“You t my hand perfectly, Anastasia,” he murmurs, and dips his
index nger into the cup of my bra and gently yanks it down,
freeing my breast, but the underwire and fabric of the cup force it
upward. His nger moves to my other breast and repeats the
process. My breasts swell, and my nipples harden under his steady
gaze. I am trussed up by my own bra.
“Very nice,” he whispers appreciatively, and my nipples harden
even more.
He blows very gently on one as his hand moves to my other
breast, and his thumb slowly rolls the end of my nipple, elongating
it. I groan, feeling the sweet sensation all the way to my groin. I am
so wet. Oh, please, I beg internally as my ngers clasp the sheet
tighter. His lips close around my other nipple, and when he tugs, I
nearly convulse.
“Let’s see if we can make you come like this,” he whispers,
continuing his slow, sensual assault. My nipples bear the delicious
brunt of his deft ngers and lips, setting alight every single nerve
ending so that my whole body sings with sweet agony. He just
doesn’t stop.
“Oh … please,” I beg, and I pull my head back, my mouth open as
I groan, my legs stiening. Holy hell, what’s happening to me?
“Let go, baby,” he murmurs. His teeth close round my nipple, and
his thumb and nger pull hard, and I fall apart in his hands, my
body convulsing and shattering into a thousand pieces. He kisses
me, deeply, his tongue in my mouth absorbing my cries.
Oh my. That was extraordinary. Now I know what all the fuss is
about. He gazes down at me, a satised smile on his face, while I’m
sure there’s nothing but gratitude and awe on mine.
“You are very responsive,” he breathes. “You’re going to have to
learn to control that, and it’s going to be so much fun teaching you
how.” He kisses me again.
My breathing is still ragged as I come down from my orgasm. His
hand moves down my waist, to my hips, and then cups me,
intimately … Jeez. His nger slips through the ne lace and slowly
circles around me—there. Briey he closes his eyes, and his
breathing hitches.
“You’re so deliciously wet. God, I want you.” He thrusts his
nger inside me, and I cry out as he does it again and again. He
palms my clitoris, and I cry out once more. He pushes inside me
harder and harder still. I groan.
Suddenly, he sits up and tugs my panties o and throws them on
the oor. Pulling o his boxer briefs, his erection springs free. Holy
cow … He reaches over to his bedside table and grabs a foil packet,
and then he moves between my legs, spreading them farther apart.
He kneels up and pulls a condom onto his considerable length. Oh
no … Will it? How?
“Don’t worry,” he breathes, his eyes on mine. “You expand, too.”
He leans down, his hands on either side of my head, so he’s
hovering over me, staring down into my eyes, his jaw clenched,
eyes burning. It’s only now that I register he’s still wearing his
shirt.
“You really want to do this?” he asks softly.
“Please,” I beg.
“Pull your knees up,” he orders softly, and I’m quick to obey.
“I’m going to fuck you now, Miss Steele,” he murmurs as he
positions the head of his erection at the entrance of my sex. “Hard,”
he whispers, and he slams into me.
“Aargh!” I cry as I feel a weird pinching sensation deep inside me
as he rips through my virginity. He stills, gazing down at me, his
eyes bright with ecstatic triumph.
His mouth is open slightly, and his breathing is harsh. He groans.
“You’re so tight. You okay?”
I nod, my eyes wide, my hands on his forearms. I feel so full. He
stays still, letting me acclimatize to the intrusive, overwhelming
feeling of him inside me.
“I’m going to move, baby,” he breathes after a moment, his voice
tight.
Oh.
He eases back with exquisite slowness. And he closes his eyes and
groans, and thrusts into me again. I cry out a second time, and he
stills.
“More?” he whispers, his voice raw.
“Yes,” I breathe. He does it once more, and stills again.
I groan, my body accepting him … Oh, I want this.
“Again?” he breathes.
“Yes.” It’s a plea.
And he moves, but this time he doesn’t stop. He shifts onto his
elbows so I can feel his weight on me, holding me down. He moves
slowly at rst, easing himself in and out of me. And as I grow
accustomed to the alien feeling, my hips move tentatively to meet
his. He speeds up. I moan, and he pounds on, picking up speed,
merciless, a relentless rhythm, and I keep up, meeting his thrusts.
He grasps my head between his hands and kisses me hard, his teeth
pulling at my lower lip again. He shifts slightly, and I can feel
something building deep inside me, like before. I start to stien as
he thrusts on and on. My body quivers, bows; a sheen of sweat
gathers over me. Oh my … I didn’t know it would feel like
this … didn’t know it could feel as good as this. My thoughts are
scattering … there’s only sensation … only him … only me … oh,
please … I stien.
“Come for me, Ana,” he whispers breathlessly, and I unravel at
his words, exploding around him as I climax and splinter into a
million pieces underneath him. And as he comes, he calls out my
name, thrusting hard, then stilling as he empties himself into me.
I am still panting, trying to slow my breathing, my thumping
heart, and my thoughts are in riotous disarray. Wow … that was
astounding. I open my eyes, and he has his forehead pressed against
mine, his eyes closed, his breathing ragged. Christian’s eyes icker
open and gaze down at me, dark but soft. He’s still inside me.
Leaning down, he gently presses a kiss against my forehead then
slowly pulls out of me.
“Ooh.” I wince at the unfamiliarity.
“Did I hurt you?” Christian asks as he lies down beside me
propped on one elbow. He tucks a stray strand of my hair behind
my ear. And I have to grin, widely.
“You are asking me if you hurt me?”
“The irony is not lost on me,” he smiles sardonically. “Seriously,
are you okay?” His eyes are intense, probing, demanding even.
I stretch out beside him, feeling loose-limbed, my bones like jelly,
but I’m relaxed, deeply relaxed. I grin at him. I can’t stop grinning.
Now I know what all the fuss is about. Two orgasms … coming
apart at the seams, like the spin cycle on a washing machine, wow.
I had no idea what my body was capable of, could be wound so
tightly and released so violently, so gratifyingly. The pleasure was
indescribable.
“You’re biting your lip, and you haven’t answered me.” He’s
frowning. I grin up at him impishly. He looks glorious with his
tousled hair, burning narrowed gray eyes, and serious, dark
expression.
“I’d like to do that again,” I whisper. For a moment, I think I see
a eeting look of relief on his face, before the shutters come down,
and he gazes at me through hooded eyes.
“Would you now, Miss Steele?” he murmurs dryly. He leans down
and kisses me very gently at the corner of my mouth. “Demanding
little thing, aren’t you? Turn on your front.”
I blink at him momentarily, and then I turn over. He unhooks my
bra and runs his hand down my back to my behind.
“You really have the most beautiful skin,” he murmurs. He shifts
so that one of his legs pushes between mine, and he’s half lying
across my back. I can feel the buttons of his shirt pressing into me
as he gathers my hair o my face and kisses my bare shoulder.
“Why are you wearing your shirt?” I ask. He stills. After a beat,
he shues out of his shirt, and he lies back down on me. I feel his
warm skin against mine. Hmm … it feels heavenly. He has a light
dusting of hair across his chest, which tickles my back.
“So you want me to fuck you again?” he whispers in my ear, and
he begins to trail featherlight kisses around my ear and down my
neck.
His hand moves down, skimming my waist, over my hip, and
down my thigh to the back of my knee. He pushes my knee up
higher, and my breath hitches … What’s he doing now? He shifts so
he’s between my legs, pressed against my back, and his hand travels
up my thigh to my behind. He caresses my cheek slowly, and then
trails his ngers down between my legs.
“I’m going to take you from behind, Anastasia,” he murmurs, and
with his other hand, he grasps my hair at the nape in a st and pulls
gently, holding me in place. I cannot move my head. I am pinioned
beneath him, helpless.
“You are mine,” he whispers. “Only mine. Don’t forget it.” His
voice is intoxicating, his words heady, seductive. I feel his growing
erection against my thigh.
His long ngers reach around to gently massage my clitoris,
circling slowly. His breath is soft against my face as he slowly nips
me along my jaw.
“You smell divine.” He nuzzles behind my ear. His hand rubs
against me, around and around. Reexively, my hips start to circle,
mirroring his hand, as excruciating pleasure spikes through my
blood like adrenaline.
“Keep still,” he orders, his voice soft but urgent, and slowly he
inserts his thumb inside me, rotating it around and around, stroking
the front wall of my vagina. The eect is mind-blowing—all my
energy concentrating on this one small space inside my body. I
moan.
“You like this?” he asks softly, his teeth grazing my outer ear,
and he starts to ex his thumb slowly, in, out, in, out … his ngers
still circling.
I close my eyes, trying to keep my breathing under control,
trying to absorb the disordered, chaotic sensations that his ngers
are unleashing on me, re coursing through my body. I moan again.
“You’re so wet, so quickly. So responsive. Oh, Anastasia, I like
that. I like that a lot,” he whispers.
I want to stien my legs, but I can’t move. He’s pinning me
down, keeping up a constant, slow, tortuous rhythm. It’s absolutely
exquisite. I moan again, and he moves suddenly.
“Open your mouth,” he commands, and thrusts his thumb in my
mouth. My eyes y open, blinking wildly.
“See how you taste,” he breathes against my ear. “Suck me,
baby.” His thumb presses on my tongue, and my mouth closes
around him, sucking wildly. I taste the saltiness on his thumb and
the faint metallic tang of blood. Holy fuck. This is wrong, but holy
hell is it erotic.
“I want to fuck your mouth, Anastasia, and I will soon,” his voice
is hoarse, raw, his breathing more disjointed.
Fuck my mouth! I moan, and I bite down on him. He gasps, and he
pulls my hair tighter, painfully, so I release him.
“Naughty, sweet girl,” he whispers, and then reaches over to the
bedside table for a foil packet. “Stay still, don’t move,” he orders as
he releases my hair.
He rips the foil while I’m breathing hard, my blood singing in my
veins. The anticipation is exhilarating. He leans down, his weight on
me again, and he grabs my hair, holding my head immobile. I
cannot move. I’m enticingly ensnared by him, and he’s poised and
ready to take me once more.
“We’re going to go real slow this time, Anastasia,” he breathes.
And slowly he eases into me, slowly, slowly, until he’s buried in
me. Stretching, lling, relentless. I groan loudly. It feels deeper this
time, delectable. I groan again, and he deliberately circles his hips
and pulls back, pauses a beat, and then eases his way back in. He
repeats this motion again and again. It’s driving me insane—his
teasing, deliberately slow thrusts, and the intermittent feeling of
fullness is overwhelming.
“You feel so good,” he groans, and my insides start to quiver. He
pulls back and waits. “Oh no, baby, not yet,” he murmurs, and as
the quivering ceases, he starts the whole delicious process again.
“Oh, please,” I beg. I’m not sure I can take much more. My body
is wound so tight, craving release.
“I want you sore, baby,” he murmurs, and he continues his sweet,
leisurely torment, backward, forward. “Every time you move
tomorrow, I want you to be reminded that I’ve been here. Only me.
You are mine.”
I groan.
“Please, Christian,” I whisper.
“What do you want, Anastasia? Tell me.”
I groan again. He pulls out and moves slowly back into me,
circling his hips once more.
“Tell me,” he murmurs.
“You, please.”
He increases the rhythm innitesimally, and his breathing
becomes more erratic. My insides start quickening, and Christian
picks up the rhythm.
“You. Are. So. Sweet,” he murmurs between each thrust. “I.
Want. You. So. Much.”
I moan.
“You. Are. Mine. Come for me, baby,” he growls.
His words are my undoing, tipping me over the precipice. My
body convulses around him, and I come, loudly calling out a garbled
version of his name into the mattress. Christian follows with two
sharp thrusts, and he freezes, pouring himself into me as he nds his
release. He collapses on top of me, his face in my hair.
“Fuck. Ana,” he breathes. He pulls out of me immediately and
rolls onto his side of the bed. I pull my knees up to my chest,
utterly spent, and immediately drift o or pass out into an
exhausted sleep.
WHEN I WAKE, IT’S still dark. I have no idea how long I’ve slept. I
stretch out beneath the duvet, and I feel sore, deliciously sore.
Christian is nowhere to be seen. I sit up, staring out at the cityscape
in front of me. There are fewer lights on among the skyscrapers,
and there’s a whisper of dawn in the east. I hear music. The lilting
notes of the piano, a sad, sweet lament. Bach, I think, but I’m not
sure.
I wrap the duvet around me and quietly pad down the corridor
toward the big room. Christian is at the piano, completely lost in
the melody he’s playing. His expression is sad and forlorn, like the
music. His playing is stunning. Leaning against the wall at the
entrance, I listen, enraptured. He’s such an accomplished musician.
He sits naked, his body bathed in the warm light cast by a solitary
freestanding lamp beside the piano. With the rest of the large room
in darkness, it’s like he’s in his own isolated little pool of light,
untouchable … lonely, in a bubble.
I pad quietly toward him, enticed by the sublime, melancholy
music. I’m mesmerized, watching his long, skilled ngers as they
nd and gently press the keys, thinking how those same ngers
have expertly handled and caressed my body. I ush and gasp at the
memory and press my thighs together. He glances up, his
unfathomable gray eyes bright, his expression unreadable.
“Sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
A frown its across his face.
“Surely, I should be saying that to you,” he murmurs. He nishes
playing and puts his hands on his legs.
I notice now that he’s wearing PJ pants. He runs his ngers
through his hair and stands. His pants hang from his hips, in that
way … oh my. My mouth goes dry as he casually strolls around the
piano toward me. He has broad shoulders, narrow hips, and his
abdominal muscles ripple as he walks. He really is stunning.
“You should be in bed,” he admonishes.
“That was a beautiful piece. Bach?”
“Transcription by Bach, but it’s originally an oboe concerto by
Alessandro Marcello.”
“It was exquisite, but very sad, such a melancholy melody.”
His lips quirk up in a half smile.
“Bed,” he orders. “You’ll be exhausted in the morning.”
“I woke and you weren’t there.”
“I nd it dicult to sleep, and I’m not used to sleeping with
anyone,” he murmurs. I can’t fathom his mood. He seems a little
despondent, but it’s dicult to tell in the darkness. Perhaps it was
the tone of the piece he was playing. He puts his arm around me
and gently walks me back to the bedroom.
“How long have you been playing? You play beautifully.”
“Since I was six.”
“Oh.” Christian as a six-year-old boy … my mind conjures an
image of a beautiful, copper-haired little boy with gray eyes and my
heart melts—a moppet-haired kid who likes impossibly sad music.
“How are you feeling?” he asks when we are back in the room.
He switches on a sidelight.
“I’m good.”
We both glance down at the bed at the same time. There’s blood
on the sheets—evidence of my lost virginity. I ush, embarrassed,
pulling the duvet tighter around me.
“Well, that’s going to give Mrs. Jones something to think about,”
Christian mutters as he stands in front of me. He puts his hand
under my chin and tips my head back, staring down at me. His eyes
are intense as he examines my face. I realize that I’ve not seen his
naked chest before. Instinctively, I reach out to run my ngers
through the smattering of dark hair on his chest to see how it feels.
Immediately, he steps back out of my reach.
“Get into bed,” he says sharply. His voice softens. “I’ll come and
lie down with you.” I drop my hand and frown. I don’t think I’ve
ever touched his torso. He opens a chest of drawers and pulls out a
T-shirt and quickly slips it on.
“Bed,” he orders again. I climb back onto the bed, trying not to
think about the blood. He clambers in beside me and pulls me into
his embrace, wrapping his arms around me so that I’m facing away
from him. He kisses my hair gently, and he inhales deeply.
“Sleep, sweet Anastasia,” he murmurs, and I close my eyes, but I
can’t help feel a residual melancholy either from the music or his
demeanor. Christian Grey has a sad side.
CHAPTER NINE
Light lls the room, coaxing me from deep sleep to wakefulness. I
stretch out and open my eyes. It’s a beautiful May morning, Seattle
at my feet. Wow, what a view. Beside me, Christian Grey is fast
asleep. Wow, what a view. I’m surprised he’s still in bed. He’s
facing me, and I have an unprecedented opportunity to study him.
His lovely face looks younger, relaxed in sleep. His sculptured,
pouty lips are parted slightly, and his shiny, clean hair is a glorious
mess. How could anyone look this good and still be legal? I
remember his room upstairs … perhaps he’s not legal. I shake my
head, so much to think about. It’s tempting to reach out and touch
him, but like a small child, he’s so lovely when he’s asleep. I don’t
have to worry about what I’m saying, what he’s saying, what plans
he has, especially his plans for me.
I could gaze at him all day, but I have needs—bathroom needs.
Slipping out of bed, I nd his white shirt on the oor and shrug it
on. I walk through a door thinking that it might be the bathroom,
but I’m in a vast walk-in closet as big as my bedroom. Lines and
lines of expensive suits, shirts, shoes, and ties. How can anyone
need this many clothes? I tut with disapproval. Actually, Kate’s
wardrobe probably rivals this. Kate! Oh no. I didn’t think about her
all evening. I was supposed to text her. Crap. I’m going to be in
trouble. I wonder briey how she’s getting on with Elliot.
Returning to the bedroom, Christian is still asleep. I try the other
door. It’s the bathroom, and it’s bigger than my bedroom. Why
does one man need so much space? Two sinks, I notice with irony.
Given he doesn’t sleep with anyone, one of them can’t have been
used.
I stare at myself in the gigantic mirror above the sinks. Do I look
dierent? I feel dierent. I feel a little sore, if I’m honest, and my
muscles—jeez, it’s like I’ve never done any exercise in my life. You
don’t do any exercise in your life. My subconscious has woken. She’s
staring at me with pursed lips, tapping her foot. So you’ve just slept
with him, given him your virginity, a man who doesn’t love you. In fact,
he has very odd ideas about you, wants to make you some sort of kinky
sex slave.
ARE YOU CRAZY? She’s shouting at me.
I wince as I look in the mirror. I am going to have to process all
this. Honestly, fancy falling for a man who’s beyond beautiful,
richer than Croesus, and has a Red Room of Pain waiting for me. I
shudder. I’m bewildered and confused. My hair is its usual wayward
self. Just-fucked hair doesn’t suit me. I try to bring order to the
chaos with my ngers but fail miserably and give up—maybe I’ll
nd hair ties in my purse.
I’m starving. I head back out to the bedroom. Sleeping beauty is
still sleeping, so I leave him and head for the kitchen.
Oh no … Kate. I left my purse in Christian’s study. I fetch it and
reach for my cell phone. Three texts.
*RU OK Ana*
*Where RU Ana*
*Damn it Ana*
I call Kate. When she doesn’t answer, I leave her a groveling
message to tell her I am alive and have not succumbed to
Bluebeard, well, not in the sense she would be worried about—or
perhaps I have. Oh, this is so confusing. I have to try to categorize
and analyze my feelings for Christian Grey. It’s an impossible task. I
shake my head in defeat. I need alone time, away from here to
think.
I nd two welcome hair ties at the same time in my bag and
quickly tie my hair in pigtails. Yes! The more girly I look perhaps
the safer I’ll be from Bluebeard. I take my iPod out of the bag and
plug my headphones in. There’s nothing like music to cook by. I slip
it into the breast pocket of Christian’s shirt, turn it up loud, and
start dancing.
Holy hell, I’m hungry.
I am daunted by his kitchen. It’s so sleek and modern, and none
of the cupboards has handles. It takes me a few seconds to deduce
that I have to push the cupboard doors to open them. Perhaps I
should cook Christian breakfast. He was eating an omelet the other
day … um, yesterday at the Heathman. Jeez, so much has happened
since then. I check in the fridge, where there are plenty of eggs, and
decide I want pancakes and bacon. I set about making some batter,
dancing my way around the kitchen.
Being busy is good. It allows a bit of time to think but not too
deeply. Music blaring in my ears also helps to stave o deep
thought. I came here to spend the night in Christian Grey’s bed and
managed it, even though he doesn’t let anyone in his bed. I smile,
mission accomplished. Big time. I grin. Big, big time, and I’m
distracted by the memory of last night. His words, his body, his
lovemaking … I close my eyes as my body hums at the recollection,
and my muscles contract deliciously deep in my belly. My
subconscious scowls at me … Fucking—not lovemaking, she screams
at me like a harpy. I ignore her, but deep down I know she has a
point. I shake my head to concentrate on the task at hand.
There is a state-of-the-art range. I think I have the hang of it. I
need somewhere to keep the pancakes warm, and I start on the
bacon. Amy Studt is singing in my ear about mists. This song used
to mean so much to me; that’s because I’m a mist. I have never
tted in anywhere and now … I have an indecent proposal to
consider from King Mist himself. Why is he this way? Nature or
nurture? It’s so alien to anything I know.
I put the bacon under the grill, and while it’s cooking, I whisk
some eggs. I turn, and Christian is sitting on one of the barstools at
the breakfast bar, leaning on it, his face supported by his steepled
hands. He’s still wearing the T-shirt he slept in. Just-fucked hair
really, really suits him, as does his designer stubble. He looks both
amused and bewildered. I freeze, ush, then gather myself and pull
the headphones out of my ears, my knees weak at the sight of him.
“Good morning, Miss Steele. You’re very energetic this morning,”
he says dryly.
“I-I slept well,” I stutter my explanation. His lips try to mask his
smile.
“I can’t imagine why.” He pauses and frowns. “So did I after I
came back to bed.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Very,” he says with an intense look, and I don’t think he’s
referring to food.
“Pancakes, bacon, and eggs?”
“Sounds great.”
“I don’t know where you keep your placemats.” I shrug, trying
desperately hard not to look ustered.
“I’ll do that. You cook. Would you like me to put some music on
so you can continue your … er … dancing?”
I stare down at my ngers, knowing that I am turning puce.
“Please, don’t stop on my account. It’s very entertaining.” His
tone is one of wry amusement.
I purse my lips. Entertaining, eh? My subconscious has doubled
over in laughter at me. I turn and continue to whisk the eggs,
probably beating them a little harder than necessary. In a moment,
he’s beside me. He gently pulls my pigtail.
“I love these,” he whispers. “They won’t protect you.” Hmm,
Bluebeard …
“How would you like your eggs?” I ask tartly. He smiles.
“Thoroughly whisked and beaten.” He smirks.
I turn back to the task at hand, trying to hide my smile. He’s hard
to stay mad at. Especially when he’s being so uncharacteristically
playful. He opens a drawer and takes out two slate black placemats
for the breakfast bar. I pour the egg mix into a pan, pull out the
bacon, turn it over, and put it back under the grill.
When I turn back around, there is orange juice on the table, and
he’s making coee.
“Would you like some tea?”
“Yes, please. If you have some.”
I nd a couple of plates and place them in the warming tray of
the range. Christian reaches into a cupboard and pulls out some
Twinings English Breakfast tea. I purse my lips.
“Bit of a foregone conclusion, wasn’t I?”
“Are you? I’m not sure we’ve concluded anything yet, Miss
Steele,” he murmurs.
What does he mean by that? Our negotiations? Our, er …
relationship … whatever that is? He’s still so cryptic. I serve up the
breakfast onto the heated plates and lay them on the placemats. I
hunt in the refrigerator and nd some maple syrup.
I glance up at Christian, and he’s waiting for me to sit down.
“Miss Steele.” He motions to one of the barstools.
“Mr. Grey.” I nod in acknowledgment. I climb up and wince
slightly as I sit down.
“Just how sore are you?” he asks as he sits down. I ush. Why
does he ask such personal questions?
“Well, to be truthful, I have nothing to compare this to,” I snap at
him. “Did you wish to oer your commiserations?” I ask too
sweetly. I think he’s trying to stie a smile, but I can’t be sure.
“No. I wondered if we should continue your basic training.”
“Oh.” I stare at him dumbfounded as I stop breathing and
everything inside me clenches tight. Ooh … that’s so nice. I suppress
my groan.
“Eat, Anastasia.” My appetite has become uncertain
again … more … more sex … yes, please.
“This is delicious, incidentally.” He grins at me.
I try a forkful of omelet but can barely taste it. Basic training! I
want to fuck your mouth. Does that form part of basic training?
“Stop biting your lip. It’s very distracting, and I happen to know
you’re not wearing anything under my shirt, which makes it even
more distracting.”
I dunk my teabag in the small pot that Christian has provided. My
mind is in a whirl.
“What sort of basic training did you have in mind?” I ask, my
voice slightly too high, betraying my wish to sound as natural,
disinterested, and calm as I can with my hormones wreaking havoc
through my body.
“Well, as you’re sore, I thought we could stick to oral skills.”
I choke on my tea, and I stare at him, eyes wide and mouth
gaping. He pats me gently on the back and passes me some orange
juice. I cannot tell what he’s thinking.
“That’s if you want to stay,” he adds. I glance up at him, trying to
recover my equilibrium. His expression is unreadable. It’s so
frustrating.
“I’d like to stay for today. If that’s okay. I have to work
tomorrow.”
“What time do you have to be at work tomorrow?”
“Nine.”
“I’ll get you to work by nine tomorrow.”
I frown. Does he want me to stay another night?
“I’ll need to go home tonight—I need clean clothes.”
“We can get you some here.”
I don’t have spare cash to spend on clothes. His hand comes up,
and he grasps my chin, tugging it so my lip is released from the grip
of my teeth. I’m not even aware I’ve been biting my lip.
“What is it?” he asks.
“I need to be home this evening.”
His mouth is a hard line.
“Okay, this evening,” he acquiesces. “Now eat your breakfast.”
My thoughts and my stomach are in turmoil. My appetite has
vanished. I stare at my half-eaten breakfast. I’m just not hungry.
“Eat, Anastasia. You didn’t eat last night.”
“I’m really not hungry,” I whisper.
His eyes narrow. “I would really like you to nish your
breakfast.”
“What is it with you and food?” I blurt out. His brow knits.
“I told you, I have issues with wasted food. Eat,” he snaps. His
eyes are dark, pained.
Holy crap. What is that all about? I pick up my fork and eat slowly,
trying to chew. I must remember not to put so much on my plate if
he’s going to be weird about food. His expression softens as I
carefully make my way through my breakfast. I note that he cleans
his plate. He waits for me to nish, and then he clears my plate.
“You cooked, I’ll clear.”
“That’s very democratic.”
“Yes.” He frowns. “Not my usual style. After I’ve done this, we’ll
take a bath.”
“Oh, okay.” Oh my … I’d much rather have a shower. My cell rings,
interrupting my reverie. It’s Kate.
“Hi.” I wander over to the glass doors of the balcony, away from
him.
“Ana, why didn’t you text last night?” She’s angry.
“I’m sorry, I was overtaken by events.”
“You’re okay?”
“Yes, I’m ne.”
“Did you?” She’s shing for information. I roll my eyes at the
expectation in her voice.
“Kate, I don’t want to talk over the phone.” Christian glances up
at me.
“You did … I can tell.”
How can she tell? She’s blung, and I can’t talk about this. I’ve
signed a damned agreement.
“Kate, please.”
“What was it like? Are you okay?”
“I’ve told you I’m okay.”
“Was he gentle?”
“Kate, please!” I can’t hide my exasperation.
“Ana, don’t hold out on me, I’ve been waiting for this day for
nearly four years.”
“I’ll see you this evening.” I hang up.
That is going to be one dicult square to circle. She’s so
tenacious, and she wants to know—in detail, and I can’t tell her
because I’ve signed a—what was it called? NDA. She’ll freak and
rightly so. I need a plan. I head back to watch Christian move
gracefully around his kitchen.
“The NDA, does it cover everything?” I ask tentatively.
“Why?” He turns and gazes at me while putting the Twinings
away. I ush.
“Well, I have a few questions, you know, about sex.” I stare down
at my ngers. “And I’d like to ask Kate.”
“You can ask me.”
“Christian, with all due respect …” My voice fades. I can’t ask
you. I’ll get your biased, kinky-as-hell, distorted worldview
regarding sex. I want an impartial opinion. “It’s just about
mechanics. I won’t mention the Red Room of Pain.”
He raises his eyebrows.
“Red Room of Pain? It’s mostly about pleasure, Anastasia. Believe
me,” he says. “Besides,” his tone is harsher, “your roommate is
making the beast with two backs with my brother. I’d really rather
you didn’t.”
“Does your family know about your … um, predilection?”
“No. It’s none of their business.” He saunters toward me until
he’s standing in front of me.
“What do you want to know?” he asks, and raising his hand runs
his ngers gently down my cheek to my chin, tilting my head back
so he can look directly into my eyes. I squirm inwardly. I cannot lie
to this man.
“Nothing specic at the moment,” I whisper.
“Well, we can start with: How was last night for you?” His eyes
burn, lled with curiosity. He’s anxious to know. Wow.
“Good,” I murmur.
His lips lift slightly.
“Me, too,” he murmurs. “I’ve never had vanilla sex before.
There’s a lot to be said for it. But then, maybe it’s because it’s with
you.” He runs his thumb across my lower lip.
I inhale sharply. Vanilla sex?
“Come, let’s have a bath.” He leans down and kisses me. My
heart leaps and desire pools way down low … way down there.
THE BATH IS A white stone, deep, egg-shaped aair, very designer.
Christian leans over and lls it from the faucet on the tiled wall. He
pours some expensive-looking bath oil into the water. It foams as
the bath lls and smells of sweet, sultry jasmine. He stands and
gazes at me, his eyes dark, then peels his T-shirt o and casts it on
the oor.
“Miss Steele.” He holds his hand out.
I’m standing in the doorway, wide-eyed and wary, my arms
wrapped around myself. I step forward while surreptitiously
admiring his physique. I take his hand, and he bids me to step into
the bath while I am still wearing his shirt. I do as I’m told. I’ll have
to get used to it if I’m going to take him up on his outrageous
oer … if! The water is enticingly hot.
“Turn around, face me,” he orders, his voice soft. I do as I’m told.
He’s watching me intently.
“I know that lip is delicious, I can attest to that, but will you stop
biting it?” he says through clenched teeth. “Your chewing it makes
me want to fuck you, and you’re sore, okay?”
I gasp, automatically unlocking my lip, shocked.
“Yeah,” he challenges. “Get the picture?” He glares at me. I nod
frantically. I had no idea I could aect him so.
“Good.” He reaches forward and takes my iPod out of the breast
pocket, and he puts it by the sink.
“Water and iPods—not a clever combination,” he mutters. He
reaches down, grasps the hem of my white shirt, lifts it above my
head, and discards it on the oor.
He stands back to gaze at me. I’m naked for heaven’s sake. I ush
crimson and stare down at my hands, level with the base of my
belly, and I desperately want to disappear into the hot water and
foam, but I know he won’t want that.
“Hey,” he summons me. I peek up at him, and his head is cocked
to one side. “Anastasia, you’re a very beautiful woman, the whole
package. Don’t hang your head like you’re ashamed. You have
nothing to be ashamed of, and it’s a real joy to stand here and gaze
at you.” He takes my chin in his hand and tilts my head up to reach
his eyes. They are soft and warm, heated even. He’s so close. I
could just reach up and touch him.
“You can sit down now.” He halts my scattered thoughts, and I
scoot down into the warm, welcoming water. Ooh … it stings and
that takes me by surprise, but it smells heavenly, too. The initial
smarting pain soon ebbs away. I lie back and briey close my eyes,
relaxing in the soothing warmth. When I open them, he is gazing
down at me.
“Why don’t you join me?” I ask, bravely I think—my voice
husky.
“I think I will. Move forward,” he orders.
He strips out of his PJ pants and climbs in behind me. The water
rises as he sits and pulls me against his chest. He places his long legs
over mine, his knees bent and his ankles level with mine, and he
pulls his feet apart, opening my legs. I gasp in surprise. His nose is
in my hair and he inhales deeply.
“You smell so good, Anastasia.”
A tremor runs through my whole body. I am naked in a bath with
Christian Grey. He’s naked. If someone had told me I’d be doing this
when I woke up in his hotel suite yesterday, I would not have
believed them.
He reaches for a bottle of body wash from the built-in shelf
beside the bath and squirts some into his hand. He rubs his hands
together, creating a soft, foaming lather, and he closes his hands
around my neck and starts to rub the soap into my neck and
shoulders, massaging rmly with his long, strong ngers. I groan.
His hands on me feel good.
“You like that?” I can almost hear his smile.
“Hmm.”
He moves down my arms, then beneath them to my underarms,
washing gently. I’m so glad Kate insisted I shave. His hands glide
across to my breasts, and I inhale sharply as his ngers encircle
them and start kneading gently, taking no prisoners. My body bows
instinctively, pushing my breasts into his hands. My nipples are
tender. Very tender, no doubt, from his less-than-delicate treatment
of them last night. He doesn’t linger long and glides his hands down
to my stomach and belly. My breathing increases and my heart is
racing. His growing erection presses against my behind. It’s such a
turn-on knowing that it’s my body making him feel this way.
Ha … not your mind, my subconscious sneers. I shake o the
unwelcome thought.
He stops and reaches for a washcloth as I pant against him,
wanting … needing. My hands rest on his rm, muscular thighs.
Squirting more soap onto the washcloth, he leans down and washes
between my legs. I hold my breath. His ngers skillfully stimulating
me through the cloth, it’s heavenly, and my hips start moving at
their own rhythm, pushing against his hand. As the sensations take
over, I tilt my head back, my eyes rolling to the back of my head,
my mouth slack, and I groan. The pressure is building slowly,
inexorably inside me … oh my.
“Feel it, baby,” Christian whispers in my ear, and very gently
grazes my earlobe with his teeth. “Feel it for me.” My legs are
pinioned by his to the side of the bath, holding me prisoner, giving
him easy access to this most private part of myself.
“Oh … please,” I whisper. I try to stien my legs as my body
goes rigid. I am in a sexual thrall to this man, and he doesn’t let me
move.
“I think you’re clean enough now,” he murmurs, and he stops.
What! No! No! No! My breathing is ragged.
“Why are you stopping?” I gasp.
“Because I have other plans for you, Anastasia.”
What … oh my … but … I was … that’s not fair.
“Turn around. I need washing, too,” he murmurs.
Oh! Turning to face him, I’m shocked to nd he has his erection
rmly in his grasp. My mouth drops open.
“I want you to become well acquainted, on rst name terms if
you will, with my favorite and most cherished part of my body. I’m
very attached to this.”
It’s so big and growing. His erection is above the water line, the
water lapping at his hips. I glance up at him and come face-to-face
with his wicked grin. He’s enjoying my astounded expression. I
realize that I’m staring. I swallow. That was inside me! It doesn’t
seem possible. He wants me to touch him. Hmm … okay, bring it
on.
I smile at him and reach for the body wash, squirting some soap
onto my hand. I do as he’s done, lathering the soap in my hands
until they are foamy. I do not take my eyes o his. My lips are
parted to accommodate my breathing … very deliberately I gently
bite my bottom lip and then run my tongue across it, tracing where
my teeth have been. His eyes are serious and dark, and they widen
as my tongue skims my lower lip. I reach forward and place one of
my hands around him, mirroring how he’s holding himself. His eyes
close briey. Wow … feels much rmer than I expected. I squeeze,
and he places his hand over mine.
“Like this,” he whispers, and he moves his hand up and down
with a rm grip around my ngers, and my ngers tighten around
him. He closes his eyes again, and his breath hitches in his throat.
When he opens them again, his gaze is scorching molten gray.
“That’s right, baby.”
He releases my hand, leaving me to continue alone, and closes his
eyes as I move up and down his length. He exes his hips slightly
into my hand and reexively I grasp him tighter. A low groan
escapes from deep within his throat. Fuck my mouth … hmm. I
remember him pushing his thumb in my mouth and asking me to
suck, hard. His mouth drops open as his breathing increases. I lean
forward, while he has his eyes closed, and place my lips around him
and tentatively suck, running my tongue over the tip.
“Whoa … Ana.” His eyes y open, and I suck harder.
Hmm … he’s hard and soft at once, like steel encased in velvet,
and surprisingly tasty—salty and smooth.
“Christ,” he groans, and he closes his eyes again.
Moving down, I push him into my mouth. He groans again. Ha!
My inner goddess is thrilled. I can do this. I can fuck him with my
mouth. I twirl my tongue around the tip again, and he exes and
raises his hips. His eyes are open now, blistering with heat. His
teeth are clenched as he exes again, and I push him deeper into my
mouth, supporting myself on his thighs. I feel his legs tense beneath
my hands. He reaches up and grabs my pigtails and starts to really
move.
“Oh … baby … that feels good,” he murmurs. I suck harder,
icking my tongue across the head of his impressive erection.
Wrapping my teeth behind my lips, I clamp my mouth around him.
His breath hisses between his teeth, and he groans.
“Jesus. How far can you go?” he whispers.
Hmm … I pull him deeper into my mouth so I can feel him at the
back of my throat and then to the front again. My tongue swirls
around the end. He’s my very own Christian Grey–avored
popsicle. I suck harder and harder, pushing him deeper and deeper,
swirling my tongue around and around. Hmm … I had no idea
giving pleasure could be such a turn-on, watching him writhe subtly
with carnal longing. My inner goddess is doing the merengue with
some salsa moves.
“Anastasia, I’m going to come in your mouth,” his breathy tone is
warning. “If you don’t want me to, stop now.” He thrusts his hips
again, his eyes are wide, wary, and lled with salacious need—need
for me. Need for my mouth … oh my.
His hands are really gripping my hair. I can do this. I push even
harder and, in a moment of extraordinary condence, I bare my
teeth. It tips him over the edge. He cries out and stills, and I can
feel warm, salty liquid oozing down my throat. I swallow quickly.
Ugh … I’m not sure about this. But one look at him, and I don’t
care—he’s come apart in the bath because of me. I sit back and
watch him, a triumphant, gloating smile tugging at the corners of
my lips. His breathing is ragged. Opening his eyes, he glares at me.
“Don’t you have a gag reex?” he asks, astonished. “Christ,
Ana … that was … good, really good. Unexpected, though.” He
frowns. “You know, you never cease to amaze me.”
I smile and consciously bite my lip. He eyes me speculatively.
“Have you done that before?”
“No.” And I can’t help the small tinge of pride in my denial.
“Good,” he says complacently and, I think, relieved. “Yet another
rst, Miss Steele.” He looks appraisingly at me. “Well, you get an A
in oral skills. Come, let’s go to bed, I owe you an orgasm.”
Orgasm! Another one!
Quickly, he clambers out of the bath, giving me my rst full
glimpse of the Adonis, divinely formed, that is Christian Grey. My
inner goddess has stopped dancing and is staring, too, openmouthed
and drooling slightly. His erection tamed but still
substantial … wow. He wraps a small towel around his waist,
covering the essentials, and holds out a larger uy white towel for
me. Climbing out of the bath, I take his proered hand. He wraps
me in the towel, pulls me into his arms, and kisses me hard, pushing
his tongue into my mouth. I long to reach around and embrace
him … touch him … but he has my arms trapped in the towel. I’m
soon lost in his kiss. He cradles my head, his tongue exploring my
mouth, and I get a sense he’s expressing his gratitude—maybe—for
my rst blow job? Whoa.
He pulls away, his hands on either side of my face, staring
intently into my eyes. He looks lost.
“Say yes,” he whispers fervently.
I frown, not understanding.
“To what?”
“Yes to our arrangement. To being mine. Please, Ana,” he
whispers pleading, emphasizing the last word and my name. He
kisses me again, sweetly, passionately, before he stands back and
stares at me, blinking slightly. He takes my hand and leads me back
to his bedroom, leaving me reeling, so I follow him meekly.
Stunned. He really wants this.
In his bedroom, he stares down at me as we stand by his bed.
“Trust me?” he asks suddenly. I nod, wide-eyed with the sudden
realization that I do trust him. What’s he going to do to me now? An
electric thrill hums through me.
“Good girl,” he breathes, his thumb brushing my bottom lip. He
steps away into his closet and comes back with a silver-gray silk
woven tie.
“Hold your hands together in front of you,” he orders as he peels
the towel o me and throws it on the oor.
I do as he asks, and he binds my wrists together with his tie,
knotting it rmly. His eyes are bright with excitement. He tugs at
the binding. It’s secure. Some Boy Scout he must have been to learn
this knot. What now? My pulse has gone through the roof, my heart
beating a frantic rhythm. He runs his ngers down my pigtails.
“You look so young with these,” he murmurs, and moves
forward. Instinctively, I move back until I feel the bed against the
back of my knees. He drops his towel, but I can’t take my eyes o
his face. His expression is ardent, full of desire.
“Oh, Anastasia, what shall I do to you?” he whispers as he lowers
me onto the bed, lying beside me and raising my hands above my
head.
“Keep your hands up here, don’t move them, understand?” His
eyes burn into mine, and I’m breathless from their intensity. This is
not a man I want to cross … ever.
“Answer me,” he demands, his voice soft.
“I won’t move my hands.” I’m breathless.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and deliberately licks his lips slowly.
I’m mesmerized by his tongue as it sweeps slowly over his upper
lip. He’s staring into my eyes, watching me, appraising. He leans
down and plants a chaste, swift kiss on my lips.
“I’m going to kiss you all over, Miss Steele,” he says softly, and
he cups my chin, pushing it up, giving him access to my throat. His
lips glide down my throat, kissing, sucking, and nipping, to the
small dip at the base of my neck. My body leaps to
attention … everywhere. My recent bath experience has made my
skin hypersensitive. My heated blood pools low in my belly,
between my legs, right down there. I groan.
I want to touch him. I move my hands and rather awkwardly,
given I’m restrained, feel his hair. He stops kissing me and glares
up at me, shaking his head from side to side, tutting as he does. He
reaches for my hands and places them above my head again.
“Don’t move your hands, or we just have to start all over again,”
he scolds me mildly. Oh, he’s such a tease.
“I want to touch you.” My voice is all breathy and out of control.
“I know,” he murmurs. “Keep your hands above your head,” he
orders, his voice forceful.
He cups my chin again and starts to kiss my throat as before.
Oh … he’s so frustrating. His hands run down my body and over my
breasts as he reaches the dip at the base of my neck with his lips.
He swirls the tip of his nose around it then begins a very leisurely
cruise with his mouth, heading south, following the path of his
hands, down my sternum to my breasts. Each one is kissed and
nipped gently and my nipples tenderly sucked. Holy crap. My hips
start swaying and moving of their own accord, grinding to the
rhythm of his mouth on me, and I’m desperately trying to
remember to keep my hands above my head.
“Keep still,” he warns, his breath warm against my skin. Reaching
my navel, he dips his tongue inside, and then gently grazes my belly
with his teeth. My body bows o the bed.
“Hmm. You are so sweet, Miss Steele.” His nose glides along the
line between my belly and my pubic hair, biting me gently, teasing
me with his tongue. Sitting up suddenly, he kneels at my feet,
grasping both my ankles and spreading my legs wide.
Holy shit. He grabs my left foot, bends my knee, and brings my
foot up to his mouth. Watching and assessing my every reaction, he
tenderly kisses each of my toes, then bites each one of them softly
on the pads. When he reaches my little toe, he bites harder, and I
convulse, whimpering. He glides his tongue up my instep—and I
can no longer watch him. It’s too erotic. I’m going to combust. I
squeeze my eyes shut and try to absorb and manage all the
sensations he’s creating. He kisses my ankle and trails kisses up my
calf to my knee, stopping just above. He then starts on my right
foot, repeating the whole, seductive, mind-blowing process.
“Oh, please,” I moan as he bites my little toe, the action
resonating deep in my belly.
“All good things, Miss Steele,” he breathes.
This time he doesn’t stop at my knee, he continues up the inside
of my thigh, pushing my thighs apart as he does. And I know what
he’s going to do, and part of me wants to push him o because I’m
mortied and embarrassed. He’s going to kiss me there! I know it.
And part of me is glorying in the anticipation. He turns to my other
knee and kisses his way up my thigh, kissing, licking, sucking, and
then he’s between my legs, running his nose up and down my sex,
very softly, very gently. I writhe … oh my.
He stops, waiting for me to calm. I do and raise my head to gaze
at him, my mouth open as my pounding heart struggles to calm.
“Do you know how intoxicating you smell, Miss Steele?” he
murmurs, and keeping his eyes on mine, he pushes his nose into my
pubic hair and inhales.
I ush scarlet everywhere, feeling faint, and I instantly close my
eyes. I can’t watch him do that!
He blows gently up the length of my sex. Oh, fuck …
“I like this.” He gently tugs at my pubic hair. “Perhaps we’ll keep
this.”
“Oh … please,” I beg.
“Hmm, I like it when you beg me, Anastasia.”
I groan.
“Tit for tat is not my usual style, Miss Steele,” he whispers as he
gently blows up and down me. “But you’ve pleased me today, and
you should be rewarded.” I hear the wicked grin in his voice, and
while my body is singing from his words, his tongue starts to slowly
circle my clitoris as his hands hold down my thighs.
“Aargh!” I moan as my body bows and convulses at the touch of
his tongue.
He swirls his tongue around and around, again and again, keeping
up the torture. I’m losing all sense of self, every atom of my being
concentrating hard on that small, potent powerhouse at the apex of
my thighs. My legs go rigid, and he slips his nger inside me, and I
hear his growling groan.
“Oh, baby. I love that you’re so wet for me.”
He moves his nger in a wide circle, stretching me, pulling at me,
his tongue mirroring his actions, around and around. I groan. It is
too much … My body begs for relief, and I can no longer deny it. I
let go, losing all cogent thought as my orgasm seizes me, wringing
my insides again and again. Holy fuck. I cry out, and the world dips
and disappears from view as the force of my climax renders
everything null and void.
I am panting and vaguely hear the rip of foil. Very slowly he
eases into me and starts to move. Oh … my. The feeling is sore and
sweet and bold and gentle all at once.
“How’s this?” he breathes.
“Fine. Good,” I breathe. And he really starts to move, fast, hard,
and large, thrusting into me over and over, implacable, pushing me
and pushing me until I am close to the edge again. I whimper.
“Come for me, baby.” His voice is harsh, hard, raw at my ear, and
I explode around him as he pounds rapidly into me.
“Thank fuck,” he whispers, and he thrusts hard once more and
groans as he reaches his climax, pressing himself into me. Then he
stills, his body rigid.
Collapsing on top of me, I feel his full weight forcing me into the
mattress. I pull my tied hands over his neck and hold him the best I
can. I know in that moment I would do anything for this man. I am
his. The wonder that he’s introduced me to, it’s beyond anything I
could have imagined. And he wants to take it further, so much
further, to a place I can’t, in my innocence, even imagine.
Oh … what to do?
He leans up on his elbows and stares down at me, gray eyes
intense.
“See how good we are together?” he murmurs. “If you give
yourself to me, it will be so much better. Trust me, Anastasia, I can
take you places you don’t even know exist.” His words echo my
thoughts. He strokes his nose against mine. I am still reeling from
my extraordinary physical reaction to him, and I gaze up at him
blankly, grasping for a coherent thought.
Suddenly we both become aware of voices in the hall outside his
bedroom door. It takes a moment to process what I can hear.
“But if he’s still in bed, then he must be ill. He’s never in bed at this
time. Christian never sleeps in.”
“Mrs. Grey, please.”
“Taylor. You cannot keep me from my son.”
“Mrs. Grey, he’s not alone.”
“What do you mean he’s not alone?”
“He has someone with him.”
“Oh …” Even I hear the disbelief in her voice.
Christian blinks rapidly, staring down at me, wide-eyed with
humored horror.
“Shit! It’s my mother.”
CHAPTER TEN
He pulls out of me suddenly. I wince. He sits up on the bed and
throws the used condom in a wastebasket. “Come on, we need to
get dressed—that’s if you want to meet my mother.” He grins, leaps
up o the bed, and pulls on his jeans—no underwear! I struggle to
sit up as I’m still tethered.
“Christian—I can’t move.”
His grin widens, and leaning down, he undoes the tie. The woven
pattern has made an indentation around my wrists. It’s … sexy. He
gazes at me. He’s amused, his eyes dancing with mirth. He kisses
my forehead quickly and beams at me.
“Another rst,” he acknowledges, but I have no idea what he’s
talking about.
“I have no clean clothes in here.” I am lled with sudden panic,
and considering what I’ve just experienced, I’m nding the panic
overwhelming. His mother! Holy crap. I have no clean clothes, and
she’s practically walked in on us in agrante delicto. “Perhaps I
should stay here.”
“Oh no, you don’t,” Christian threatens. “You can wear something
of mine.” He’s slipped on a white T-shirt and runs his hand through
his just-fucked hair. In spite of my anxiety, I lose my train of
thought. His beauty is derailing.
“Anastasia, you could be wearing a sack and you’d look lovely.
Please don’t worry. I’d like you to meet my mother. Get dressed.
I’ll just go and calm her down.” His mouth presses into a hard line.
“I will expect you in that room in ve minutes, otherwise I’ll come
and drag you out of here myself in whatever you’re wearing. My T-
shirts are in this drawer. My shirts are in the closet. Help yourself.”
He eyes me speculatively for a moment, then leaves the room.
Holy shit. Christian’s mother. This is so much more than I bargained
for. Perhaps meeting her will help put a little part of the jigsaw in
place. Might help me understand why Christian is the way he
is … Suddenly, I want to meet her. I pick up my shirt o the oor,
and I’m pleased to discover that it has survived the night well with
hardly any creases. I nd my blue bra under the bed and dress
quickly. But if there’s one thing I hate, it’s not wearing clean
panties. I rie through Christian’s chest of drawers and come across
his boxer briefs. After pulling on a pair of tight gray Calvin Kleins, I
tug on my jeans and my Converse.
Grabbing my jacket, I dash into the bathroom and stare at my
too-bright eyes, my ushed face—and my hair! Holy crap … just-
fucked pigtails do not suit me, either. I hunt in the vanity unit for a
brush and nd a comb. It will have to do. I quickly tie back my hair
while I despair at my clothes. Maybe I should take Christian up on
his oer of clothes. My subconscious purses her lips and mouths the
word “ho.” I ignore her. Struggling into my jacket, pleased that the
cus cover the telltale patterns from his tie, I take a last anxious
glance at myself in the mirror. This will have to do. I make my way
into the main living room.
“Here she is.” Christian stands from where he’s lounging on the
couch.
His expression is warm and appreciative. The sandy-haired
woman beside him turns and beams at me, a full megawatt smile.
She stands, too. She’s impeccably attired in a camel-colored ne
knit sweater dress with matching shoes. She looks groomed,
elegant, beautiful, and inside I die a little, knowing I look such a
mess.
“Mother, this is Anastasia Steele. Anastasia, this is Grace
Trevelyan-Grey.”
Dr. Trevelyan-Grey holds her hand out to me. T … for Trevelyan?
His initial.
“What a pleasure to meet you,” she murmurs. If I’m not
mistaken, there is wonder and maybe stunned relief in her voice
and a warm glow in her hazel eyes. I grasp her hand, and I can’t
help but smile, returning her warmth.
“Dr. Trevelyan-Grey,” I murmur.
“Call me Grace.” She grins, and Christian frowns. “I am usually
Dr. Trevelyan, and Mrs. Grey is my mother-in-law.” She winks. “So
how did you two meet?” She looks questioningly at Christian,
unable to hide her curiosity.
“Anastasia interviewed me for the student paper at WSU because
I’m conferring the degrees there this week.”
Double crap. I’d forgotten that.
“So you are graduating this week?” Grace asks.
“Yes.”
My cell phone starts ringing. Kate, I bet.
“Excuse me.” It’s in the kitchen. I wander over and lean across
the breakfast bar, not checking the number.
“Kate.”
“Dios mío! Ana!” Holy crap, it’s José. He sounds desperate. “Where
are you? I’ve been trying to contact you. I need to see you, to
apologize for my behavior on Friday. Why haven’t you returned my
calls?”
“Look, José, now’s not a good time.” I glance anxiously over at
Christian, who’s watching me intently, his face impassive as he
murmurs something to his mom. I turn my back to him.
“Where are you? Kate is being so evasive,” he whines.
“I’m in Seattle.”
“What are you doing in Seattle? Are you with him?”
“José, I’ll call you later. I can’t talk to you now.” I hang up.
I walk nonchalantly back to Christian and his mother. Grace is in
full ow.
“… and Elliot called to say you were around—I haven’t seen you
for two weeks, darling.”
“Did he now?” Christian murmurs, gazing at me, his expression
unreadable.
“I thought we might have lunch together, but I can see you have
other plans, and I don’t want to interrupt your day.” She gathers up
her long cream coat and turns to him, oering him her cheek. He
kisses her briey, sweetly. She doesn’t touch him.
“I have to drive Anastasia back to Portland.”
“Of course, darling. Anastasia, it’s been such a pleasure. I do hope
we meet again.” She holds her hand out to me, her eyes glowing,
and we shake.
Taylor appears from … where?
“Mrs. Grey?” he asks.
“Thank you, Taylor.” He escorts her from the room and through
the double doors to the foyer. Taylor was here the whole time?
How long has he been here? Where has he been?
Christian glares at me.
“So the photographer called?”
Crap.
“Yes.”
“What did he want?”
“Just to apologize, you know—for Friday.”
Christian narrows his eyes.
“I see,” he says simply.
Taylor reappears.
“Mr. Grey, there’s an issue with the Darfur shipment.”
Christian nods curtly at him.
“Charlie Tango back at Boeing Field?”
“Yes, sir.”
Taylor nods at me.
“Miss Steele.”
I smile tentatively back at him, and he turns and leaves.
“Does he live here? Taylor?”
“Yes.” His tone is clipped. What is his problem?
Christian heads over to the kitchen and picks up his BlackBerry,
scrolling through some e-mails, I assume. His mouth presses in a
hard line, and he makes a call.
“Ros, what’s the issue?” he snaps. He listens, watching me, eyes
speculative, as I stand in the middle of the huge room wondering
what to do with myself, feeling extraordinarily self-conscious and
out of place.
“I’m not having either crew put at risk. No, cancel … We’ll air-
drop instead … Good.” He hangs up. The warmth in his eyes has
disappeared. He looks forbidding, and with one quick glance at me,
he heads into his study and returns a moment later.
“This is the contract. Read it, and we’ll discuss it next weekend.
May I suggest you do some research, so you know what’s
involved.” He pauses. “That’s if you agree, and I really hope you
do,” he adds, his tone softer, anxious.
“Research?”
“You’ll be amazed what you can nd on the Internet,” he
murmurs.
Internet! I don’t have access to a computer, only Kate’s laptop,
and I couldn’t use the one at Clayton’s, not for this sort of
“research” surely.
“What is it?” he asks, cocking his head to one side.
“I don’t have a computer. I usually use the computers at school.
I’ll see if I can use Kate’s laptop.”
He hands me a manila envelope.
“I’m sure I can … er, lend you one. Get your things, we’ll drive
back to Portland and grab some lunch on the way. I need to dress.”
“I’ll just make a call,” I murmur. I just want to hear Kate’s voice.
He frowns.
“The photographer?” His jaw clenches and his eyes burn. I blink
at him. “I don’t like to share, Miss Steele. Remember that.” His
quiet, chilling tone is a warning, and with one long, cold look at
me, he heads back to the bedroom.
Holy crap. I just wanted to call Kate, I want to call after him, but
his sudden aloofness has left me paralyzed. What happened to the
generous, relaxed, smiling man who was making love to me not half
an hour ago?
“READY?” CHRISTIAN ASKS AS we stand by the double doors to the foyer.
I nod uncertainly. He’s resumed his distant, polite, uptight
persona, his mask back up and on show. He’s carrying a leather
messenger bag. Why does he need that? Perhaps he’s staying in
Portland, and then I remember graduation. Oh yes … he’ll be there
on Thursday. He’s wearing a black leather jacket. He certainly
doesn’t look like the multi-multimillionaire, billionaire, whatever-
aire, in these clothes. He looks like a boy from the wrong side of
the tracks, maybe a badly behaved rock star or a catwalk model. I
sigh inwardly, wishing I had a tenth of his poise. He’s so calm and
controlled. I frown, recalling his outburst about José … Well, he
seems to be.
Taylor is hovering in the background.
“Tomorrow, then,” he says to Taylor, who nods.
“Yes, sir. Which car are you taking, sir?”
He looks down at me briey.
“The R8.”
“Safe trip, Mr. Grey. Miss Steele.” Taylor looks kindly at me,
though perhaps there’s a hint of pity hidden in the depths of his
eyes.
No doubt he thinks I’ve succumbed to Mr. Grey’s dubious sexual
habits. Not yet, just his exceptional sexual habits, or perhaps sex is
like that for everyone. I frown at the thought. I have no
comparison, and I can’t ask Kate. That’s something I am going to
have to address with Christian. It’s perfectly natural that I should
talk to someone—and I can’t talk to him if he’s open one minute
and standosh the next.
Taylor holds the door open for us and ushers us through.
Christian summons the elevator.
“What is it, Anastasia?” he asks. How does he know I’m chewing
something over in my mind? He reaches up and pulls my chin.
“Stop biting your lip, or I will fuck you in the elevator, and I
don’t care who gets in with us.”
I blush, but there’s a hint of a smile around his lips. Finally his
mood seems to be shifting.
“Christian, I have a problem.”
“Oh?” I have his full attention.
The elevator arrives. We walk in, and Christian presses the button
marked “G.”
“Well,” I ush. How to say this? “I need to talk to Kate. I’ve so
many questions about sex, and you’re too involved. If you want me
to do all these things, how do I know—?” I pause, struggling to nd
the right words. “I just don’t have any terms of reference.”
He rolls his eyes at me.
“Talk to her if you must.” He sounds exasperated. “Make sure she
doesn’t mention anything to Elliot.”
I bristle at his insinuation. Kate isn’t like that.
“She wouldn’t do that, and I wouldn’t tell you anything she tells
me about Elliot—if she were to tell me anything,” I add quickly.
“Well, the dierence is that I don’t want to know about his sex
life,” Christian murmurs dryly. “Elliot’s a nosy bastard. But only
about what we’ve done so far,” he warns. “She’d probably have my
balls if she knew what I wanted to do to you,” he adds so softly I’m
not sure I’m supposed to hear it.
“Okay,” I agree readily, smiling up at him, relieved. The thought
of Kate with Christian’s balls is not something I want to dwell on.
His lip quirks up at me, and he shakes his head.
“The sooner I have your submission the better, and we can stop
all this,” he murmurs.
“Stop all what?”
“You, defying me.” He reaches down and cups my chin and plants
a swift, sweet kiss on my lips as the doors to the elevator open. He
grabs my hand and leads me into the underground garage.
Me, defying him … how?
Beside the elevator, I can see the black 4x4 Audi, but it’s the
sleek black sporty number that blips open and lights up when he
points the key fob at it. It’s one of those cars that should have a
very leggy blonde, wearing nothing but a sash, sprawled across the
hood.
“Nice car,” I murmur dryly.
He glances up and grins.
“I know,” he says, and for a split second sweet, young, carefree
Christian is back. It warms my heart. He’s so excited. Boys and their
toys. I roll my eyes at him but can’t stie my smile. He opens the
door for me and I climb in. Whoa … it’s low. He moves around the
car with easy grace, and folds his long frame elegantly in beside
me. How does he do that?
“So what sort of car is this?”
“It’s an Audi R8 Spyder. It’s a lovely day; we can take the top
down. There’s a baseball cap in there. In fact there should be two.”
He points to the glove box. “And sunglasses if you want them.”
He starts the ignition, and the engine roars behind us. He places
his bag in the space behind our seats, presses a button, and the roof
slowly retracts. With the ick of a switch, Bruce Springsteen
surrounds us.
“Gotta love Bruce.” He grins at me and eases the car out of the
parking space and up the steep ramp, where we pause for the gate
to lift.
Then we’re out into the bright Seattle May morning. I reach into
the glove box and retrieve the baseball caps. The Mariners. He likes
baseball? I pass him a cap, and he puts it on. I pull my hair through
the back of mine and pull the peak down low.
People stare at us as we drive through the streets. For a moment,
I think it’s at him … and then a very paranoid part thinks everyone
is looking at me because they know what I’ve been doing during
the last twelve hours, but nally I realize it’s the car. Christian
seems oblivious, lost in thought.
The trac is light and we’re soon on Interstate 5 heading south,
the wind sweeping over our heads. Bruce is singing about being on
re and his desire. How apt. I ush as I listen to the words.
Christian glances at me. He’s got his Ray-Bans on so I can’t see
what he’s feeling. His mouth twitches slightly, and he reaches
across and places his hand on my knee, squeezing gently. My breath
hitches.
“Hungry?” he asks.
Not for food.
“Not particularly.”
His mouth tightens into that hard line.
“You must eat, Anastasia,” he chides. “I know a great place near
Olympia. We’ll stop there.” He squeezes my knee again, and then
returns his hand to the steering wheel as he puts his foot down on
the gas. I’m pressed into the back of my seat. Boy, this car can
move.
THE RESTAURANT IS SMALL and intimate, a wooden chalet in the middle
of a forest. The décor is rustic: random chairs and tables with
gingham tablecloths, wild owers in little vases. CUISINE SAUVAGE, it
boasts above the door.
“I’ve not been here for a while. We don’t get a choice—they cook
whatever they’ve caught or gathered.” He raises his eyebrows in
mock horror, and I have to laugh. The waitress takes our drinks
order. She ushes when she sees Christian, avoiding eye contact
with him, hiding under her long blond bangs. She likes him! It’s not
just me!
“Two glasses of the Pinot Grigio,” Christian says with a voice of
authority. I purse my lips, exasperated.
“What?” he snaps.
“I wanted a Diet Coke,” I whisper.
His gray eyes narrow, and he shakes his head.
“The Pinot Grigio here is a decent wine. It will go well with the
meal, whatever we get,” he says patiently.
“Whatever we get?”
“Yes.” He smiles his dazzling head-cocked-to-one-side smile, and
my stomach pole vaults over my spleen. I can’t help but reect his
glorious smile back at him.
“My mother liked you,” he says dryly.
“Really?” His words make me ush with pleasure.
“Oh yes. She’s always thought I was gay.”
My mouth drops open, and I remember that question … from the
interview. Oh no.
“Why did she think you were gay?” I whisper.
“Because she’s never seen me with a girl.”
“Oh … not even one of the fteen?” He smiles.
“You remembered. No, none of the fteen.”
“Oh.”
“You know, Anastasia, it’s been a weekend of rsts for me, too,”
he says quietly.
“It has?”
“I’ve never slept with anyone, never had sex in my bed, never
own a girl in Charlie Tango, never introduced a woman to my
mother. What are you doing to me?” His eyes burn, their intensity
takes my breath away.
The waitress arrives with our glasses of wine, and I immediately
take a quick sip. Is he opening up or just making a casual
observation?
“I’ve really enjoyed this weekend,” I murmur. He narrows his
eyes at me again.
“Stop biting that lip,” he growls. “Me, too,” he adds.
“What’s vanilla sex?” I ask, if anything to distract myself from
the intense, burning, sexy look he’s giving me. He laughs.
“Just straightforward sex, Anastasia. No toys, no add-ons.” He
shrugs. “You know … well, actually you don’t, but that’s what it
means.”
“Oh.” I thought it was chocolate fudge brownie sex that we had,
with a cherry on the top. But hey, what do I know?
The waitress brings us soup. We both stare at it rather dubiously.
“Nettle soup,” the waitress informs us before turning and
ouncing back into the kitchen. I don’t think she likes to be ignored
by Christian. I take a tentative taste. It’s delicious. Christian and I
look up at each other at the same time with relief. I giggle, and he
cocks his head to one side.
“That’s a lovely sound,” he murmurs.
“Why have you never had vanilla sex before? Have you always
done … er, what you’ve done?” I ask, intrigued.
He nods slowly.
“Sort of.” His voice is wary. He frowns for a moment and seems
to be engaged in some kind of internal struggle. Then he glances up,
a decision made. “One of my mother’s friends seduced me when I
was fteen.”
“Oh.” Holy shit, that’s young!
“She had very particular tastes. I was her submissive for six
years.” He shrugs.
“Oh.” My brain has frozen, stunned into inactivity by this
admission.
“So I do know what it involves, Anastasia.” His eyes glow with
insight.
I stare at him, unable to articulate anything—even my
subconscious is silent.
“I didn’t really have a run-of-the-mill introduction to sex.”
Curiosity kicks in big time.
“So you never dated anyone at college?”
“No.” He shakes his head to emphasize the point.
The waitress takes our bowls, interrupting us for a moment.
“Why?” I ask when she’s gone.
He smiles sardonically.
“Do you really want to know?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t want to. She was all I wanted, needed. And besides,
she’d have beaten the shit out of me.” He smiles fondly at the
memory.
Oh, this is way too much information—but I want more.
“So if she was a friend of your mother’s, how old was she?”
He smirks. “Old enough to know better.”
“Do you still see her?”
“Yes.”
“Do you still … er …?” I ush.
“No.” He shakes his head and smiles indulgently at me. “She’s a
very good friend.”
“Oh. Does your mother know?”
He gives me a don’t-be-stupid stare.
“Of course not.”
The waitress returns with venison, but my appetite has vanished.
What a revelation. Christian the submissive … Holy shit. I take a large
slug of Pinot Grigio—he’s right, of course, it’s delicious. Jeez, all
these revelations, it’s so much to think about. I need time to process
this, when I’m on my own, not when I’m distracted by his presence.
He’s so overwhelming, so alpha male, and now he’s thrown this
bombshell into the equation. He knows what it’s like.
“But it can’t have been full time?” I’m confused.
“Well, it was, though I didn’t see her all the time. It
was … dicult. After all, I was still at school and then at college.
Eat up, Anastasia.”
“I’m really not hungry, Christian.” I am reeling from your
disclosure.
His expression hardens. “Eat,” he says quietly, too quietly.
I stare at him. This man—sexually abused as an adolescent—his
tone is so threatening.
“Give me a moment,” I mutter quietly. He blinks a couple of
times.
“Okay,” he murmurs, and he continues with his meal.
This is what it will be like if I sign, him ordering me around. I
frown. Do I want this? Reaching for my knife and fork, I tentatively
cut into the venison. It’s very tasty.
“Is this what our, er … relationship will be like?” I whisper. “You
ordering me around?” I can’t quite bring myself to look at him.
“Yes,” he murmurs.
“I see.”
“And what’s more, you’ll want me to,” he adds, his voice low.
I sincerely doubt that. I slice another piece of venison, holding it
against my mouth.
“It’s a big step,” I murmur, and eat.
“It is.” He closes his eyes briey. When he opens them, they are
wide and grave. “Anastasia, you have to go with your gut. Do the
research, read the contract—I’m happy to discuss any aspect. I’ll be
in Portland until Friday if you want to talk about it before then.”
His words are coming at me in a rush. “Call me—maybe we can
have dinner—say, Wednesday? I really want to make this work. In
fact, I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want this to work.”
His burning sincerity, his longing, is reected in his eyes. This is
fundamentally what I don’t grasp. Why me? Why not one of the
fteen? Oh no … Will that be me—a number? Sixteen of many?
“What happened to the fteen?” I blurt out.
He raises his eyebrows in surprise, then looks resigned, shaking
his head.
“Various things, but it boils down to …” He pauses, struggling to
nd the words I think. “Incompatibility.” He shrugs.
“And you think that I might be compatible with you?”
“Yes.”
“So you’re not seeing any of them anymore?”
“No, Anastasia, I’m not. I am monogamous in my relationships.”
Oh … this is news.
“I see.”
“Do the research, Anastasia.”
I put my knife and fork down. I cannot eat any more.
“That’s it? That’s all you’re going to eat?”
I nod. He scowls at me but chooses not to say anything. I breathe
a small sigh of relief. My stomach is churning with all this new
information, and I’m feeling a little lightheaded from the wine. I
watch as he devours everything on his plate. He eats like a horse.
He must work out to stay in such great shape. The memory of the
way his pajamas hung from his hips comes unbidden to my mind.
The image is totally distracting. I squirm uncomfortably. He glances
up at me, and I blush.
“I’d give anything to know what you’re thinking right at this
moment,” he murmurs. I blush further.
He smiles a wicked smile at me.
“I can guess,” he teases softly.
“I’m glad you can’t read my mind.”
“Your mind, no, Anastasia, but your body—that I’ve gotten to
know quite well since yesterday.” His voice is suggestive. How does
he switch so quickly from one mood to the next? He’s so
mercurial … It’s hard to keep up.
He motions for the waitress and asks for the check. Once he’s
paid, he stands and holds out his hand.
“Come.” Taking my hand in his, he leads me back to the car. This
contact, esh to esh, it’s what is so unexpected from him, normal,
intimate. I can’t reconcile this ordinary, tender gesture with what
he wants to do in that room … the Red Room of Pain.
We are quiet on the drive from Olympia to Vancouver, both lost
in our own thoughts. When he parks outside my apartment, it’s ve
in the evening. The lights are on—Kate is at home. Packing, no
doubt, unless Elliot is still there. He switches o the engine, and I
realize I’m going to have to leave him.
“Do you want to come in?” I ask. I don’t want him to go. I want
to prolong our time together.
“No. I have work to do,” he says simply, gazing at me, his
expression unfathomable.
I stare down at my hands, as I knot my ngers together. Suddenly
I feel emotional. He’s leaving. Reaching over, he takes one of my
hands and slowly pulls it to his mouth, tenderly kissing the back of
my hand, such an old-fashioned, sweet gesture. My heart leaps into
my mouth.
“Thank you for this weekend, Anastasia. It’s been … the best.
Wednesday? I’ll pick you up from work, from wherever?” he says
softly.
“Wednesday,” I whisper.
He kisses my hand again and places it back in my lap. He climbs
out of the car, comes around to my side, and opens the passenger-
side door. Why do I feel suddenly bereft? A lump forms in my
throat. I must not let him see me like this. Fixing a smile on my
face, I clamber out of the car and head up the path, knowing I have
to face Kate, dreading facing Kate. I turn and gaze at him midway.
Chin up, Steele, I chide myself.
“Oh … by the way, I’m wearing your underwear.” I give him a
small smile and pull up the waistband of the boxer briefs I’m
wearing so he can see. Christian’s mouth drops open, shocked. What
a great reaction. My mood shifts immediately, and I sashay into the
house, part of me wanting to jump and punch the air. YES! My inner
goddess is thrilled.
Kate is in the living room packing up her books into crates.
“You’re back. Where’s Christian? How are you?” Her voice is
fevered, anxious, and she bounds up to me, grabbing my shoulders,
minutely analyzing my face before I’ve even said hello.
Crap … I have to deal with Kate’s persistence and tenacity, and
I’m in possession of a signed legal document saying I can’t talk. It’s
not a healthy mix.
“Well, how was it? I couldn’t stop thinking about you, after Elliot
left, that is.” She grins mischievously.
I can’t help but smile at her concern and her burning curiosity,
but suddenly I feel shy. I blush. It was very private. All of it. Seeing
and knowing what Christian has to hide. But I have to give her
some details, because she won’t leave me alone until I do.
“It was good, Kate. Very good, I think,” I say quietly, trying to
hide my embarrassed tell-all smile.
“You think?”
“I’ve got nothing to compare it to, do I?” I shrug apologetically.
“Did he make you come?”
Holy crap. She’s so blunt. I go scarlet.
“Yes,” I mumble, exasperated.
Kate pulls me to the couch and we sit. She clasps my hands.
“That is good.” Kate looks at me in disbelief. “It was your rst
time. Wow, Christian must really know what he’s doing.”
Oh, Kate, if only you knew.
“My rst time was horrid,” she continues, making a sad comedy
face.
“Oh?” This has me interested, something she’s never divulged
before.
“Yes, Steve Patrone. High school, dickless jock.” She shudders.
“He was rough. I wasn’t ready. We were both drunk. You know—
typical teenage post-prom disaster. Ugh—it took me months before
I decided to have another go. And not with him, the gutless wonder.
I was too young. You were right to wait.”
“Kate, that sounds awful.”
Kate looks wistful.
“Yeah, took almost a year to have my rst orgasm through
penetrative sex, and here you are … rst time?”
I nod shyly. My inner goddess sits in the lotus position looking
serene except for the sly, self-congratulatory smile on her face.
“I’m glad you lost it to someone who knows his ass from his
elbow.” She winks at me. “So when are you seeing him again?”
“Wednesday. We’re having dinner.”
“So you still like him?”
“Yes. But I don’t know about … the future.”
“Why?”
“He’s complicated, Kate. You know—he inhabits a very dierent
world to mine.” Great excuse. Believable, too. Much better than:
He’s got a Red Room of Pain, and he wants to make me his sex slave.
“Oh, please, don’t let this be about money, Ana. Elliot said it’s
very unusual for Christian to date anyone.”
“Did he?” My voice hitches up several octaves.
Too obvious, Steele! My subconscious glares at me, wagging her
long, skinny nger, then morphs into the scales of justice to remind
me he could sue if I disclose too much. Ha … what’s he going to do—
take all my money? I must remember to Google “penalties for
breaching a nondisclosure agreement” while I’m doing the rest of my
“research.” It’s like I’ve been given a school assignment. Maybe I’ll
be graded. I ush, remembering my A for this morning’s bath
experiment.
“Ana, what is it?”
“I’m just remembering something Christian said.”
“You look dierent,” Kate says fondly.
“I feel dierent. Sore,” I confess.
“Sore?”
“A little.” I ush.
“Me, too. Men,” she says in mock disgust. “They’re animals.” We
both laugh.
“You’re sore?” I exclaim.
“Yes … overuse.”
I giggle.
“Tell me about Elliot the overuser,” I ask when I’ve stopped
giggling. Oh, I can feel myself relaxing for the rst time since I was
in line at the bar … before the phone call that started all this—when
I was admiring Mr. Grey from afar. Happy, uncomplicated days.
Kate blushes. Oh my … Katherine Agnes Kavanagh goes all
Anastasia Rose Steele on me. She gives me a dewy-eyed look. I’ve
never seen her react this way to a man before. My jaw drops to the
oor. Where’s Kate; what have you done with her?
“Oh, Ana,” she gushes. “He’s just so … everything. And when
we … oh … really good.” She can hardly string a sentence together,
she’s got it so bad.
“I think you’re trying to tell me that you like him.”
She nods, grinning like a lunatic.
“And I’m seeing him on Saturday. He’s going to help us move.”
She clasps her hands together, leaps up o the couch, and pirouettes
to the window. Moving. Crap—I’d forgotten all about that, even
with the packing cases surrounding us.
“That’s helpful of him,” I say appreciatively. I can get to know
him, too. Perhaps he can give me more insight into his strange,
disturbing brother.
“So what did you do last night?” I ask. She cocks her head at me
and raises her eyebrows in a what-do-you-think-stupid look.
“Pretty much what you did, though we had dinner rst.” She
grins at me. “Are you okay really? You look kind of overwhelmed.”
“I feel overwhelmed. Christian is very intense.”
“Yeah, I could see how he could be. But he was good to you?”
“Yes,” I reassure her. “I’m really hungry, shall I cook?”
She nods and picks up two more books to pack.
“What do you want to do with the fourteen-thousand-dollar
books?” she asks.
“I’m going to return them to him.”
“Really?”
“It’s a completely over-the-top gift. I can’t accept it, especially
now.” I grin at Kate, and she nods.
“I understand. A couple of letters came for you, and José has been
calling every hour on the hour. He sounded desperate.”
“I’ll call him,” I mutter evasively. If I tell Kate about José, she’ll
have him for breakfast. I collect the letters from the dining table
and open them.
“Hey, I have interviews! The week after next, in Seattle, for
intern placements!”
“For which publishing house?”
“For both of them!”
“I told you your GPA would open doors, Ana.”
Kate, of course, already has an internship set up at The Seattle
Times. Her father knows someone who knows someone.
“How does Elliot feel about you going away?” I ask.
Kate wanders into the kitchen, and for the rst time this evening,
she’s disconsolate.
“He’s understanding. Part of me doesn’t want to go, but it’s
tempting to lie in the sun for a couple of weeks. Besides, Mom is
hanging in there, thinking this will be our last real family holiday
before Ethan and I head o into the world of paid employment.”
I have never left the continental U.S. Kate is o to Barbados with
her parents and her brother, Ethan, for two whole weeks. I’ll be
Kateless in our new apartment. That will be weird. Ethan has been
traveling the world since he graduated last year. I wonder briey if
I’ll see him before they go on vacation. He’s such a lovely guy. The
phone rings, jolting me from my reverie.
“That’ll be José.”
I sigh. I know I have to talk to him. I grab the phone.
“Hi.”
“Ana, you’re back!” José shouts his relief at me.
“Obviously.” Sarcasm drips from my voice, and I roll my eyes at
the phone.
He’s silent for a moment.
“Can I see you? I’m sorry about Friday night. I was drunk … and
you … well. Ana—please forgive me.”
“Of course, I forgive you José. Just don’t do it again. You know I
don’t feel like that about you.”
He sighs heavily, sadly.
“I know, Ana. I just thought if I kissed you, it might change how
you feel.”
“José, I love you dearly, you mean so much to me. You’re like
the brother I never had. That’s not going to change. You know
that.” I hate to let him down, but it’s the truth.
“So you’re with him now?” His tone is full of disdain.
“José, I’m not with anybody.”
“But you spent the night with him.”
“That’s none of your business!”
“Is it the money?”
“José! How dare you!” I shout, staggered by his audacity.
“Ana,” he whines and apologizes simultaneously. I cannot deal
with his petty jealousy now. I know he’s hurt, but my plate is
overowing dealing with Christian Grey.
“Maybe we can have a coee or something tomorrow. I’ll call
you.” I am conciliatory. He is my friend, and I’m very fond of him.
But right now, I don’t need this.
“Tomorrow, then. You’ll call?” The hope in his voice twists my
heart.
“Yes … good night, José.” I hang up, not waiting for his response.
“What was that all about?” Katherine demands, her hands on her
hips. I decide honesty is the policy. She’s looking more intractable
than ever.
“He made a pass at me on Friday.”
“José? And Christian Grey? Ana, your pheromones must be
working overtime. What was the stupid fool thinking?” She shakes
her head in disgust and returns to packing crates.
Forty-ve minutes later, we pause our packing for the house
specialty, my lasagna. Kate opens a bottle of wine, and we sit
among the boxes eating, quang cheap red wine, and watching
crap TV. This is normality. It’s so grounding and welcome after the
last forty-eight hours of … madness. I eat my rst unhurried, no-
nagging, peaceful meal in that time. What is it about him and food?
Kate clears the dishes and I nish packing up the living room. We
are left with the couch, the TV, and the dining table. What more
could we need? Just the kitchen and our bedrooms left to pack up,
and we have the rest of the week.
The phone rings again. It’s Elliot. Kate winks at me and skips o
to her bedroom like she’s fourteen. I know that she should be
writing her valedictorian speech, but it seems Elliot is more
important. What is it about the Grey men? What is it that makes
them totally distracting, all-consuming, and irresistible? I take
another slug of wine.
I ick through the TV channels, but deep down I know I’m
procrastinating. Burning a bright red hole in the side of my purse is
that contract. Do I have the strength and the wherewithal to read it
tonight?
I put my head in my hands. José and Christian, they both want
something from me. José is easy to deal with. But
Christian … Christian takes a whole dierent league of handling, of
understanding. Part of me wants to run and hide. What am I going
to do? His burning gray eyes and that intense smoldering stare
come into my mind’s eye, and my body tightens at the thought. I
gasp. He’s not even here and I’m turned on. It just can’t be about
sex, can it? I recall his gentle banter this morning at breakfast, his
joy at my delight with the helicopter ride, him playing the piano—
the sweet, soulful, oh-so-sad music.
He’s such a complicated person. And now I have an insight as to
why. A young man deprived of his adolescence, sexually abused by
some evil Mrs. Robinson gure … no wonder he’s old before his
time. My heart lls with sadness at the thought of what he must
have been through. I’m too naïve to know exactly what, but the
research should shed some light. But do I really want to know? Do I
want to explore this world I know nothing about? It’s such a big
step.
If I’d not met him, I’d still be sweetly and blissfully oblivious. My
mind drifts to last night and this morning … and the incredible,
sensual sexuality I’d experienced. Do I want to say good-bye to
that? No! screams my subconscious … my inner goddess nods in
silent Zen-like agreement with her.
Kate wanders back into the living room, grinning from ear to ear.
Perhaps she’s in love. I gape at her. She’s never behaved like this.
“Ana, I’m o to bed. I’m pretty tired.”
“Me, too, Kate.”
She hugs me.
“I’m glad you’re back in one piece. There’s something about
Christian,” she adds quietly, apologetically. I give her a small,
reassuring smile—all the while thinking … How the hell does she
know? This is what will make her a great journalist, her unfaltering
intuition.
COLLECTING MY PURSE, I wander listlessly into my bedroom. I am
weary from all the carnal exertions of the last day and from the
complete and utter dilemma that I’m faced with. I sit on my bed
and gingerly extract the manila envelope from my bag, turning it
over and over in my hands. Do I really want to know the extent of
Christian’s depravity? It’s so daunting. I take a deep breath, and
with my heart in my throat, I rip open the envelope.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
There are several papers inside the envelope. I sh them out, my
heart still pounding, and I sit back on my bed and begin to read.
CONTRACT
Made this day _____ of 2011 (“The Commencement Date”)
BETWEEN
MR. CHRISTIAN GREY of 301 Escala, Seattle, WA 98889
(“The Dominant”)
MISS ANASTASIA STEELE of 1114 SW Green Street, Apartment 7, Haven Heights,
Vancouver, WA 98888 (“The Submissive”)
THE PARTIES AGREE AS FOLLOWS
1 The following are the terms of a binding contract between the Dominant and the
Submissive.
FUNDAMENTAL TERMS
2 The fundamental purpose of this contract is to allow the Submissive to explore her
sensuality and her limits safely, with due respect and regard for her needs, her limits,
and her well-being.
3 The Dominant and the Submissive agree and acknowledge that all that occurs under
the terms of this contract will be consensual, condential, and subject to the agreed
limits and safety procedures set out in this contract. Additional limits and safety
procedures may be agreed in writing.
4 The Dominant and the Submissive each warrant that they suer from no sexual,
serious, infectious, or life-threatening illnesses, including but not limited to HIV,
herpes, and hepatitis. If during the Term (as dened below) or any extended term of
this contract either party should be diagnosed with or become aware of any such
illness, he or she undertakes to inform the other immediately and in any event prior to
any form of physical contact between the parties.
5 Adherence to the above warranties, agreements, and undertakings (and any
additional limits and safety procedures agreed under clause 3 above) are fundamental
to this contract. Any breach shall render it void with immediate eect and each party
agrees to be fully responsible to the other for the consequence of any breach.
6 Everything in this contract must be read and interpreted in the light of the
fundamental purpose and the fundamental terms set out in clauses 2–5 above.
ROLES
7 The Dominant shall take responsibility for the well-being and the proper training,
guidance, and discipline of the Submissive. He shall decide the nature of such training,
guidance, and discipline and the time and place of its administration, subject to the
agreed terms, limitations, and safety procedures set out in this contract or agreed
additionally under clause 3 above.
8 If at any time the Dominant should fail to keep to the agreed terms, limitations, and
safety procedures set out in this contract or agreed additionally under clause 3 above,
the Submissive is entitled to terminate this contract forthwith and to leave the service
of the Dominant without notice.
9 Subject to that proviso and to clauses 2–5 above, the Submissive is to serve and obey
the Dominant in all things. Subject to the agreed terms, limitations, and safety
procedures set out in this contract or agreed additionally under clause 3 above, she
shall without query or hesitation oer the Dominant such pleasure as he may require
and she shall accept without query or hesitation his training, guidance, and discipline
in whatever form it may take.
COMMENCEMENT AND TERM
10 The Dominant and Submissive enter into this contract on the Commencement Date
fully aware of its nature and undertake to abide by its conditions without exception.
11 This contract shall be eective for a period of three calendar months from the
Commencement Date (“the Term”). On the expiry of the Term the parties shall discuss
whether this contract and the arrangements they have made under this contract are
satisfactory and whether the needs of each party have been met. Either party may
propose the extension of this contract subject to adjustments to its terms or to the
arrangements they have made under it. In the absence of agreement to such extension
this contract shall terminate and both parties shall be free to resume their lives
separately.
AVAILABILITY
12 The Submissive will make herself available to the Dominant from Friday evenings
through to Sunday afternoons each week during the Term at times to be specied by
the Dominant (“the Allotted Times”). Further allocated time can be mutually agreed on
an ad hoc basis.
13 The Dominant reserves the right to dismiss the Submissive from his service at any
time and for any reason. The Submissive may request her release at any time, such
request to be granted at the discretion of the Dominant subject only to the Submissive’s
rights under clauses 2–5 and 8 above.
LOCATION
14 The Submissive will make herself available during the Allotted Times and agreed
additional times at locations to be determined by the Dominant. The Dominant will
ensure that all travel costs incurred by the Submissive for that purpose are met by the
Dominant.
SERVICE PROVISIONS
15 The following service provisions have been discussed and agreed and will be
adhered to by both parties during the Term. Both parties accept that certain matters
may arise that are not covered by the terms of this contract or the service provisions,
or that certain matters may be renegotiated. In such circumstances, further clauses
may be proposed by way of amendment. Any further clauses or amendments must be
agreed, documented, and signed by both parties and shall be subject to the fundamental
terms set out under clauses 2–5 above.
DOMINANT
15.1 The Dominant shall make the Submissive’s health and safety a priority at all
times. The Dominant shall not at any time require, request, allow, or demand the
Submissive to participate at the hands of the Dominant in the activities detailed in
Appendix 2 or in any act that either party deems to be unsafe. The Dominant will not
undertake or permit to be undertaken any action which could cause serious injury or
any risk to the Submissive’s life. The remaining subclauses of this clause 15 are to be
read subject to this proviso and to the fundamental matters agreed in clauses 2–5
above.
15.2 The Dominant accepts the Submissive as his, to own, control, dominate, and
discipline during the Term. The Dominant may use the Submissive’s body at any time
during the Allotted Times or any agreed additional times in any manner he deems t,
sexually or otherwise.
15.3 The Dominant shall provide the Submissive with all necessary training and
guidance in how to properly serve the Dominant.
15.4 The Dominant shall maintain a stable and safe environment in which the
Submissive may perform her duties in service of the Dominant.
15.5 The Dominant may discipline the Submissive as necessary to ensure the
Submissive fully appreciates her role of subservience to the Dominant and to
discourage unacceptable conduct. The Dominant may og, spank, whip, or corporally
punish the Submissive as he sees t, for purposes of discipline, for his own personal
enjoyment, or for any other reason, which he is not obliged to provide.
15.6 In training and in the administration of discipline the Dominant shall ensure that
no permanent marks are made upon the Submissive’s body nor any injuries incurred
that may require medical attention.
15.7 In training and in the administration of discipline the Dominant shall ensure that
the discipline and the instruments used for the purposes of discipline are safe, shall not
be used in such a way as to cause serious harm, and shall not in any way exceed the
limits dened and detailed in this contract.
15.8 In case of illness or injury the Dominant shall care for the Submissive, seeing to
her health and safety, encouraging and, when necessary, ordering medical attention
when it is judged necessary by the Dominant.
15.9 The Dominant shall maintain his own good health and seek medical attention
when necessary in order to maintain a risk-free environment.
15.10 The Dominant shall not loan his Submissive to another Dominant.
15.11 The Dominant may restrain, handcu, or bind the Submissive at any time
during the Allotted Times or any agreed additional times for any reason and for
extended periods of time, giving due regard to the health and safety of the Submissive.
15.12 The Dominant will ensure that all equipment used for the purposes of training
and discipline shall be maintained in a clean, hygienic, and safe state at all times.
SUBMISSIVE
15.13 The Submissive accepts the Dominant as her master, with the understanding
that she is now the property of the Dominant, to be dealt with as the Dominant pleases
during the Term generally but specically during the Allotted Times and any additional
agreed allotted times.
15.14 The Submissive shall obey the rules (“the Rules”) set out in Appendix 1 to this
agreement.
15.15 The Submissive shall serve the Dominant in any way the Dominant sees t and
shall endeavor to please the Dominant at all times to the best of her ability.
15.16 The Submissive shall take all measures necessary to maintain her good health
and shall request or seek medical attention whenever it is needed, keeping the
Dominant informed at all times of any health issues that may arise.
15.17 The Submissive will ensure that she procures oral contraception and ensure that
she takes it as and when prescribed to prevent any pregnancy.
15.18 The Submissive shall accept without question any and all disciplinary actions
deemed necessary by the Dominant and remember her status and role in regard to the
Dominant at all times.
15.19 The Submissive shall not touch or pleasure herself sexually without permission
from the Dominant.
15.20 The Submissive shall submit to any sexual activity demanded by the Dominant
and shall do so without hesitation or argument.
15.21 The Submissive shall accept whippings, oggings, spankings, canings, paddlings,
or any other discipline the Dominant should decide to administer, without hesitation,
inquiry, or complaint.
15.22 The Submissive shall not look directly into the eyes of the Dominant except when
specically instructed to do so. The Submissive shall keep her eyes cast down and
maintain a quiet and respectful bearing in the presence of the Dominant.
15.23 The Submissive shall always conduct herself in a respectful manner to the
Dominant and shall address him only as Sir, Mr. Grey, or such other title as the
Dominant may direct.
15.24 The Submissive will not touch the Dominant without his express permission to
do so.
ACTIVITIES
16 The Submissive shall not participate in activities or any sexual acts that either party
deems to be unsafe or any activities detailed in Appendix 2.
17 The Dominant and the Submissive have discussed the activities set out in Appendix
3 and recorded in writing on Appendix 3 their agreement in respect of them.
SAFEWORDS
18 The Dominant and the Submissive recognize that the Dominant may make demands
of the Submissive that cannot be met without incurring physical, mental, emotional,
spiritual, or other harm at the time the demands are made to the Submissive. In such
circumstances related to this, the Submissive may make use of a safeword (“the
Safeword[s]”). Two Safewords will be invoked depending on the severity of the
demands.
19 The Safeword “Yellow” will be used to bring to the attention of the Dominant that
the Submissive is close to her limit of endurance.
20 The Safeword “Red” will be used to bring to the attention of the Dominant that the
Submissive cannot tolerate any further demands. When this word is said, the
Dominant’s action will cease completely with immediate eect.
CONCLUSION
21 We the undersigned have read and understood fully the provisions of this contract.
We freely accept the terms of this contract and have acknowledged this by our
signatures below.
The Dominant: Christian Grey
Date
The Submissive: Anastasia Steele
Date
APPENDIX 1
RULES
Obedience:
The Submissive will obey any instructions given by the Dominant immediately
without hesitation or reservation and in an expeditious manner. The Submissive will
agree to any sexual activity deemed t and pleasurable by the Dominant excepting
those activities that are outlined in hard limits (Appendix 2). She will do so eagerly
and without hesitation.
Sleep:
The Submissive will ensure she achieves a minimum of eight hours’ sleep a night
when she is not with the Dominant.
Food:
The Submissive will eat regularly to maintain her health and well-being from a
prescribed list of foods (Appendix 4). The Submissive will not snack between meals,
with the exception of fruit.
Clothes:
During the Term the Submissive will wear clothing only approved by the Dominant.
The Dominant will provide a clothing budget for the Submissive, which the Submissive
shall utilize. The Dominant shall accompany the Submissive to purchase clothing on
an ad hoc basis. If the Dominant so requires, the Submissive shall, during the Term,
wear adornments the Dominant shall require, in the presence of the Dominant and at
any other time the Dominant deems t.
Exercise:
The Dominant shall provide the Submissive with a personal trainer four times a week
in hour-long sessions at times to be mutually agreed between the personal trainer and
the Submissive. The personal trainer will report to the Dominant on the Submissive’s
progress.
Personal Hygiene/Beauty:
The Submissive will keep herself clean and shaved and/or waxed at all times. The
Submissive will visit a beauty salon of the Dominant’s choosing at times to be decided
by the Dominant and undergo whatever treatments the Dominant sees t. All costs will
be met by the Dominant.
Personal Safety:
The Submissive will not drink to excess, smoke, take recreational drugs, or put herself
in any unnecessary danger.
Personal Qualities:
The Submissive will not enter into any sexual relations with anyone other than the
Dominant. The Submissive will conduct herself in a respectful and modest manner at
all times. She must recognize that her behavior is a direct reection on the Dominant.
She shall be held accountable for any misdeeds, wrongdoings, and misbehavior
committed when not in the presence of the Dominant.
Failure to comply with any of the above will result in immediate punishment, the
nature of which shall be determined by the Dominant.
APPENDIX 2
Hard Limits
No acts involving re play.
No acts involving urination or defecation and the products thereof.
No acts involving needles, knives, cutting, piercing, or blood.
No acts involving gynecological medical instruments.
No acts involving children or animals.
No acts that will leave any permanent marks on the skin.
No acts involving breath control.
No activity that involves the direct contact of electric current (whether alternating or
direct), re, or ames to the body.
APPENDIX 3
Soft Limits
To be discussed and agreed between both parties:
Does the Submissive consent to:
• Masturbation
• Cunnilingus
• Fellatio
• Swallowing Semen
• Vaginal intercourse
• Vaginal sting
• Anal intercourse
• Anal sting
Does the Submissive consent to the use of:
• Vibrators
• Butt plugs
• Dildos
• Other vaginal/anal toys
Does the Submissive consent to:
• Bondage with rope
• Bondage with leather cus
• Bondage with handcus/shackles/manacles
• Bondage with tape
• Bondage with other
Does the Submissive consent to be restrained with:
• Hands bound in front
• Ankles bound
• Elbows bound
• Hands bound behind back
• Knees bound
• Wrists bound to ankles
• Binding to xed items, furniture, etc.
• Binding with spreaderbar
• Suspension
Does the Submissive consent to be blindfolded?
Does the Submissive consent to be gagged?
How much pain is the Submissive willing to experience?
Where 1 is likes intensely and 5 is dislikes intensely:
1—2—3—4—5
Does the Submissive consent to accept the following forms of
pain/punishment/discipline:
• Spanking
• Whipping
• Biting
• Genital clamps
• Hot wax
• Paddling
• Caning
• Nipple clamps
• Ice
• Other types/methods of pain
Holy fuck. I can’t bring myself to even consider the food list. I
swallow hard, my mouth dry, and read it again.
My head is buzzing. How can I possibly agree to all this? And
apparently it’s for my benet, to explore my sensuality, my limits—
safely—oh, please! I sco angrily. Serve and obey in all things. All
things! I shake my head in disbelief. Actually, don’t the marriage
vows use those words … obey? This throws me. Do couples still say
that? Only three months—is that why there have been so many? He
doesn’t keep them for long? Or have they had enough after three
months? Every weekend? That’s too much. I’ll never see Kate or
whatever friends I may make at my new job, provided I get one.
Perhaps I should have one weekend a month to myself. Perhaps
when I have my period—that sounds … practical. He’s my master!
I’m to be dealt with as he pleases! Holy shit.
I shudder at the thought of being ogged or whipped. Spanking
probably wouldn’t be so bad; humiliating, though. And tied up?
Well, he did tie my hands together. That was … well, it was hot,
really hot, so perhaps that won’t be so bad. He won’t loan me to
another Dominant—damn right he won’t. That would be totally
unacceptable. Why am I even thinking about this?
I can’t look him in the eye. How weird is that? The only way I ever
have any chance to see what he’s thinking. Actually, who am I
kidding? I never know what he’s thinking, but I like looking into
his eyes. He has beautiful eyes—captivating, intelligent, deep, and
dark, dark with dominant secrets. I recall his burning smoky gaze
and press my thighs together, squirming.
And I can’t touch him. Well, no surprise there. And these silly
rules … No, no, I can’t do this. I put my head in my hands. This is
no way to have a relationship. I need some sleep. I’m shattered. All
the physical shenanigans I’ve been engaged in over the last twenty-
four hours have been, frankly, exhausting. And mentally … oh,
man, this is so much to handle. As José would say, a real mind-fuck.
Perhaps in the morning this might not read like a bad joke.
I scramble up and change quickly. Perhaps I should borrow Kate’s
pink annel pajamas. I want something cuddly and reassuring
around me. I head to the bathroom in my T-shirt and sleep shorts
and brush my teeth.
I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror. You can’t seriously be
considering this … My subconscious sounds sane and rational, not her
usual snarky self. My inner goddess is jumping up and down,
clapping her hands like a ve-year-old. Please, let’s do
this … otherwise we’ll end up alone with lots of cats and your classic
novels to keep you company.
The only man I’ve ever been attracted to, and he comes with a
bloody contract, a ogger, and a whole world of issues. Well, at
least I got my way this weekend. My inner goddess stops jumping
and smiles serenely. Oh yes … she mouths, nodding at me smugly. I
ush at the memory of his hands and his mouth on me, his body
inside mine. Closing my eyes, I feel the familiar delicious pull of my
muscles from deep, deep down. I want to do that again and again.
Maybe if I just sign up for the sex … would he go with that? I
suspect not.
Am I submissive? Maybe I come across that way. Maybe I misled
him in the interview. I’m shy, yes … but submissive? I let Kate
bully me—is that the same? And those soft limits, jeez. My mind
boggles, but I’m reassured that they are up for discussion.
I wander back to my bedroom. This is too much to think about. I
need a clear head—a fresh morning approach to the problem. I put
the oending documents in my backpack. Tomorrow … tomorrow
is another day. Clambering into bed, I switch o the light and lie
staring up at the ceiling. Oh, I wish I’d never met him. My inner
goddess shakes her head at me. She and I know it’s a lie. I have
never felt as alive as I do now.
I close my eyes, and I drift into a heavy sleep with occasional
dreams of four-poster beds and shackles and intense gray eyes.
KATE WAKES ME THE next day.
“Ana, I’ve been calling you. You must have been out cold.”
My eyes reluctantly open. She’s not just up—she’s been for a run.
I glance at my alarm. It’s eight in the morning. Holy Moses, I’ve
slept for a solid nine hours.
“What is it?” I mumble sleepily.
“There’s a man here with a delivery for you. You have to sign for
it.”
“What?”
“Come on. It’s big. It looks interesting.” She hops from foot to
foot excitedly and bounds back into the living room. I clamber out
of bed and grab my robe hanging on the back of my door. A smart
young man with a ponytail is standing in our living room clasping a
large box.
“Hi,” I mumble.
“I’ll make you some tea.” Kate scuttles o to the kitchen.
“Miss Steele?”
And I immediately know who the parcel is from.
“Yes,” I answer cautiously.
“I have a package for you here, but I have to set it up and show
you how to use it.”
“Really? At this time?”
“Only following orders, ma’am.” He smiles in a charming but
professional he’s-not-taking-any-crap way.
Did he just call me ma’am? Have I aged ten years overnight? If I
have, it’s that contract. My mouth puckers in disgust.
“Okay, what is it?”
“It’s a MacBook Pro.”
“Of course it is.” I roll my eyes.
“These aren’t available in the shops yet, ma’am; the very latest
from Apple.”
How come that does not surprise me? I sigh heavily.
“Just set it up on the dining table over there.”
I wander into the kitchen to join Kate.
“What is it?” she says inquisitively, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
She’s slept well, too.
“It’s a laptop from Christian.”
“Why’s he sent you a laptop? You know you can use mine.” She
frowns.
Not for what he has in mind.
“Oh, it’s only on loan. He wanted me to try it out.” My excuse
sounds feeble. But Kate nods her assent. Oh my … I have
hoodwinked Katherine Kavanagh. A rst. She hands me my tea.
The Mac laptop is sleek and silver and rather beautiful. It has a
very large screen. Christian Grey likes scale—I think of his living
area, in fact, his whole apartment.
“It’s got the latest OS and a full suite of programs, plus a one-
point-ve terabyte hard drive so you’ll have plenty of room, thirty-
two gigs of RAM—what are you planning to use it for?”
“Uh … e-mail.”
“E-mail!” he chokes, raising his eyebrows with a slightly sick look
on his face.
“And maybe Internet research?” I shrug apologetically. He sighs.
“Well, this has full wireless N, and I’ve set it up with your Me
account details. This baby is all ready to go, practically anywhere
on the planet.” He looks longingly at it.
“Me account?”
“Your new e-mail address.”
I have an e-mail address?
He points to an icon on the screen and continues to talk at me,
but it’s like white noise. I haven’t got a clue what he’s saying, and
in all honestly, I’m not interested. Just tell me how to switch it on and
o—I’ll gure out the rest. After all, I’ve been using Kate’s for four
years. Kate whistles, impressed when she sees it.
“This is next-generation tech.” She raises her eyebrows at me.
“Most women get owers or maybe jewelry,” she says suggestively,
trying to suppress a smile.
I scowl at her but can’t keep a straight face. We both burst into a
t of giggles, and computer man gapes at us, bemused. He nishes
up and asks me to sign the delivery note.
As Kate shows him out, I sit with my cup of tea and open the e-
mail program, and waiting for me is an e-mail from Christian. My
heart leaps into my mouth. I have an e-mail from Christian Grey.
Nervously, I open it.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Your New Computer
Date: May 22 2011 23:15
To: Anastasia Steele
Dear Miss Steele,
I trust you slept well. I hope that you put this laptop to good use, as discussed.
I look forward to dinner Wednesday.
Happy to answer any questions before then, via e-mail, should you so desire.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
I hit “reply.”
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Your New Computer (on loan)
Date: May 23 2011 08:20
To: Christian Grey
I slept very well, thank you—for some strange reason—Sir. I understood that this
computer was on loan, ergo not mine.
Ana
Almost instantaneously there is a response.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Your New Computer (on loan)
Date: May 23 2011 08:22
To: Anastasia Steele
The computer is on loan. Indenitely, Miss Steele.
I note from your tone that you have read the documentation I gave you.
Do you have any questions so far?
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
I can’t help but grin.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Inquiring Minds
Date: May 23 2011 08:25
To: Christian Grey
I have many questions, but not suitable for e-mail, and some of us have to work for a
living.
I do not want or need a computer indenitely.
Until later, good day. Sir.
Ana
His reply again is instant, and it makes me smile.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Your New Computer (again on loan)
Date: May 23 2011 08:26
To: Anastasia Steele
Laters, baby.
P.S.: I work for a living, too.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
I shut the computer down, grinning like an idiot. How can I resist
playful Christian? I am going to be late for work. Well, it is my last
week—Mr. and Mrs. Clayton will probably cut me some slack. I
race into the shower, unable to shake my face-splitting grin. He e-
mailed me. I’m like a small, giddy child. And all the contract angst
fades. As I wash my hair, I try to think of what I could possibly ask
him via e-mail. Surely it’s better to talk these things through.
Suppose someone hacked into his account? I ush at the thought. I
dress quickly, shout a hasty good-bye to Kate, and I’m o to work
my last week at Clayton’s.
JOSÉ PHONES AT ELEVEN.
“Hey, are we doing coee?” He sounds like the old José. José my
friend, not a—what did Christian call him? Suitor. Ugh.
“Sure. I’m at work. Can you make it here for, say, twelve?”
“See you then.”
He hangs up, and I go back to restocking the paintbrushes and
thinking about Christian Grey and his contract.
José is punctual. He comes bounding into the shop like a
gamboling dark-eyed puppy.
“Ana.” He smiles his dazzling toothy all-Hispanic-American smile,
and I can’t be angry with him anymore.
“Hi, José.” I hug him. “I’m starving. I’ll just let Mrs. Clayton
know I’m going for lunch.”
As we stroll to the local coee shop, I slip my arm through José’s.
I’m so grateful for his … normality. Someone I know and
understand.
“Hey, Ana,” he murmurs. “You’ve really forgiven me?”
“José, you know I can never stay mad at you for long.”
He grins.
I CAN’T WAIT TO get home, the lure of e-mailing Christian, and maybe
I can begin my research project. Kate is out somewhere, so I re up
the new laptop and open my e-mail. Sure enough, there’s a message
from Christian sitting in the inbox. I’m practically bouncing out of
my seat with glee.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Working for a Living
Date: May 23 2011 17:24
To: Anastasia Steele
Dear Miss Steele,
I do hope you had a good day at work.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
I hit “reply.”
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Working for Living
Date: May 23 2011 17:48
To: Christian Grey
Sir … I had a very good day at work.
Thank you.
Ana
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Do the Work!
Date: May 23 2011 17:50
To: Anastasia Steele
Miss Steele,
Delighted you had a good day.
While you are e-mailing, you are not researching.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Nuisance
Date: May 23 2011 17:53
To: Christian Grey
Mr. Grey, stop e-mailing me, and I can start my assignment.
I’d like another A.
Ana
I hug myself.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Impatient
Date: May 23 2011 17:55
To: Anastasia Steele
Miss Steele,
Stop e-mailing me—and do your assignment.
I’d like to award another A.
The rst one was so well deserved. ;)
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
Christian Grey just sent me a winking smiley … Oh my. I re up
Google.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Internet Research
Date: May 23 2011 17:59
To: Christian Grey
Mr. Grey,
What would you suggest I put into a search engine?
Ana
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Internet Research
Date: May 23 2011 18:02
To: Anastasia Steele
Miss Steele,
Always start with Wikipedia.
No more e-mails unless you have questions.
Understood?
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Bossy!
Date: May 23 2011 18:04
To: Christian Grey
Yes … Sir.
You are so bossy.
Ana
From: Christian Grey
Subject: In Control
Date: May 23 2011 18:06
To: Anastasia Steele
Anastasia, you have no idea.
Well, maybe an inkling now.
Do the work.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
I type “Submissive” into Wikipedia.
Half an hour later, I feel slightly queasy and frankly shocked to
my core. Do I really want this stu in my head? Jeez—is this what
he gets up to in the Red Room of Pain? I sit staring at the screen,
and part of me, a very moist and integral part of me that I’ve only
become acquainted with very recently, is seriously turned on. Oh
my, some of this stu is HOT. But is it for me? Holy shit … could I
do this? I need space. I need to think.
CHAPTER TWELVE
For the rst time in my life, I voluntarily go for a run. I nd my
nasty, never-used sneakers, some sweatpants, and a T-shirt. I put
my hair in pigtails, blushing at the memories they bring back, and I
plug in my iPod. I can’t sit in front of that marvel of technology and
look at or read any more disturbing material. I need to expend some
of this excess, enervating energy. Quite frankly, I have a mind to
run to the Heathman Hotel and just demand sex from the control
freak. But that’s ve miles, and I don’t think I’ll be able to run one
mile, let alone ve, and, of course, he might turn me down, which
would be beyond humiliating.
Kate is walking from her car as I head out of the door. She nearly
drops her shopping bags when she sees me. Ana Steele in sneakers. I
wave and don’t stop for the inquisition. I need some serious alone
time. Snow Patrol blaring in my ears, I set o into the opal and
aquamarine dusk.
I pace through the park. What am I going to do? I want him, but
on his terms? I just don’t know. Perhaps I should negotiate what I
want. Go through that ridiculous contract line by line and say what
is acceptable and what isn’t. My research has told me that legally
it’s unenforceable. He must know that. I gure that it just sets up
the parameters of the relationship. It illustrates what I can expect
from him and what he expects from me—my total submission. Am I
prepared to give him that? Am I even capable?
I am plagued by one question—why is he like this? Is it because
he was seduced at such a young age? I just don’t know. He’s still
such a mystery.
I stop beside a large spruce and put my hands on my knees,
breathing hard, dragging precious air into my lungs. Oh, this feels
good, cathartic. I feel my resolve hardening. Yes. I need to tell him
what’s okay and what isn’t. I need to e-mail him my thoughts, and
then we can discuss these on Wednesday. I take a deep, cleansing
breath, then jog back to the apartment.
Kate has been shopping, as only she can, for clothes for her
vacation to Barbados. Mainly bikinis and matching sarongs. She will
look fabulous in all of them, yet she still makes me sit and comment
while she tries on each and every one. There are only so many ways
one can say, “You look fabulous, Kate.” She has a curvy, slim gure
to die for. She doesn’t do it on purpose, I know, but I haul my
sorry, perspiration-clad ass into my room on the pretext of packing
more boxes. Could I feel any more inadequate? Taking the awesome
free technology with me, I set the laptop up on my desk. I e-mail
Christian.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Shocked of WSUV
Date: May 23 2011 20:33
To: Christian Grey
Okay, I’ve seen enough.
It was nice knowing you.
Ana
I press “send,” hugging myself, laughing at my little joke. Will he
nd it as funny? Oh, shit—probably not. Christian Grey is not famed
for his sense of humor. But I know it exists, I’ve experienced it.
Perhaps I’ve gone too far. I wait for his answer.
I wait … and wait. I glance at my alarm clock. Ten minutes have
passed.
To distract myself from the anxiety that blooms in my belly, I
start doing what I told Kate I would be doing—packing up my
room. I begin by cramming my books into a crate. By nine, I’ve
heard nothing. Perhaps he’s out. I pout petulantly as I plug my iPod
earbuds in, listen to Snow Patrol, and sit down at my small desk to
reread the contract and make my comments.
I don’t know why I glance up, maybe I catch a slight movement
from the corner of my eye, I don’t know, but when I do, he’s
standing in the doorway of my bedroom, watching me intently.
He’s wearing his gray annel pants and a white linen shirt, gently
twirling his car keys. I pull my earbuds out and freeze. Fuck!
“Good evening, Anastasia.” His voice is cool, his expression
completely guarded and unreadable. The capacity to speak deserts
me. Damn Kate for letting him in here with no warning. Vaguely,
I’m aware that I’m still in my sweats, unshowered, yucky, and he’s
just gloriously yummy, his pants doing that hanging from the hips
thing, and what’s more, he’s here in my bedroom.
“I felt that your e-mail warranted a reply in person,” he explains
dryly.
I open my mouth and then close it again, twice. The joke is on
me. Never in this or any alternative universe did I expect him to
drop everything and turn up here.
“May I sit?” he asks, his eyes now dancing with humor—thank
heavens—maybe he’ll see the funny side?
I nod. The power of speech remains elusive. Christian Grey is
sitting on my bed.
“I wondered what your bedroom would look like,” he says.
I glance around it, plotting an escape route. No—there’s still only
the door or window. My room is functional but cozy—sparse white
wicker furniture and a white iron double bed with a patchwork
quilt, made by my mother when she was in her folksy Americana
quilting phase. It’s all pale blue and cream.
“It’s very serene and peaceful in here,” he murmurs. Not at the
moment … not with you here.
Finally, my medulla oblongata recalls its purpose. I breathe.
“How …?”
He smiles at me. “I’m still at the Heathman.”
I know that.
“Would you like a drink?” Politeness wins out over everything
else I’d like to say.
“No thank you, Anastasia.” He smiles a dazzling, crooked smile,
his head cocked slightly to one side.
Well, I might need one.
“So, it was nice knowing me?”
Holy cow, is he oended? I stare down at my ngers. How am I
going to dig myself out of this? If I tell him it was a joke, I don’t
think he’ll be impressed.
“I thought you’d reply by e-mail.” My voice is small, pathetic.
“Are you biting your lower lip deliberately?” he asks darkly.
I blink up at him, gasping, freeing my lip.
“I wasn’t aware I was biting my lip,” I murmur softly.
My heart is pounding. I can feel that pull, that delicious
electricity between us charging, lling the space with static. He’s
sitting so close to me, his eyes dark smoky gray, his elbows resting
on his knees, his legs apart. Leaning forward, he slowly undoes one
of my pigtails, his ngers freeing my hair. My breathing is shallow,
and I cannot move. I watch hypnotized as his hand moves to my
second pigtail, and pulling the hair tie, he loosens the braid with his
long, skilled ngers.
“So you decided on some exercise,” he breathes, his voice soft and
melodious. His ngers gently tuck my hair behind my ear. “Why,
Anastasia?” His ngers circle my ear, and very softly, rhythmically,
he tugs my earlobe. It’s so sexual.
“I needed time to think,” I whisper. I’m all deer/headlights,
moth/ame, bird/snake … and he knows exactly what he’s doing to
me.
“Think about what, Anastasia?”
“You.”
“And you decided that it was nice knowing me? Do you mean
knowing me in the biblical sense?”
Oh, shit. I ush.
“I didn’t think you were familiar with the Bible.”
“I went to Sunday school, Anastasia. It taught me a great deal.”
“I don’t remember reading about nipple clamps in the Bible.
Perhaps you were taught from a modern translation.”
His lips arch with a trace of a smile, and my eyes are drawn to his
mouth.
“Well, I thought I should come and remind you how nice it was
knowing me.”
Holy crap. I stare at him openmouthed, and his ngers move
from my ear to my chin.
“What do you say to that, Miss Steele?”
His eyes blaze at me, his challenge intrinsic in his stare. His lips
are parted—he’s waiting, coiled to strike. Desire—acute, liquid, and
smoldering—combusts deep in my belly. I take preemptive action
and launch myself at him. Somehow he moves, I have no idea how,
and in the blink of an eye I’m on the bed, pinned beneath him, my
arms stretched out and held above my head, his free hand clutching
my face, and his mouth nding mine.
His tongue is in my mouth, claiming and possessing me, and I
revel in the force he uses. I feel him against the length of my body.
He wants me, and this does strange, delicious things to my insides.
Not Kate in her little bikinis, not one of the fteen, not evil Mrs.
Robinson. Me. This beautiful man wants me. My inner goddess
glows so bright she could light up Portland. He stops kissing me,
and opening my eyes, I nd him gazing down at me.
“Trust me?” he breathes.
I nod, wide-eyed, my heart bouncing o my ribs, my blood
thundering through my body.
He reaches down, and from his pants pocket, he takes out his
silver-gray silk tie … that silver-gray woven tie that leaves small
impressions of its weave on my skin. He moves so quickly, sitting
astride me as he fastens my wrists together, but this time, he ties
the other end of the tie to one of the spokes of my white iron
headboard. He pulls at my binding, checking it’s secure. I’m not
going anywhere. I’m tied, literally, to my bed, and I’m so aroused.
He slides o me and stands beside the bed, staring down at me,
his eyes dark with want. His look is triumphant mixed with relief.
“That’s better,” he murmurs, and smiles a wicked, knowing smile.
He bends and starts undoing one of my sneakers. Oh no … no … my
feet. No. I’ve just been running.
“No,” I protest, trying to kick him o.
He stops.
“If you struggle, I’ll tie your feet, too. If you make a noise,
Anastasia, I will gag you. Keep quiet. Katherine is probably outside
listening right now.”
Gag me! Kate! I shut up.
He removes my shoes and my socks eciently and slowly peels
o my sweatpants. Oh—what panties am I wearing? He lifts me and
pulls the quilt and my duvet out from underneath me and places me
back down, this time on the sheets.
“Now then.” He licks his bottom lip slowly. “You’re biting that
lip, Anastasia. You know the eect it has on me.” He places his long
index nger over my mouth, a warning.
Oh my. I can barely contain myself, lying helpless, watching him
move gracefully around my room. It’s a heady aphrodisiac. Slowly,
almost leisurely, he removes his shoes and socks, undoes his pants,
and lifts his shirt o over his head.
“I think you’ve seen too much.” He chuckles slyly. He sits astride
me again, pulls my T-shirt up, and I think he’s going to take it o
me, but he rolls it up to my neck and then pulls it up over my head
so he can see my mouth and my nose, but it covers my eyes. And
because it’s folded over, I cannot see a thing through it.
“Mmm,” he breathes appreciatively. “This just gets better and
better. I’m going to get a drink.”
Leaning down, he kisses me, his lips tender against mine, and his
weight shifts o the bed. I hear the quiet creak of the bedroom
door. Get a drink. Where? Here? Portland? Seattle? I strain to hear
him. I can make out low rumblings, and I know he’s talking to Kate
—oh no … he’s practically naked. What’s she going to say? I hear a
faint popping sound. What’s that? He returns, the door creaking
once more, his feet padding across the bedroom oor, and ice
tinkling against glass as it swirls in liquid. What kind of drink? He
shuts the door and shues around removing his pants. They drop to
the oor, and I know he’s naked. He sits astride me again.
“Are you thirsty, Anastasia?” he asks, his voice teasing
“Yes,” I breathe, because my mouth is suddenly parched. I hear
the ice clink against the glass, and he leans down and kisses me,
pouring a delicious, crisp liquid into my mouth as he does. It’s
white wine. It’s so unexpected, so hot, though it’s chilled and
Christian’s lips are cool.
“More?” he whispers.
I nod. It tastes all the more divine because it’s been in his mouth.
He leans down, and I drink another mouthful from his lips … oh my.
“Let’s not go too far; we know your capacity for alcohol is
limited, Anastasia.”
I can’t help it. I grin, and he leans down to deliver another
delicious mouthful. He shifts so he’s lying beside me, his erection at
my hip. Oh, I want him inside me.
“Is this nice?” he asks, but I hear the edge in his voice.
I tense. He moves the glass again and leans down, kissing me and
depositing a small shard of ice in my mouth with a little wine. He
slowly and leisurely trails chilled kisses down the center of my
body, from the base of my throat to between my breasts, down my
torso to my belly. He pops a fragment of ice in my navel in a pool
of cool, cold wine. It burns all the way down to the depths of my
belly. Wow.
“Now you have to keep still,” he whispers. “If you move,
Anastasia, you’ll get wine all over the bed.”
My hips ex automatically.
“Oh no. If you spill the wine, I will punish you, Miss Steele.”
I groan and desperately ght the urge to tilt my hips, pulling on
my restraint. Oh no … please.
With one nger, he pulls down my bra cups in turn, my breasts
pushed up, exposed and vulnerable. Leaning down, he kisses and
tugs at each of my nipples in turn with cool, cold lips. I ght my
body as it tries to arch in response.
“How nice is this?” he breathes, blowing on one of my nipples.
I hear another clink of ice, and then I can feel it around my right
nipple as he tugs the left one with his lips. I moan, struggling not to
move. It’s sweet, agonizing torture.
“If you spill the wine, I won’t let you come.”
“Oh … please … Christian … Sir … Please.” He’s driving me
insane. I hear him smile.
The ice in my navel is melting. I am beyond warm—warm and
chilled and wanting. Wanting him, inside me. Now.
His cool ngers trail languidly across my belly. My skin is
oversensitive, my hips ex automatically, and the now-warmer
liquid from my navel seeps over my belly. Christian moves quickly,
lapping it up with his tongue, kissing, biting me softly, sucking.
“Oh dear, Anastasia, you moved. What am I going to do to you?”
I’m panting loudly. All I can concentrate on is his voice and his
touch. Nothing else is real. Nothing else matters, nothing else
registers on my radar. His ngers slip into my panties, and I’m
rewarded with his unguarded sharp intake of air.
“Oh, baby,” he murmurs, and he pushes two ngers inside me.
I gasp.
“Ready for me so soon,” he says. He moves his ngers
tantalizingly slowly, in, out, and I push against him, tilting my hips
up.
“You are a greedy girl,” he scolds softly, and his thumb circles my
clitoris and then presses down.
I groan loudly as my body bucks beneath his expert ngers. He
reaches up and pushes the T-shirt over my head so I can see him. I
blink in the soft light of my sidelight. I long to touch him.
“I want to touch you,” I breathe.
“I know,” he murmurs. He leans down and kisses me, his ngers
still moving rhythmically inside me, his thumb circling and
pressing. His other hand scoops my hair o my head and holds my
head in place. His tongue mirrors the actions of his ngers, claiming
me. My legs begin to stien as I push against his hand. He gentles
his hand, so I’m brought back from the brink. He does this again
and again. It’s so frustrating … Oh, please, Christian, I scream in my
head.
“This is your punishment, so close and yet so far. Is this nice?” he
breathes in my ear. I whimper, exhausted, pulling against my
restraint. I’m helpless, lost in an erotic torment.
“Please,” I beg, and he nally takes pity on me.
“How shall I fuck you, Anastasia?”
Oh … my body starts to quiver. He stills again.
“Please.”
“What do you want, Anastasia?”
“You … now,” I cry.
“Shall I fuck you this way, or this way, or this way? There’s an
endless choice,” he breathes against my lips. He withdraws his hand
and reaches over to the bedside table for a foil packet. He kneels up
between my legs, and very slowly he pulls my panties o, staring
down at me, his eyes gleaming. He puts on the condom. I watch
fascinated, mesmerized.
“How nice is this?” he says as he strokes himself.
“I meant it as a joke,” I whimper. Please fuck me, Christian.
He raises his eyebrows as his hand moves up and down his
impressive length.
“A joke?” His voice is menacingly soft.
“Yes. Please, Christian,” I beseech him.
“Are you laughing now?”
“No,” I mewl.
I’m a ball of sexual tense need. He stares down at me for a
moment, measuring my need, then he grabs me suddenly and ips
me over. It takes me by surprise, and because my hands are tied, I
have to support myself on my elbows. He pushes both my knees up
the bed so my behind is in the air, and he slaps me hard. Before I
can react, he plunges inside me. I cry out—from the slap and from
his sudden assault, and I come instantly again and again, falling
apart beneath him as he continues to slam deliciously into me. He
doesn’t stop. I’m spent. I can’t take this … and he pounds on and on
and on … then I’m building again … surely not … no …
“Come on, Anastasia, again,” he growls through clenched teeth,
and unbelievably, my body responds, convulsing around him as I
climax anew, calling out his name. I shatter again into tiny
fragments, and Christian stills, nally letting go, silently nding his
release. He collapses on top of me, breathing hard.
“How nice was that?” he asks through his gritted teeth.
Oh my.
I lie panting and spent on the bed, eyes closed as he slowly pulls
out of me. He rises immediately and dresses. When he’s fully
clothed, he climbs back on the bed and gently undoes my binding
and pulls my T-shirt o. I ex my ngers and rub my wrists, smiling
at the woven pattern imprinted on my wrists from the tie. I readjust
my bra as he pulls the duvet and quilt over me. I stare up at him
completely dazed, and he smirks down at me.
“That was really nice,” I whisper, smiling coyly.
“There’s that word again.”
“You don’t like that word?”
“No. It doesn’t do it for me at all.”
“Oh—I don’t know … it seems to have a very benecial eect on
you.”
“I’m a benecial eect, now am I? Could you wound my ego any
further, Miss Steele?”
“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with your ego.” But even as
I say it, I don’t feel the conviction of my words—something elusive
crosses my mind, a eeting thought, but it’s lost before I can grasp
it.
“You think?” His voice is soft. He’s lying beside me, fully clothed,
his head propped up on his elbow, and I am only wearing my bra.
“Why don’t you like to be touched?”
“I just don’t.” He reaches over and plants a soft kiss on my
forehead. “So, that e-mail was your idea of a joke.”
I smile apologetically at him and shrug.
“I see. So you are still considering my proposition?”
“Your indecent proposal … yes, I am. I have issues though.”
He grins down at me as if relieved.
“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
“I was going to e-mail them to you, but you kind of interrupted
me.”
“Coitus interruptus.”
“See, I knew you had a sense of humor somewhere in there.” I
smile.
“Only certain things are funny, Anastasia. I thought you were
saying no, no discussion at all.” His voice drops.
“I don’t know yet. I haven’t made up my mind. Will you collar
me?”
He raises his eyebrows. “You have been doing your research. I
don’t know, Anastasia. I’ve never collared anyone.”
Oh … should I be surprised by this? I know so little about the
scene … I don’t know.
“Were you collared?” I whisper.
“Yes.”
“By Mrs. Robinson?”
“Mrs. Robinson!” He laughs loudly, freely, and he looks so young
and carefree, his head thrown back, his laughter infectious.
I grin back at him.
“I’ll tell her you said that; she’ll love it.”
“You still talk to her regularly?” I can’t keep the shock out of my
voice.
“Yes.” He’s serious now.
Oh … and part of me is suddenly insanely jealous—I’m disturbed
by the depth of my feeling.
“I see.” My voice is tight. “So you have someone you can discuss
your alternative lifestyle with, but I’m not allowed.”
He frowns.
“I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it like that. Mrs. Robinson
was part of that lifestyle. I told you, she’s a good friend now. If
you’d like, I can introduce you to one of my former subs. You could
talk to her.”
What? Is he deliberately trying to upset me?
“Is this your idea of a joke?
“No, Anastasia.” He’s bemused as he shakes his head.
“No—I’ll do this on my own, thank you very much,” I snap at
him, pulling the duvet up to my chin.
He stares at me, at sea, surprised.
“Anastasia, I …” He’s lost for words. A rst, I think. “I didn’t
mean to oend you.”
“I’m not oended. I’m appalled.”
“Appalled?”
“I don’t want to talk to one of your ex-girlfriends … slave …
sub … whatever you call them.”
“Anastasia Steele—are you jealous?”
I ush, crimson.
“Are you staying?”
“I have a breakfast meeting tomorrow at the Heathman. Besides,
I told you, I don’t sleep with girlfriends, slaves, subs, or anyone.
Friday and Saturday were exceptions. It won’t happen again.” I can
hear the resolve behind his soft, husky voice.
I purse my lips at him.
“Well, I’m tired now.”
“Are you kicking me out?” He raises his eyebrows, amused and a
little dismayed.
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s another rst.” He eyes me speculatively. “So nothing
you want to discuss now? About the contract.”
“No.” I reply petulantly.
“God, I’d like to give you a good hiding. You’d feel a lot better,
and so would I.”
“You can’t say things like that … I haven’t signed anything yet.”
“A man can dream, Anastasia.” He leans over me and grasps my
chin. “Wednesday?” he murmurs, and he kisses me lightly on my
lips.
“Wednesday,” I agree. “I’ll see you out. If you give me a minute.”
I sit up and grab my T-shirt, pushing him out of the way.
Reluctantly, he gets up o the bed.
“Please pass me my sweatpants.”
He collects them from the oor and hands them to me.
“Yes, ma’am.” He’s trying unsuccessfully to hide his smile.
I narrow my eyes at him as I slip the pants on. My hair is a mess,
and I know I’ll have to face the Katherine Kavanagh Inquisition
after he’s gone. Grabbing a hair tie, I walk to my bedroom door,
opening it to check for Kate. She is not in the living room. I think I
can hear her on the phone in her room. Christian follows me out.
During the short walk from bedroom to front door, my thoughts
and feelings ebb and ow, transforming. I’m no longer angry with
him, I feel suddenly unbearably shy. I don’t want him to go. For the
rst time, I’m wishing he was normal—wanting a normal
relationship that doesn’t need a ten-page agreement, a ogger, and
carabiners in his playroom ceiling.
I open the door for him and stare down at my hands. This is the
rst time I have ever had sex in my home, and as sex goes, I think it
was pretty damn ne. But now I feel like a receptacle—an empty
vessel to be lled at his whim. My subconscious shakes her head.
You wanted to run to the Heathman for sex—you had it express
delivered. She crosses her arms and taps her foot with a what-are-
you-complaining-about look on her face. Christian stops in the
doorway and clasps my chin, forcing my eyes to meet his. His brow
creases.
“You okay?” he asks tenderly as his thumb lightly caresses my
bottom lip.
“Yes,” I reply, though in all honesty I’m just not sure. I feel a
paradigm shift. I know that if I do this thing with him, I will get
hurt. He’s not capable, interested, or willing to oer me any
more … and I want more. Much more. The surge of jealousy I felt
only moments ago tells me that I have deeper feelings for him than
I have admitted to myself.
“Wednesday,” he conrms, and he leans forward and kisses me
softly. Something changes while he’s kissing me; his lips grow more
urgent against mine, his hand moves up from my chin and he’s
holding the side of my head, his other hand on the other side. His
breathing accelerates. He deepens the kiss, leaning into me. I put
my hands on his arms. I want to run them through his hair, but I
resist, knowing that he won’t like it. He leans his forehead against
mine, his eyes closed, his voice strained.
“Anastasia,” he whispers. “What are you doing to me?”
“I could say the same to you,” I whisper back.
Taking a deep breath, he kisses my forehead and leaves. He
strolls purposefully down the path toward his car as he runs his
hand through his hair. Glancing up as he opens his car door, he
smiles his breathtaking smile. My answering smile is weak,
completely dazzled by him, and I’m reminded once more of Icarus
soaring too close to the sun. I close the front door as he climbs into
his sports car. I have an overwhelming urge to cry; a sad and lonely
melancholy grips and tightens around my heart. Dashing back to my
bedroom, I close the door and lean against it, trying to rationalize
my feelings. I can’t. Sliding to the oor, I put my head in my hands
as my tears begin to ow.
Kate knocks gently.
“Ana?” she whispers. I open the door. She takes one look at me
and throws her arms around me.
“What’s wrong? What did that creepy good-looking bastard do?”
“Oh, Kate, nothing I didn’t want him to.”
She pulls me to my bed and we sit.
“You have dreadful sex hair.”
In spite of my poignant sadness, I laugh.
“It was good sex, not dreadful at all.”
Kate smiles.
“That’s better. Why are you crying? You never cry.” She retrieves
my brush from the side table and, sitting behind me, very slowly
starts brushing out the knots.
“I just don’t think our relationship is going to go anywhere.” I
stare down at my ngers.
“I thought you said you were going to see him on Wednesday?”
“I am. That was our original plan.”
“So, why did he turn up here today?”
“I sent him an e-mail.”
“Asking him to drop by?”
“No, saying I didn’t want to see him anymore.”
“And he turns up? Ana, that’s genius.”
“Actually, it was a joke.”
“Oh. Now I’m really confused.”
Patiently, I explain the essence of my e-mail without giving
anything away.
“So you thought he’d reply by e-mail.”
“Yes.”
“But instead he turns up here.”
“Yes.”
“I’d say he’s completely smitten with you.”
I frown. Christian smitten with me? Hardly. He’s just looking for a
new toy—a convenient new toy that he can bed and do unspeakable
things to. My heart tightens painfully. This is the reality.
“He came here to fuck me, that’s all.”
“Who said romance was dead?” she whispers, horried. I’ve
shocked Kate. I didn’t think that was possible. I shrug
apologetically.
“He uses sex as a weapon.”
“Fuck you into submission?” She shakes her head disapprovingly.
I blink rapidly at her, and I feel the blush as it spreads across my
face. Oh … spot on, Katherine Kavanagh, Pulitzer Prize–winning
journalist.
“Ana, I don’t understand, you just let him make love to you?”
“No, Kate, we don’t make love—we fuck—Christian’s
terminology. He doesn’t do the love thing.”
“I knew there was something weird about him. He has
commitment issues.”
I nod, as if in agreement. Inwardly, I pine. Oh, Kate … I wish I
could tell you everything, everything about this strange, sad, kinky
guy, and you could tell me to forget about him. Stop me from being
a fool.
“I guess it’s all a little overwhelming,” I murmur. That’s the
understatement of the year.
Because I don’t want to talk about Christian anymore, I ask her
about Elliot. Katherine’s whole demeanor changes at the mere
mention of his name. She lights up from within, beaming at me.
“He’s coming over early Saturday to help load up.” She hugs the
hairbrush—boy, has she got it bad—and I feel a familiar faint stab
of envy. Kate has found herself a normal man, and she looks so
happy.
I turn and hug her.
“Oh, I meant to say. Your dad called while you were … er,
occupied. Apparently Bob has sustained some injury, so your mom
and he can’t make graduation. But your dad will be here Thursday.
He wants you to call.”
“Oh … my mom never called me. Is Bob okay?”
“Yes. Call her in the morning. It’s late now.”
“Thanks, Kate. I’m okay now. I’ll call Ray in the morning, too. I
think I’ll just turn in.”
She smiles, but her eyes crinkle at the corners with concern.
After she’s gone, I sit and read the contract again, making more
notes as I go. When I’ve nished, I re up the laptop, ready to
respond.
There’s an e-mail from Christian in my inbox.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: This Evening
Date: May 23 2011 23:16
To: Anastasia Steele
Miss Steele,
I look forward to receiving your notes on the contract.
Until then, sleep well, baby.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Issues
Date: May 24 2011 00:02
To: Christian Grey
Dear Mr. Grey,
Here is my list of issues. I look forward to discussing them more fully at dinner on
Wednesday.
The numbers refer to clauses:
2: Not sure why this is solely for MY benet—i.e., to explore MY sensuality and limits.
I’m sure I wouldn’t need a ten-page contract to do that! Surely this is for YOUR benet.
4: As you are aware, you are my only sexual partner. I don’t take drugs, and I’ve not
had any blood transfusions. I’m probably safe. What about you?
8: I can terminate at any time if I don’t think you’re sticking to the agreed limits. Okay
—I like this.
9: Obey you in all things? Accept without hesitation your discipline? We need to talk
about this.
11: One-month trial period. Not three.
12: I cannot commit every weekend. I do have a life, or will have. Perhaps three out of
four?
15.2: Using my body as you see t sexually or otherwise—please dene “or otherwise.”
15.5: This whole discipline clause. I’m not sure I want to be whipped, ogged, or
corporally punished. I am sure this would be in breach of clauses 2–5. And also “for
any other reason.” That’s just mean—and you told me you weren’t a sadist.
15.10: Like loaning me out to someone else would ever be an option. But I’m glad it’s
here in black and white.
15.14: The Rules. More on those later.
15.19: Touching myself without your permission. What’s the problem with this? You
know I don’t do it anyway.
15.21: Discipline—please see clause 15.5 above.
15.22: I can’t look into your eyes? Why?
15.24: Why can’t I touch you?
Rules:
Sleep—I’ll agree to six hours.
Food—I am not eating food from a prescribed list. The food list goes or I do—deal
breaker.
Clothes—as long as I only have to wear your clothes when I’m with you … okay.
Exercise—We agreed on three hours, this still says four.
Soft Limits:
Can we go through all of these? No sting of any kind. What is suspension? Genital
clamps—you have got to be kidding me.
Can you please let me know the arrangements for Wednesday? I am working until ve
p.m. that day.
Good night.
Ana
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Issues
Date: May 24 2011 00:07
To: Anastasia Steele
Miss Steele,
That’s a long list. Why are you still up?
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Burning the Midnight Oil
Date: May 24 2011 00:10
To: Christian Grey
Sir,
If you recall, I was going through this list when I was distracted and bedded by a
passing control freak.
Good night.
Ana
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Stop Burning the Midnight Oil
Date: May 24 2011 00:12
To: Anastasia Steele
GO TO BED, ANASTASIA.
Christian Grey
CEO & Control Freak, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
Oh … shouty capitals! I switch o. How can he intimidate me when
he’s six miles away? I shake my head. My heart still heavy, I climb
into bed and fall instantly into a deep but troubled sleep.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The following day, I call my mom after I get home from work. It’s
been a relatively peaceful day at Clayton’s, allowing me far too
much time to think. I’m restless, nervous about my showdown with
Mr. Control Freak tomorrow, and at the back of my mind, I’m
worried that perhaps I’ve been too negative in my response to the
contract. Perhaps he’ll call the whole thing o.
My mom is oozing contrition, desperately sorry not to make my
graduation. Bob has twisted some ligament, which means he’s
hobbling all over the place. Honestly, he’s as accident-prone as I
am. He’s expected to make a full recovery, but it means he’s resting
up, and my mother has to wait on him hand and sore foot.
“Ana, honey, I’m so sorry,” my mom whines into the phone.
“Mom, it’s ne. Ray will be there.”
“Ana, you sound distracted—are you okay, baby?”
“Yes, Mom,” Oh, if only you knew. There’s an obscenely rich guy
I’ve met and he wants some kind of strange kinky sexual
relationship, in which I don’t get a say in things.
“Have you met someone?”
“No, Mom.” I am so not going there right now.
“Well, darling, I’ll be thinking of you on Thursday. I love
you … you know that, honey?”
I close my eyes. Her precious words give me a warm glow inside.
“Love you, too, Mom. Say hi to Bob, and I hope he gets better
fast.”
“Will do, honey. Bye.”
“Bye.”
I have strayed into my bedroom with the phone. Idly, I switch the
mean machine on and re up the e-mail program. There’s an e-mail
from Christian from late last night or very early this morning,
depending on your point of view. My heart rate spikes instantly,
and I hear the blood pumping in my ears. Holy crap … perhaps he’s
said no—that’s it—maybe he’s canceling dinner. The thought is so
painful. I dismiss it quickly and open the e-mail.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Your Issues
Date: May 24 2011 01:27
To: Anastasia Steele
Dear Miss Steele,
Following my more thorough examination of your issues, may I bring to your
attention the denition of submissive.
submissive [suhb-mis-iv]—adjective
1. inclined or ready to submit; unresistingly or humbly obedient: submissive servants.
2. marked by or indicating submission: a submissive reply.
Origin: 1580–90; submiss + -ive
Synonyms: 1. tractable, compliant, pliant, amenable. 2. passive, resigned, patient,
docile, tame, subdued. Antonyms: 1. rebellious, disobedient.
Please bear this in mind for our meeting on Wednesday.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
My initial feeling is one of relief. He’s willing to discuss my
issues at least, and he still wants to meet tomorrow. After some
thought, I reply.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: My Issues … What about Your Issues?
Date: May 24 2011 18:29
To: Christian Grey
Sir,
Please note the date of origin: 1580–90. I would respectfully remind Sir that the year is
2011. We have come a long way since then.
May I oer a denition for you to consider for our meeting:
compromise [kom-pruh-mahyz]—noun
1. a settlement of dierences by mutual concessions; an agreement reached by
adjustment of conicting or opposing claims, principles, etc., by reciprocal
modication of demands. 2. the result of such a settlement. 3. something intermediate
between dierent things: The split-level is a compromise between a ranch house and a
multistoried house. 4. an endangering, esp. of reputation; exposure to danger, suspicion,
etc.: a compromise of one’s integrity.
Ana
From: Christian Grey
Subject: What about My Issues?
Date: May 24 2011 18:32
To: Anastasia Steele
Good point, well made, as ever, Miss Steele. I will collect you from your apartment at
7:00 tomorrow.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: 2011—Women Can Drive
Date: May 24 2011 18:40
To: Christian Grey
Sir,
I have a car. I can drive.
I would prefer to meet you somewhere.
Where shall I meet you?
At your hotel at 7:00?
Ana
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Stubborn Young Women
Date: May 24 2011 18:43
To: Anastasia Steele
Dear Miss Steele,
I refer to my e-mail dated May 24, 2011, sent at 1:27 and the denition contained
therein.
Do you ever think you’ll be able to do what you’re told?
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Intractable Men
Date: May 24 2011 18:49
To: Christian Grey
Mr. Grey,
I would like to drive.
Please.
Ana
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Exasperated Men
Date: May 24 2011 18:52
To: Anastasia Steele
Fine.
My hotel at 7:00.
I’ll meet you in the Marble Bar.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
He’s even grumpy by e-mail. Doesn’t he understand that I may
need to make a quick getaway? Not that my Beetle is quick … but
still—I need a means of escape.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Not So Intractable Men
Date: May 24 2011 18:55
To: Christian Grey
Thank you.
Ana x
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Exasperating Women
Date: May 24 2011 18:59
To: Anastasia Steele
You’re welcome.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
I call Ray, who is just about to watch the Sounders play some
soccer team from Salt Lake City, so our conversation is mercifully
brief. He’s driving down on Thursday for graduation. He wants to
take me out afterward for a meal. My heart swells talking to Ray,
and a huge lump forms in my throat. He has been my constant
through all Mom’s romantic ups and downs. We have a special bond
that I treasure. Even though he’s my stepdad, he’s always treated
me as his own, and I can’t wait to see him. It’s been too long. His
quiet fortitude is what I need now, what I miss. Maybe I can
channel my inner Ray for my meeting tomorrow.
Kate and I concentrate on packing, sharing a bottle of cheap red
wine as we do. When I nally go to bed, having almost nished
packing my room, I feel calmer. The physical activity of boxing
everything up has been a welcome distraction, and I’m tired. I want
a good night’s rest. I snuggle into my bed and am soon asleep.
PAUL IS BACK FROM Princeton before he sets o for New York to start
an internship with a nancing company. He follows me around the
store all day asking me for a date. It’s annoying.
“Paul, for the hundredth time, I have a date this evening.”
“No, you don’t, you’re just saying that to avoid me. You’re
always avoiding me.”
Yes … you’d think you’d take the hint.
“Paul, I never thought it was a good idea to date the boss’s
brother.”
“You’re nishing here on Friday. You’re not working tomorrow.”
“And I’ll be in Seattle as of Saturday and you’ll be in New York
soon. We couldn’t get much farther apart if we tried. Besides, I do
have a date this evening.”
“With José?”
“No.”
“Who then?”
“Paul … oh.” My sigh is exasperated. He’s not going to let this
go. “Christian Grey.” I cannot help the annoyance in my voice. But
it does the trick. Paul’s mouth falls open, and he gapes at me, struck
dumb. Humph—even his name renders people speechless.
“You have a date with Christian Grey?” he says nally, once he’s
over the shock. Disbelief is evident in his voice.
“Yes.”
“I see.” Paul looks positively crestfallen, stunned even, and a very
small part of me resents that he should nd this a surprise. My inner
goddess does, too. She makes a very vulgar and unattractive gesture
at him with her ngers.
After that, he ignores me, and at ve I am out the door, pronto.
Kate has lent me two dresses and two pairs of shoes for tonight
and for graduation tomorrow. I wish I could feel more enthused
about clothes and make an extra eort, but clothes are just not my
thing. What is your thing, Anastasia? Christian’s softly spoken
question haunts me. Shaking my head and endeavoring to quell my
nerves, I decide on the plum-colored sheath dress for this evening.
It’s demure and vaguely businesslike—after all, I am negotiating a
contract.
I shower, shave my legs and underarms, wash my hair, and then
spend a good half hour drying it so that it falls in soft waves to my
breasts and down my back. I slip a comb in to keep one side o my
face and apply mascara and some lip gloss. I rarely wear makeup—
it intimidates me. None of my literary heroines had to deal with
makeup—maybe I’d know more about it if they had. I slip on the
plum-colored stilettos that match the dress, and I’m ready by six
thirty.
“Well?” I ask Kate.
She grins.
“Boy, you scrub up well, Ana.” She nods with approval. “You look
hot.”
“Hot! I’m aiming for demure and businesslike.”
“That, too, but most of all hot. The dress really suits you and your
coloring. The way it clings.” She smirks.
“Kate!” I scold.
“Just keeping it real, Ana. The whole package—looks good. Keep
the dress. You’ll have him eating out of your hand.”
My mouth presses in a hard line. Oh, you so have that the wrong
way around.
“Wish me luck.”
“You need luck for a date?” Her brow furrows, puzzled.
“Yes, Kate.”
“Well, then—good luck.” She hugs me, and I am out the front
door.
I have to drive in my bare feet—Wanda, my sea-blue Beetle,
wasn’t built to be driven by stiletto-wearers. I pull up outside the
Heathman at six fty-eight precisely and hand my car keys to the
valet for parking. He looks askance at my Beetle, but I ignore him.
Taking a deep breath and mentally girding my loins, I head into the
hotel.
Christian is leaning casually against the bar, drinking a glass of
white wine. He’s dressed in his customary white linen shirt, black
jeans, black tie, and black jacket. His hair is as tousled as ever. I
sigh. I stand for a few seconds in the entrance of the bar, gazing at
him, admiring the view. He glances, nervously I think, toward the
entrance and stills when he sees me. Blinking a couple of times, he
then smiles a slow, lazy, sexy smile that renders me speechless and
all molten inside. Making a supreme eort not to bite my lip, I
move forward, aware that I, Anastasia Steele of Clumsyville, am in
high stilettos. He walks gracefully over to meet me.
“You look stunning,” he murmurs as he leans down to briey kiss
my cheek. “A dress, Miss Steele. I approve.” Taking my arm, he
leads me to a secluded booth and signals for the waiter.
“What would you like to drink?”
My lips quirk up in a quick, sly smile as I sit and slide into the
booth—well, at least he’s asking me.
“I’ll have what you’re having, please.” See! I can play nice and
behave myself. Amused, he orders another glass of Sancerre and
slides in opposite me.
“They have an excellent wine cellar here,” he says. Putting his
elbows on the table, he steeples his ngers in front of his mouth, his
eyes alive with some unreadable emotion. And there it is … that
familiar pull and charge from him, it connects somewhere deep
inside me. I shift uncomfortably under his scrutiny, my heart
palpitating. I must keep my cool.
“Are you nervous?” he asks softly.
“Yes.”
He leans forward.
“Me, too,” he whispers conspiratorially. My eyes shoot up to
meet his. Him? Nervous? Never. I blink, and he smiles his adorable
lopsided smile at me. The waiter arrives with my wine, a small dish
of mixed nuts, and another of olives.
“So, how are we going to do this?” I ask. “Run through my points
one by one?”
“Impatient as ever, Miss Steele.”
“Well, I could ask you what you thought of the weather today.”
He smiles, and his long ngers reach down to collect an olive. He
pops it in his mouth, and my eyes linger on his mouth, that mouth,
that’s been on me … all parts of me. I ush.
“I thought the weather was particularly unexceptional today.” He
smirks.
“Are you smirking at me, Mr. Grey?”
“I am, Miss Steele.”
“You know this contract is legally unenforceable.”
“I am fully aware of that, Miss Steele.”
“Were you going to tell me that at any point?”
He frowns. “You’d think I’d coerce you into something you don’t
want to do, and then pretend that I have a legal hold over you?”
“Well … yes.”
“You don’t think very highly of me, do you?”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“Anastasia, it doesn’t matter if it’s legal or not. It represents an
arrangement that I would like to make with you—what I would like
from you and what you can expect from me. If you don’t like it,
then don’t sign. If you do sign and then decide you don’t like it,
there are enough get-out clauses so you can walk away. Even if it
were legally binding, do you think I’d drag you through the courts
if you did decide to run?”
I take a long sip of my wine. My subconscious taps me hard on
the shoulder. You must keep your wits about you. Don’t drink too
much.
“Relationships like this are built on honesty and trust,” he
continues. “If you don’t trust me—trust me to know how I’m
aecting you, how far I can go with you, how far I can take you—if
you can’t be honest with me, then we really can’t do this.”
Oh my, we’ve cut to the chase quickly. How far he can take me.
Holy shit. What does that mean?
“So it’s quite simple, Anastasia. Do you trust me or not?” His eyes
are burning, fervent.
“Did you have similar discussions with, um … the fteen?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because they were all established submissives. They knew what
they wanted out of a relationship with me and generally what I
expected. With them, it was just a question of ne-tuning the soft
limits, details like that.”
“Is there a store you go to? Submissives ’Я’ Us?”
He laughs. “Not exactly.”
“Then how?”
“Is that what you want to discuss? Or shall we get down to the
nitty-gritty? Your issues, as you say.”
I swallow. Do I trust him? Is that what this all comes down to—
trust? Surely that should be a two-way thing. I remember his snit
when I phoned José.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, distracting me from my thoughts.
Oh no … food.
“No.”
“Have you eaten today?”
I stare at him. Honesty … Holy crap, he’s not going to like my
answer.
“No.” My voice is small.
He narrows his eyes.
“You have to eat, Anastasia. We can eat down here or in my suite.
What would you prefer?”
“I think we should stay in public, on neutral ground.”
He smiles sardonically.
“Do you think that would stop me?” he says softly, a sensual
warning.
My eyes widen, and I swallow again.
“I hope so.”
“Come, I have a private dining room booked. No public.” He
smiles at me enigmatically and climbs out of the booth, holding his
hand out to me.
“Bring your wine,” he murmurs.
Placing my hand in his, I slide out and stand up beside him. He
releases me, and his hand reaches for my elbow. He leads me back
through the bar and up the grand stairs to a mezzanine oor. A
young man in full Heathman livery approaches us.
“Mr. Grey, this way, sir.”
We follow him through a plush seating area to an intimate dining
room. Just one secluded table. The room is small but sumptuous.
Beneath a shimmering chandelier, the table is all starched linen,
crystal glasses, silver cutlery, and white rose bouquet. An old-world,
sophisticated charm pervades the wood-paneled room. The waiter
pulls out my chair, and I sit. He places my napkin in my lap.
Christian sits opposite me. I peek up at him.
“Don’t bite your lip,” he whispers.
I frown. Damn it. I don’t even know that I’m doing it.
“I’ve ordered already. I hope you don’t mind.”
Frankly, I’m relieved. I’m not sure I can make any further
decisions.
“No, that’s ne,” I acquiesce.
“It’s good to know that you can be amenable. Now, where were
we?”
“The nitty-gritty.” I take another large sip of wine. It really is
delicious. Christian Grey does wine well. I remember the last sip of
wine he gave me, in my bed. I blush at the intrusive thought.
“Yes, your issues.” He shes into his inside jacket pocket and
pulls out a piece of paper. My e-mail.
“Clause 2. Agreed. This is for the benet of us both. I shall
redraft.”
I blink at him. Holy shit … we are going to go through each of
these points one at a time. I just don’t feel so brave face-to-face. He
looks so earnest. I steel myself with another sip of my wine.
Christian continues.
“My sexual health. Well, all of my previous partners have had
blood tests, and I have regular tests every six months for all the
health risks you mention. All my recent tests are clear. I have never
taken drugs. In fact, I’m vehemently antidrug. I have a strict no-
tolerance policy with regards to drugs for all my employees, and I
insist on random drug testing.”
Wow … control freakery gone mad. I blink at him, shocked.
“I have never had any blood transfusions. Does that answer your
question?”
I nod, impassive.
“Your next point I mentioned earlier. You can walk away any
time, Anastasia. I won’t stop you. If you go, however—that’s it.
Just so you know.”
“Okay,” I answer softly. If I go, that’s it. The thought is
surprisingly painful.
The waiter arrives with our rst course. How can I possibly eat?
Holy Moses—he’s ordered oysters on a bed of ice.
“I hope you like oysters.” Christian’s voice is soft.
“I’ve never had one.” Ever.
“Really? Well.” He reaches for one. “All you do is tip and
swallow. I think you can manage that.” He gazes at me, and I know
what he’s referring to. I blush scarlet. He grins at me, squirts some
lemon juice onto his oyster, and then tips it into his mouth.
“Hmm, delicious. Tastes of the sea.” He grins at me. “Go on,” he
encourages.
“So, I don’t chew it?”
“No, Anastasia, you don’t.” His eyes are alight with humor. He
looks so young like this.
I bite my lip and his expression changes instantly. He looks
sternly at me. I reach across and pick up my rst-ever oyster.
Okay … here goes nothing. I squirt some lemon juice on it and tip it
up. It slips down my throat, all sea water, salt, the sharp tang of
citrus, and eshiness … ooh. I lick my lips, and he’s watching me
intently, his eyes hooded.
“Well?”
“I’ll have another,” I say dryly.
“Good girl,” he says proudly.
“Did you choose these deliberately? Aren’t they known for their
aphrodisiac qualities?”
“No, they are the rst item on the menu. I don’t need an
aphrodisiac near you. I think you know that, and I think you react
the same way near me,” he says simply. “So where were we?” He
glances at my e-mail as I reach for another oyster.
He reacts the same way. I aect him … wow.
“Obey me in all things. Yes, I want you to do that. I need you to
do that. Think of it as role-play, Anastasia.”
“But I’m worried you’ll hurt me.”
“Hurt you how?”
“Physically.” And emotionally.
“Do you really think I would do that? Go beyond any limit you
can’t take?”
“You’ve said you’ve hurt someone before.”
“Yes, I have. It was a long time ago.”
“How did you hurt her?”
“I suspended her from my playroom ceiling. In fact, that’s one of
your questions. Suspension—that’s what the carabiners are for in
the playroom. Rope play. One of the ropes was tied too tightly.”
I hold my hand up, begging him to stop.
“I don’t need to know any more. So you won’t suspend me then?”
“Not if you really don’t want to. You can make that a hard limit.”
“Okay.”
“So obeying, do you think you can manage that?”
He stares at me, his gaze intense. The seconds tick by.
“I could try,” I whisper.
“Good.” He smiles. “Now term. One month instead of three is no
time at all, especially if you want a weekend away from me each
month. I don’t think I’ll be able to stay away from you for that
length of time. I can barely manage it now.” He pauses.
He can’t stay away from me? What?
“How about one day over one weekend per month you get to
yourself—but I get a midweek night that week?”
“Okay.”
“And please, let’s try it for three months. If it’s not for you, then
you can walk away anytime.”
“Three months?” I’m feeling railroaded. I take another large sip
of wine and treat myself to another oyster. I could learn to like
these.
“The ownership thing, that’s just terminology and goes back to
the principle of obeying. It’s to get you into the right frame of
mind, to understand where I’m coming from. And I want you to
know that as soon as you cross my threshold as my submissive, I
will do what I like to you. You have to accept that and willingly.
That’s why you have to trust me. I will fuck you, any time, any way
I want—anywhere I want. I will discipline you, because you will
screw up. I will train you to please me.
“But I know you’ve not done this before. Initially, we’ll take it
slowly, and I will help you. We’ll build up to various scenarios. I
want you to trust me, but I know I have to earn your trust, and I
will. The ‘or otherwise’—again it’s to help you get into the
mindset; it means anything goes.”
He’s so passionate, mesmerizing. This is obviously his obsession,
the way he is … I can’t take my eyes o him. He really, really
wants this. He stops talking and gazes at me.
“Still with me?” he whispers, his voice rich, warm, and seductive.
He takes a sip of his wine, his penetrating stare holding mine.
The waiter comes to the door, and Christian subtly nods,
permitting the waiter to clear our table.
“Would you like some more wine?”
“I have to drive.”
“Some water then?”
I nod.
“Still or sparkling?”
“Sparkling, please.”
The waiter leaves.
“You’re very quiet,” Christian whispers.
“You’re very verbose.”
He smiles.
“Discipline. There’s a very ne line between pleasure and pain,
Anastasia. They are two sides of the same coin, one not existing
without the other. I can show you how pleasurable pain can be. You
don’t believe me now, but this is what I mean about trust. There
will be pain, but nothing that you can’t handle. Again, it comes
down to trust. Do you trust me, Ana?”
Ana!
“Yes, I do.” I respond spontaneously, not thinking … because it’s
true—I do trust him.
“Well, then,” he looks relieved. “The rest of this stu is just
details.”
“Important details.”
“Okay, let’s talk through those.”
My head is swimming with all his words. I should have brought
Kate’s digital recorder so I can listen to this again later. There is so
much information, so much to process. The waiter re-emerges with
our entrees: black cod, asparagus, and crushed potatoes with a
hollandaise sauce. I have never felt less like food.
“I hope you like sh,” Christian says mildly.
I make a stab at my food and take a long drink of my sparkling
water. I vehemently wish it was wine.
“The rules. Let’s talk about them. The food is a deal breaker?”
“Yes.”
“Can I modify to say that you will eat at least three meals a day?”
“No.” I am so not backing down on this. No one is going to
dictate to me what I eat. How I fuck, yes, but eat … no, no way.
He purses his lips. “I need to know that you’re not hungry.”
I frown. Why? “You’ll have to trust me.”
He gazes at me for a moment, and he relaxes.
“Touché, Miss Steele,” he says quietly. “I concede the food and
the sleep.”
“Why can’t I look at you?”
“That’s a Dom/sub thing. You’ll get used to it.”
Will I?
“Why can’t I touch you?”
“Because you can’t.”
His mouth sets in a mulish line.
“Is it because of Mrs. Robinson?”
He looks quizzically at me. “Why would you think that?” And
immediately he understands. “You think she traumatized me?”
I nod.
“No, Anastasia. She’s not the reason. Besides, Mrs. Robinson
wouldn’t take any of that shit from me.”
Oh … but I have to. I pout.
“So nothing to do with her.”
“No. And I don’t want you touching yourself, either.”
What? Ah yes, the no masturbation clause.
“Out of curiosity … why?”
“Because I want all your pleasure.” His voice is husky but
determined.
Oh … I have no answer for that. On one level it’s up there with “I
want to bite that lip”; on another, it’s so selsh. I frown and take a
bite of cod, trying to assess mentally what concessions I’ve gained.
The food, the sleep. He’s going to take it slow, and we haven’t
discussed soft limits. But I’m not sure I can face that over food.
“I’ve given you a great deal to think about, haven’t I?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to go through the soft limits now, too?”
“Not over dinner.”
He smiles. “Squeamish?”
“Something like that.”
“You’ve not eaten very much.”
“I’ve had enough.”
“Three oysters, four bites of cod, and one asparagus stalk, no
potatoes, no nuts, no olives, and you’ve not eaten all day. You said
I could trust you.”
Jeez. He’s kept an inventory.
“Christian, please, it’s not every day I sit through conversations
like this.”
“I need you t and healthy, Anastasia.”
“I know.”
“And right now, I want to peel you out of that dress.”
I swallow. Peel me out of Kate’s dress. I feel the pull deep in my
belly. Muscles that I’m now more acquainted with clench at his
words. But I can’t have this. His most potent weapon, used against
me again. He’s so good at sex—even I’ve gured this out.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I murmur quietly. “We haven’t
had dessert.”
“You want dessert?” he snorts.
“Yes.”
“You could be dessert,” he murmurs suggestively.
“I’m not sure I’m sweet enough.”
“Anastasia, you’re deliciously sweet. I know.”
“Christian. You use sex as a weapon. It really isn’t fair,” I
whisper, staring down at my hands, and then looking directly at
him. He raises his eyebrows, surprised, and I see he’s considering
my words. He strokes his chin thoughtfully.
“You’re right. I do. In life you use what you know, Anastasia.
Doesn’t change how much I want you. Here. Now.”
How can he seduce me solely with his voice? I’m panting already
—my heated blood rushing through my veins, my nerves tingling.
“I’d like to try something,” he breathes.
I frown. He’s just given me a shitload of ideas to process and now
this.
“If you were my sub, you wouldn’t have to think about this. It
would be easy.” His voice is soft, seductive. “All those decisions—
all the wearying thought processes behind them. The ‘is this the
right thing to do? Should this happen here? Can it happen now?’
You wouldn’t have to worry about any of that detail. That’s what
I’d do as your Dom. And right now, I know you want me,
Anastasia.”
My frown deepens. How can he tell?
“I can tell because …”
Holy shit, he’s answering my unspoken question. Is he psychic as
well?
“… your body gives you away. You’re pressing your thighs
together, you’re ushed, and your breathing has changed.”
Okay, this is too much.
“How do you know about my thighs?” My voice is low,
disbelieving. They’re under the table, for heaven’s sake.
“I felt the tablecloth move, and it’s a calculated guess based on
years of experience. I’m right, aren’t I?”
I ush and stare down at my hands. That’s what I’m hindered by
in this game of seduction. He’s the only one who knows and
understands the rules. I’m just too naïve and inexperienced. My
only sphere of reference is Kate, and she doesn’t take any shit from
men. My other references are all ctional: Elizabeth Bennet would
be outraged, Jane Eyre too frightened, and Tess would succumb,
just as I have.
“I haven’t nished my cod.”
“You’d prefer cold cod to me?”
My head jerks up to glare at him, and his eyes burn molten silver
with compelling need.
“I thought you liked me to clear my plate.”
“Right now, Miss Steele, I couldn’t give a fuck about your food.”
“Christian. You just don’t ght fair.”
“I know. I never have.”
My inner goddess frowns at me. You can do this, she coaxes—
play this sex god at his own game. Can I? Okay. What to do? My
inexperience is an albatross around my neck. Picking up a spear of
asparagus, I gaze at him and bite my lip. Then very slowly put the
tip of my cold asparagus in my mouth and suck it.
Christian’s eyes widen innitesimally, but I notice.
“Anastasia. What are you doing?”
I bite o the tip.
“Eating my asparagus.”
Christian shifts in his seat.
“I think you’re toying with me, Miss Steele.”
I feign innocence. “I’m just nishing my food, Mr. Grey.”
The waiter chooses this moment to knock and, unbidden, enter.
He glances briey at Christian, who frowns at him but then nods, so
the waiter clears our plates. The waiter’s arrival has broken the
spell. And I grasp this precious moment of clarity. I have to go. Our
meeting will only end one way if I stay, and I need some boundaries
after such an intense conversation. As much as my body craves his
touch, my mind is rebelling. I need some distance to think about all
he’s said. I still haven’t made a decision, and his sexual allure and
prowess doesn’t make it any easier.
“Would you like some dessert?” Christian asks, ever the
gentleman, but his eyes still blaze.
“No thank you. I think I should go.” I stare down at my hands.
“Go?” He can’t hide his surprise.
The waiter leaves hastily.
“Yes.” It’s the right decision. If I stay here, in this room with him,
he will fuck me. I stand, purposefully. “We both have the
graduation ceremony tomorrow.”
Christian stands automatically, revealing years of ingrained
civility.
“I don’t want you to go.”
“Please … I have to.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ve given me so much to consider … and I need
some distance.”
“I could make you stay,” he threatens.
“Yes, you could easily, but I don’t want you to.”
He runs his hand through his hair, regarding me carefully.
“You know, when you fell into my oce to interview me, you
were all ‘yes, sir,’ ‘no, sir.’ I thought you were a natural-born
submissive. But quite frankly, Anastasia, I’m not sure you have a
submissive bone in your delectable body.” He moves slowly toward
me as his speaks, his voice tense.
“You may be right,” I breathe.
“I want the chance to explore the possibility that you do,” he
murmurs, staring down at me. He reaches up and caresses my face,
his thumb tracing my lower lip. “I don’t know any other way,
Anastasia. This is who I am.”
“I know.”
He leans down to kiss me but pauses before his lips touch mine,
his eyes searching mine, wanting, asking permission. I raise my lips
to his, and he kisses me, and because I don’t know if I’ll ever kiss
him again, I let go—my hands moving of their own accord and
twisting into his hair, pulling him to me, my mouth opening, my
tongue stroking his. His hand grasps the nape of my neck as he
deepens the kiss, responding to my ardor. His other hand slides
down my back and attens at the base of my spine as he pushes me
against his body.
“I can’t persuade you to stay?” he breathes between kisses.
“No.”
“Spend the night with me.”
“And not touch you? No.”
He groans.
“You impossible girl.” He pulls back, gazing down at me. “Why
do I think you’re telling me good-bye?”
“Because I’m leaving now.”
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”
“Christian, I have to think about this. I don’t know if I can have
the kind of relationship you want.”
He closes his eyes and presses his forehead against mine, giving
us both the opportunity to slow our breathing. After a moment, he
kisses my forehead, inhales deeply, his nose in my hair, and then he
releases me, stepping back.
“As you wish, Miss Steele,” he says, his face impassive. “I’ll escort
you to the lobby.” He holds out his hand. Leaning down, I grab my
purse and place my hand in his. Holy crap, this could be it. I follow
him meekly down the grand stairs and into the lobby, my scalp
prickling, my blood pumping. This could be the last good-bye if I
decide to say no. My heart contracts painfully in my chest. What a
turnaround. What a dierence a moment of clarity can make to a
girl.
“Do you have your valet ticket?”
I sh into my clutch purse and hand him the ticket, which he
gives to the doorman. I peek up at him as we stand waiting.
“Thank you for dinner,” I murmur.
“It’s a pleasure as always, Miss Steele,” he says politely, though
he looks deep in thought, completely distracted.
As I peer up at him, I commit his beautiful prole to memory.
The idea that I might not see him again haunts me, unwelcome and
too painful to contemplate. He turns suddenly, staring down at me,
his expression intense.
“You’re moving this weekend to Seattle. If you make the right
decision, can I see you on Sunday?” He sounds hesitant.
“We’ll see. Maybe,” I breathe. Momentarily, he looks relieved,
and then he frowns.
“It’s cooler now, don’t you have a jacket?”
“No.”
He shakes his head in irritation and takes o his jacket.
“Here. I don’t want you catching cold.”
I blink up at him as he holds it open, and as I hold my arms out
behind me, I’m reminded of the time in his oce when he slipped
my coat onto my shoulders—the rst time I met him—and the
eect he had on me then. Nothing’s changed; in fact, it’s more
intense. His jacket is warm, far too big, and it smells of him. …
delicious.
My car pulls up outside. Christian’s mouth drops open.
“That’s what you drive?” He’s appalled. Taking my hand, he
leads me outside. The valet jumps out and hands me my keys, and
Christian coolly palms him some money.
“Is this roadworthy?” He’s glaring at me now.
“Yes.”
“Will it make it to Seattle?”
“Yes. She will.”
“Safely?”
“Yes,” I snap, exasperated. “Okay, she’s old. But she’s mine, and
she’s roadworthy. My stepdad bought it for me.”
“Oh, Anastasia, I think we can do better than this.”
“What do you mean?” Realization dawns. “You are not buying me
a car.”
He glowers at me, his jaw tense.
“We’ll see,” he says tightly.
He grimaces as he opens the driver’s-side door and helps me in. I
take my shoes o and roll down the window. He’s gazing at me, his
expression unfathomable, eyes dark.
“Drive safely,” he says quietly.
“Good-bye, Christian.” My voice is hoarse from unbidden, unshed
tears—jeez, I’m not going to cry. I give him a small smile.
As I drive away, my chest constricts, my tears start to fall, and I
choke back a sob. Soon tears are streaming down my face, and I
really don’t understand why I’m crying. I was holding my own. He
explained everything. He was clear. He wants me, but the truth is I
need more. I need him to want me like I want and need him, and
deep down I know that’s not possible. I am just overwhelmed.
I don’t even know how to categorize him. If I do this
thing … will he be my boyfriend? Will I be able to introduce him to
my friends? Go out to bars, the cinema, bowling even, with him?
The truth is I don’t think I will. He won’t let me touch him and he
won’t let me sleep with him. I know I’ve not had these things in my
past, but I want them in my future. And that’s not the future he
envisages.
What if I do say yes, and in three months’ time he says no, he’s
had enough of trying to mold me into something I’m not? How will
I feel? I’ll have emotionally invested three months, doing things
that I’m not sure I want to do. And if he then says no, agreement
over, how could I cope with that level of rejection? Perhaps it’s best
to back away now with what self-esteem I have reasonably intact.
But the thought of not seeing him again is agonizing. How has he
gotten under my skin so quickly? It can’t just be the sex … can it? I
dash the tears from my eyes. I don’t want to examine my feelings
for him. I’m frightened what I’ll uncover if I do. What am I going to
do?
I park outside our duplex. No lights on. Kate must be out. I’m
relieved. I don’t want her to catch me crying again. As I undress, I
wake up the mean machine and sitting in my inbox is a message
from Christian.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Tonight
Date: May 25 2011 22:01
To: Anastasia Steele
I don’t understand why you ran this evening. I sincerely hope I answered all your
questions to your satisfaction. I know I have given you a great deal to contemplate,
and I fervently hope that you will give my proposal your serious consideration. I really
want to make this work. We will take it slow.
Trust me.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
His e-mail makes me weep more. I am not a merger. I am not an
acquisition. Reading this, I might as well be. I don’t reply. I just
don’t know what to say to him. I fumble into my PJs and, wrapping
his jacket around me, I climb into bed. As I lie staring into the
darkness, I think of all the times he warned me to stay away.
Anastasia, you should steer clear of me.
I’m not the man for you.
I don’t do the girlfriend thing.
I’m not a hearts and owers kind of guy.
I don’t make love.
This is all I know.
And as I weep into my pillow silently, it’s this last idea I cling to.
This is all I know, too. Perhaps together we can chart a new course.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Christian is standing over me grasping a plaited leather riding
crop. He’s wearing old, faded, ripped Levis and that’s all. He icks
the crop slowly into his palm as he gazes down at me. He’s smiling,
triumphant. I cannot move. I am naked and shackled, spread-eagled
on a large four-poster bed. Reaching forward, he trails the tip of the
crop from my forehead down the length of my nose, so I can smell
the leather, and over my parted, panting lips. He pushes the tip into
my mouth so I can taste the smooth, rich leather.
“Suck,” he commands, his voice soft. My mouth closes over the
tip as I obey.
“Enough,” he snaps.
I’m panting once more as he tugs the crop out of my mouth, trails
it down and under my chin, on down my neck to the hollow at the
base of my throat. He swirls it slowly there and then continues to
drag the tip down my body, along my sternum, between my
breasts, over my torso, down to my navel. I’m panting, squirming,
pulling against my restraints that are biting into my wrists and my
ankles. He swirls the tip around my navel then continues to trail the
leather tip south, through my pubic hair to my clitoris. He icks the
crop and it hits my sweet spot with a sharp slap, and I come,
gloriously, shouting my release.
Abruptly, I wake, gasping for breath, covered in sweat and
feeling the aftershocks of my orgasm. Holy hell. I’m completely
disorientated. What the hell just happened? I’m in my bedroom alone.
How? Why? I sit bolt upright, shocked … wow. It’s morning. I
glance at my alarm clock—eight o’clock. I put my head in my
hands. I didn’t know I could dream sex. Was it something I ate?
Perhaps the oysters and my Internet research manifesting itself in
my rst wet dream. It’s bewildering. I had no idea that I could
orgasm in my sleep.
Kate is skipping around the kitchen when I stagger in.
“Ana, are you okay? You look odd. Is that Christian’s jacket
you’re wearing?”
“I’m ne.” Damn, should have checked in the mirror. I avoid her
piercing green eyes. I’m still reeling from my morning’s event.
“Yes, this is Christian’s jacket.”
She frowns. “Did you sleep?”
“Not very well.”
I head for the kettle. I need tea.
“How was dinner?”
So it begins.
“We had oysters. Followed by cod, so I’d say it was shy.”
“Ugh … I hate oysters, and I don’t want to know about the food.
How was Christian? What did you talk about?”
“He was attentive.” I pause. What can I say? His HIV status is
clear, he’s heavily into role-play, wants me to obey his every
command, he hurt someone he tied to his playroom ceiling, and he
wanted to fuck me in the private dining room. Would that be a
good summary? I try desperately to remember something from my
encounter with Christian that I can discuss with Kate.
“He doesn’t approve of Wanda.”
“Who does, Ana? That’s old news. Why are you being so coy?
Give it up, girlfriend.”
“Oh, Kate, we talked about lots things. You know—how fussy he
is about food. Incidentally, he liked your dress.” The kettle has
boiled, so I make myself some tea. “Do you want tea? Would you
like me to hear your speech for today?”
“Yes, please. I worked on it last night over at Becca’s. I’ll go
fetch it. And yes, I’d love some tea.” Kate races out of the kitchen.
Phew, Katherine Kavanagh sidetracked. I slice a bagel and pop it
into the toaster. I ush, remembering my vivid dream. What on
Earth was that about?
Last night I found it hard to sleep. My head was buzzing with
various options. I am so confused. Christian’s idea of a relationship
is more like a job oer. It has set hours, a job description, and a
rather harsh grievance procedure. It’s not how I envisaged my rst
romance—but, of course, Christian doesn’t do romance. If I tell him
I want more, he may say no … and I could jeopardize what he has
oered. And this is what concerns me most, because I don’t want to
lose him. But I’m not sure I have the stomach to be his submissive—
deep down, it’s the canes and whips that put me o. I’m a physical
coward, and I will go a long way to avoid pain. I think of my
dream … is that what it would be like? My inner goddess jumps up
and down with cheerleading pom-poms shouting yes at me.
Kate comes back into the kitchen with her laptop. I concentrate
on my bagel and listen patiently as she runs through her
valedictorian speech.
I AM DRESSED AND ready when Ray arrives. I open the front door, and
he’s standing on the porch in his ill-tting suit. A warm surge of
gratitude and love for this uncomplicated man streaks through me,
and I throw my arms around him in an uncharacteristic display of
aection. He’s taken aback, bemused.
“Hey, Annie, I’m pleased to see you, too,” he mutters as he hugs
me. Setting me back down, his hands on my shoulders, he looks me
up and down, his brow furrowed. “You okay, kid?”
“Of course, Dad. Can’t a girl be pleased to see her old man?”
He smiles, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners, and follows me
into the living room.
“You look good,” he says.
“This is Kate’s dress.” I glance down at the gray chion halter-
neck dress.
He frowns.
“Where is Kate?”
“She’s gone to campus. She’s giving a speech, so she has to be
early.”
“Should we head on over?”
“Dad, we have half an hour. Would you like some tea? And you
can tell me how everyone in Montesano is getting along. How was
the drive down?”
RAY PULLS HIS CAR into the campus parking lot, and we follow the
stream of humanity dotted with ubiquitous black and red gowns
heading toward the gym.
“Good luck, Annie. You seem awfully nervous. Do you have to do
anything?”
Holy crap … why has Ray picked today to be observant?
“No, Dad. It’s a big day.” And I’m going to see him.
“Yeah, my baby girl has gotten a degree. I’m proud of you,
Annie.”
“Aw … thanks, Dad.” Oh, I love this man.
The gym is crowded. Ray has gone to sit with the other parents
and well-wishers in the tiered seating, while I make my way to my
seat. I’m wearing my black gown and my cap, and I feel protected
by them, anonymous. There is no one on the stage yet, but I can’t
seem to steady my nerves. My heart is pounding, and my breathing
is shallow. He’s here, somewhere. I wonder if Kate is talking to
him, interrogating him maybe. I make my way to my seat amongst
fellow students whose surnames also begin with S. I am in the
second row, aording me yet more anonymity. I glance behind me
and spot Ray high up in the bleachers. I give him a wave. He self-
consciously gives me a half-wave, half-salute back. I sit and wait.
The auditorium lls quickly, and the buzz of excited voices gets
louder and louder. The row of seats in front lls. On either side of
me, I am joined by two girls whom I don’t know from a dierent
department. They’re obviously close friends and talk across me
excitedly.
At eleven precisely, the chancellor appears from behind the stage,
followed by the three vice chancellors and then the senior
professors, all decked out in their black and red regalia. We stand
and applaud our teaching sta. Some professors nod and wave,
others look bored. Professor Collins, my tutor and my favorite
teacher, looks like he’s just fallen out of bed, as usual. Last on to
the stage are Kate and Christian. Christian stands out in his bespoke
gray suit, copper highlights glinting in his hair under the auditorium
lights. He looks so serious and self-contained. As he sits, he undoes
his single-breasted jacket, and I glimpse his tie. Holy shit … that tie! I
rub my wrists reexively. I cannot take my eyes o him. He’s
wearing that tie, on purpose no doubt. My mouth presses into a
hard line. The audience sits down and the applause ceases.
“Look at him!” one of the girls beside me hisses enthusiastically
to her friend.
“He’s hot.”
I stien. I’m sure they’re not talking about Professor Collins.
“Must be Christian Grey.”
“Is he single?”
I bristle. “I don’t think so,” I murmur.
“Oh.” Both girls look at me in surprise.
“I think he’s gay,” I mutter.
“What a shame,” one of the girls groans.
As the chancellor gets to his feet and kicks o the proceedings
with his speech, I watch Christian subtly scanning the hall. I sink
into my seat, hunching my shoulders, trying to make myself as
inconspicuous as possible. I fail miserably as a second later his eyes
nd mine. He stares at me, his face impassive, completely
inscrutable. I squirm uncomfortably, hypnotized by his glare as a
slow ush spreads across my face. Unbidden, I recall my dream
from this morning, and the muscles in my belly do the delectable
clench thing. I inhale sharply. The shadow of a smile crosses his
lips, but it’s eeting. He briey closes his eyes and, on opening
them, resumes his indierent expression. Following a swift glance
up at the chancellor, he stares ahead, focusing on the WSUV
emblem hung above the entrance. He doesn’t turn his eyes toward
me again. The chancellor drones on, and Christian still doesn’t look
at me. He just stares xedly ahead.
Why won’t he look at me? Perhaps he’s changed his mind? A
wave of unease washes over me. Perhaps walking out on him last
night was the end for him, too. He’s bored of waiting for me to
make up my mind. Oh no, I could have completely blown it. I
remember his e-mail last night. Maybe he’s mad that I haven’t
replied.
Suddenly, the room erupts into applause as Miss Katherine
Kavanagh has taken the stage. The chancellor sits, and Kate tosses
her lovely long hair behind her as she places her papers on the
lectern. She takes her time, not intimidated by a thousand people
staring at her. She smiles when she’s ready, looks up at the
captivated throng, and launches eloquently into her speech. She’s
composed and funny, the girls beside me erupt on cue at her rst
joke. Oh, Katherine Kavanagh, you can deliver a good line. I am so
proud of her at that moment, my errant thoughts of Christian
pushed to one side. Even though I have heard her speech before, I
listen carefully. She commands the room and takes her audience
with her.
Her theme is “What Next After College?” Oh, what next indeed.
Christian is watching Kate, his eyebrows raised—in surprise, I think.
Yes, it could have been Kate who went to interview him. And it
could have been Kate who he was now making indecent proposals
to. Beautiful Kate and beautiful Christian, together. I could be like
the two girls beside me, admiring him from afar. I know Kate
wouldn’t have given him the time of day. What did she call him the
other day? Creepy. The thought of a confrontation between Kate
and Christian makes me uncomfortable. I have to say I don’t know
which of them I would put my money on.
Kate concludes her speech with a ourish, and spontaneously
everyone stands, applauding and cheering, her rst standing
ovation. I beam at her and cheer, and she grins back at me. Good
job, Kate. She sits, as does the audience, and the chancellor rises and
introduces Christian … Holy shit, Christian’s going to give a speech.
The chancellor touches briey on Christian’s achievements: CEO of
his own extraordinarily successful company, a real self-made man.
“… and also a major benefactor to our university. Please welcome
Mr. Christian Grey.”
The chancellor pumps Christian’s hand, and there is a swell of
polite applause. My heart’s in my throat. He approaches the lectern
and surveys the hall. He looks so condent standing in front of us
all, as Kate did before him. The two girls beside me lean in,
enraptured. In fact, I think most of the female members of the
audience inch closer and a few of the men. He begins, his voice soft,
measured, and mesmerizing.
“I’m profoundly grateful and touched by the great compliment
accorded to me by the authorities of WSU today. It oers me a rare
opportunity to talk about the impressive work of the environmental
science department here at the university. Our aim is to develop
viable and ecologically sustainable methods of farming for third
world countries; our ultimate goal is to help eradicate hunger and
poverty across the globe. Over a billion people, mainly in sub-
Saharan Africa, South Asia, and Latin America, live in abject
poverty. Agricultural dysfunction is rife within these parts of the
world, and the result is ecological and social destruction. I have
known what it’s like to be profoundly hungry. This is a very
personal journey for me …”
My jaw falls to the oor. What? Christian was hungry once. Holy
crap. Well, that explains a great deal. And I recall the interview; he
really does want to feed the world. I desperately rack my brains to
remember what Kate had written in her article. Adopted at age
four, I think. I can’t imagine that Grace starved him, so it must have
been before then, as a little boy. I swallow, my heart constricting at
the thought of a hungry, gray-eyed toddler. Oh no. What kind of life
did he have before the Greys got hold of him and rescued him?
I’m seized by a sense of raw outrage. Poor, fucked-up, kinky,
philanthropic Christian—though I’m sure he wouldn’t see himself
this way and would repel any thoughts of sympathy or pity.
Abruptly, everyone bursts into applause and stands. I follow, though
I haven’t heard half his speech. He’s doing all of these good works,
running a huge company, and chasing me at the same time. It’s
overwhelming. I remember the brief snippets of conversations he’s
had about Darfur … it all falls into place. Food.
He smiles briey at the warm applause—even Kate is clapping—
then he resumes his seat. He doesn’t look my way, and I’m o-
kilter trying to assimilate this new information about him.
One of the vice chancellors rises, and we begin the long, tedious
process of collecting our degrees. There are more than four hundred
to be given out, and it takes just over an hour before I hear my
name. I make my way up to the stage between the two giggling
girls. Christian gazes down at me, his look warm but guarded.
“Congratulations, Miss Steele,” he says as he shakes my hand,
squeezing it gently. I feel the charge of his esh on mine. “Do you
have a problem with your laptop?”
I frown as he hands me my degree.
“No.”
“Then you are ignoring my e-mails?”
“I only saw the mergers and acquisitions one.”
He looks quizzically at me.
“Later,” he says, and I have to move on because I’m holding up
the line.
I go back to my seat. E-mails? He must have sent another. What
did it say?
The ceremony takes another hour to conclude. It’s interminable.
Finally, the chancellor leads the faculty members o the stage to
yet more rousing applause, preceded by Christian and Kate.
Christian does not glance at me, even though I’m willing him to do
it. My inner goddess is not pleased.
As I stand and wait for our row to disperse, Kate calls to me.
She’s heading my way from behind the stage.
“Christian wants to talk to you,” she shouts. The two girls who
are now standing beside me turn and gape at me.
“He’s sent me out here,” she continues.
Oh …
“Your speech was great, Kate.”
“It was, wasn’t it?” She beams. “Are you coming? He can be very
insistent.” She rolls her eyes, and I grin.
“You have no idea. I can’t leave Ray for long.” I glance up at Ray
and hold my ngers up indicating ve minutes. He nods, giving me
an okay sign, and I follow Kate into the corridor behind the stage.
Christian is talking to the chancellor and two of the teaching sta.
He looks up when he sees me.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” I hear him murmur. He comes toward
me and smiles briey at Kate.
“Thank you,” he says, and before she can reply, he takes my
elbow and steers me into what looks like a men’s locker room. He
checks to see if it’s empty, and then he locks the door.
Holy shit, what does he have in mind? I blink up at him as he turns
on me.
“Why haven’t you e-mailed me? Or texted me back?” He glares.
I’m nonplussed.
“I haven’t looked at my computer today, or my phone.” Crap, has
he been trying to call? I try my distraction technique that’s so
eective on Kate. “That was a great speech.”
“Thank you.”
“Explains your food issues to me.”
He runs a hand through his hair, exasperated.
“Anastasia, I don’t want to go there at the moment.” He closes his
eyes, looking pained. “I’ve been worried about you.”
“Worried, why?”
“Because you went home in that deathtrap you call a car.”
“What? It’s not a deathtrap. It’s ne. José regularly services it for
me.”
“José, the photographer?” Christian’s eyes narrow, his face
frosting. Oh, crap.
“Yes, the Beetle used to belong to his mother.”
“Yes, and probably her mother and her mother before her. It’s
not safe.”
“I’ve been driving it for over three years. I’m sorry you were
worried. Why didn’t you call?” Jeez, he’s completely overreacting.
He takes a deep breath.
“Anastasia, I need an answer from you. This waiting around is
driving me crazy.”
“Christian, I … look, I’ve left my stepdad on his own.”
“Tomorrow. I want an answer by tomorrow.”
“Okay. Tomorrow, I’ll tell you then.”
He steps back, regarding me coolly, and his shoulders relax.
“Are you staying for drinks?” he asks.
“I don’t know what Ray wants to do.”
“Your stepfather? I’d like to meet him.”
Oh no … why?
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
Christian unlocks the door, his mouth in a grim line.
“Are you ashamed of me?”
“No!” It’s my turn to sound exasperated. “Introduce you to my
dad as what? ‘This is the man who deowered me and wants us to
start a BDSM relationship’? You’re not wearing running shoes.”
Christian glares down at me, and then his lips twitch up in a
smile. And in spite of the fact I’m mad at him, my face is
unwillingly pulled into an answering grin.
“Just so you know, I can run quite fast. Just tell him I’m your
friend, Anastasia.”
He opens the door, and I head out. My mind is whirling. The
chancellor, the three vice chancellors, four professors, and Kate
stare at me as I walk hastily past them. Crap. Leaving Christian with
the faculty, I go in search of Ray.
Tell him I’m your friend.
Friend with benets, my subconscious scowls. I know, I know. I
shake the unpleasant thought away. How will I introduce him to
Ray? The hall is still at least half full, and Ray has not moved from
his spot. He sees me, waves, and makes his way down.
“Hey, Annie. Congratulations.” He puts his arm around me.
“Would you like to come and have a drink in the marquee?”
“Sure. It’s your day. Lead the way.”
“We don’t have to if you don’t want to.” Please say no …
“Annie, I’ve just sat for two and half hours listening to all kinds
of jabbering. I need a drink.”
I put my arm through his, and we stroll out with the throng into
the warmth of the early afternoon. We pass the line for the ocial
photographer.
“Oh, that reminds me.” Ray drags a digital camera out of his
pocket. “One for the album, Annie.” I roll my eyes at him as he
snaps a picture of me.
“Can I take the cap and gown o now? I feel kind of dorky.”
You look kinda dorky … My subconscious is at her snarky best. So
are you going to introduce Ray to the man you’re fucking? She is
glaring at me over her wing-shaped spectacles. He’d be so proud.
God, I hate her sometimes.
The marquee is immense and crowded—students, parents,
teachers, and friends, all chattering happily. Ray hands me a glass
of champagne, or cheap zzy wine, I suspect. It’s not chilled, and it
tastes sweet. My thoughts turn to Christian … he won’t like this.
“Ana!” I turn, and Ethan Kavanagh scoops me into his arms. He
twirls me around, without spilling my wine—some feat.
“Congratulations!” He beams down at me, green eyes twinkling.
What a surprise. His dirty blond hair is tousled and sexy. He’s as
beautiful as Kate. The family resemblance is striking.
“Wow—Ethan! How lovely to see you. Dad, this is Ethan, Kate’s
brother. Ethan, this is my dad, Ray Steele.” They shake hands, my
dad coolly assessing Mr. Kavanagh.
“When did you get back from Europe?” I ask.
“I’ve been back for a week, but I wanted to surprise my little
sister,” he says conspiratorially.
“That’s so sweet.” I grin.
“She is valedictorian, couldn’t miss that.” He looks immensely
proud of his sister.
“She gave a great speech.”
“That she did,” Ray agrees.
Ethan has his arm around my waist when I look up into the frosty
gray eyes of Christian Grey. Kate is beside him.
“Hello, Ray.” Kate kisses Ray on both cheeks, making him blush.
“Have you met Ana’s boyfriend? Christian Grey.”
Holy shit … Kate! Fuck! All the blood drains from my face.
“Mr. Steele, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Christian says smoothly,
warmly, completely unustered by Kate’s introduction. He holds
out his hand, which Ray, all credit to him, takes, not showing a hint
of the drop-dead surprise he’s just had thrust upon him.
Thank you very much, Katherine Kavanagh, I fume. I think my
subconscious has fainted.
“Mr. Grey,” Ray murmurs, his expression indecipherable except
perhaps for the slight widening of his big brown eyes. They slide
over to my face with a when-were-you-going-to-give-me-this-news
look. I bite my lip.
“And this is my brother, Ethan Kavanagh,” says Kate to Christian.
Christian turns his arctic glare on Ethan, who still has one arm
around me.
“Mr. Kavanagh.”
They shake hands. Christian holds his hand out to me.
“Ana, baby,” he murmurs, and I nearly expire at the endearment.
I walk out of Ethan’s grasp, while Christian smiles icily at him,
and I take my place at his side. Kate grins at me. She knows exactly
what she’s doing, the vixen!
“Ethan, Mom and Dad wanted a word.” Kate drags Ethan away.
“So how long have you kids known each other?” Ray looks
impassively from Christian to me.
The power of speech has deserted me. I want the ground to
swallow me up. Christian puts his arm around me, his thumb
skimming my naked back in a caress, before his hand clasps my
shoulder.
“Couple of weeks or so now,” he says smoothly. “We met when
Anastasia came to interview me for the student newspaper.”
“Didn’t know you worked on the student newspaper, Ana.” Ray’s
voice is a quiet admonishment, revealing his irritation. Shit.
“Kate was ill,” I murmur. It’s all I can manage.
“Fine speech you gave, Mr. Grey.”
“Thank you, sir. I understand that you’re a keen sherman.”
Ray raises his eyebrows and smiles—a rare, genuine, bona de
Ray Steele smile—and o they go, talking sh. In fact, I soon feel
surplus to requirements. He’s charming the pants o my dad … like
he did you, my subconscious snaps at me. His power knows no
bounds. I excuse myself to go and nd Kate.
She’s talking to her parents, who are delightful as ever and greet
me warmly. We exchange brief pleasantries, mostly about their up
and coming vacation to Barbados and about our move.
“Kate, how could you out me to Ray?” I hiss at the rst
opportunity we won’t be overheard.
“Because I knew you never would, and I want to help with
Christian’s commitment issues.” Kate smiles at me sweetly.
I scowl. It’s me that won’t commit to him, silly!
“He seems très cool about it, Ana. Don’t sweat it. Look at him
now—Christian cannot take his eyes o you.” I glance up, and both
Ray and Christian are looking at me. “He’s been watching you like
a hawk.”
“I’d better go rescue Ray, or Christian. I don’t know which. You
haven’t heard the last of this, Katherine Kavanagh!” I glare at her.
“Ana, I did you a favor,” she calls after me.
“Hi.” I smile at both of them on my return.
They seem okay. Christian is enjoying some private joke, and my
dad looks unbelievably relaxed given he’s in a social situation. What
have they been discussing apart from sh?
“Ana, where are the restrooms?”
“Back out front of the marquee and to the left.”
“See you in a moment. You kids enjoy yourselves.”
Ray heads out. I glance nervously up at Christian. We pause
briey as a photographer takes a picture of both of us.
“Thank you, Mr. Grey.” The photographer scurries o. I blink
from the ash.
“So you’ve charmed my father as well?”
“As well?” Christian’s eyes burn and he raises a questioning
eyebrow. I ush. He lifts his hand and traces my cheek with his
ngers.
“Oh, I wish I knew what you were thinking, Anastasia,” he
whispers darkly, cupping my chin and raising my head so that we
gaze intently into each other’s eyes.
My breath hitches. How can he have this eect on me, even in
this crowded tent?
“Right now, I’m thinking, Nice tie,” I breathe.
He chuckles. “It’s recently become my favorite.”
I blush scarlet.
“You look lovely, Anastasia. This halter-neck dress suits you, and
I get to stroke your back, feel your beautiful skin.”
Suddenly, it’s like we’re on our own in the room. Just the two of
us. My whole body has come alive, every nerve ending singing
softly, that electricity pulling me to him, charging between us.
“You know it’s going to be good, don’t you, baby?” he whispers.
I close my eyes as my insides uncoil and melt.
“But I want more,” I whisper.
“More?” he looks down at me puzzled, his eyes darkening. I nod
and swallow. Now he knows.
“More,” he says again softly. Testing the word—a small, simple
word, but so full of promise. His thumb traces my lower lip. “You
want hearts and owers.”
I nod again. He blinks down at me, and I watch his internal
struggle played out in his eyes.
“Anastasia.” His voice is soft. “It’s not something I know.”
“Me, either.”
He smiles slightly.
“You don’t know much,” he murmurs.
“You know all the wrong things.”
“Wrong? Not to me.” He shakes his head. He looks so sincere.
“Try it,” he whispers. A challenge, daring me, and he cocks his head
to one side and smiles his crooked, dazzling smile.
I gasp, and I’m Eve in the Garden of Eden, and he’s the serpent,
and I cannot resist.
“Okay,” I whisper.
“What?” I have his full, undivided attention. I swallow.
“Okay. I’ll try.”
“You’re agreeing?” His disbelief is evident.
“Subject to the soft limits, yes. I’ll try.” My voice is so small.
Christian closes his eyes and pulls me into an embrace.
“Jesus, Ana, you’re so unexpected. You take my breath away.”
He steps back, and suddenly Ray’s returned, and the volume in
the marquee gradually rises and lls my ears. We are not alone.
Holy shit, I’ve just agreed to be his sub. Christian smiles at Ray and his
eyes are dancing with joy.
“Annie, should we get some lunch?”
“Okay.” I blink up at Ray, trying to nd my equilibrium. What
have you done? my subconscious screams at me. My inner goddess is
doing backips in a routine worthy of a Russian Olympic gymnast.
“Would you like to join us, Christian?” Ray asks.
Christian! I stare up at him, imploring him to refuse. I need space
to think … what the fuck have I done?
“Thank you, Mr. Steele, but I have plans. It’s been great to meet
you, sir.”
“Likewise,” Ray responds. “Look after my baby girl.”
“Oh, I fully intend to.”
They shake hands. I feel sick. Ray has no idea how Christian
intends to look after me. Christian takes my hand and brings it to
his lips and kisses my knuckles tenderly, his scorching eyes intent
on mine.
“Later, Miss Steele,” he breathes, his voice full of promise.
My belly curls at the thought. Hang on … later?
Ray takes my elbow and leads me toward the entrance to the
tent.
“Seems a solid young man. Well o, too. You could do a lot
worse, Annie. Though why I had to hear about him from
Katherine …” he scolds.
I shrug apologetically.
“Well, any man who likes and knows his y-shing is okay with
me.”
Holy cow—Ray approves. If only he knew.
RAY DROPS ME BACK at the house at dusk.
“Call your mom,” he says.
“I will. Thanks for coming, Dad.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world, Annie. You make me so
proud.”
Oh no. I’m not going to get emotional. A huge lump forms in my
throat, and I hug him, hard. He puts his arms around me, bemused,
and I can’t help it—tears pool in my eyes.
“Hey, Annie, sweetheart,” Ray croons. “Big old day … eh? Want
me to come in and make you some tea?”
I laugh, in spite of my tears. Tea is always the answer, according
to Ray. I remember my mother complaining about him, saying that
when it came to tea and sympathy, he was always good at the tea,
not so hot on the sympathy.
“No, Dad, I’m good. It’s been so great to see you. I’ll visit real
soon once I’m settled in Seattle.”
“Good luck with the interviews. Let me know how they go.”
“Sure thing, Dad.”
“Love you, Annie.”
“Love you, too, Dad.”
He smiles, his brown eyes warm, glowing, and he climbs back
into his car. I wave him o as he drives into the dusk, and I wander
listlessly back into the apartment.
First thing I do is check my cell phone. It needs recharging, so I
have to hunt down the charger and plug it in before I can collect my
messages. Four missed calls, one voice message, and two texts.
Three missed calls from Christian … no messages. One missed call
from José and a voice mail from him wishing me all the best for
graduation.
I open the texts.
*Are you home safe?*
*Call me*
They are both from Christian. Why didn’t he call the house? I
head into my bedroom and re up the mean machine.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Tonight
Date: May 25 2011 23:58
To: Anastasia Steele
I hope you made it home in that car of yours.
Let me know if you’re okay.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
Jeez … why is he so worried about my Beetle? It has given me
three years of loyal service, and José has always been on hand to
maintain it for me. Christian’s next e-mail is from today.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Soft Limits
Date: May 26 2011 17:22
To: Anastasia Steele
What can I say that I haven’t already?
Happy to talk these through anytime.
You looked beautiful today.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
I want to see him. I hit “reply.”
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Soft Limits
Date: May 26 2011 19:23
To: Christian Grey
I can come over this evening to discuss if you’d like.
Ana
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Soft Limits
Date: May 26 2011 19:27
To: Anastasia Steele
I’ll come to you. I meant it when I said I wasn’t happy about you driving that car.
I’ll be with you shortly.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
Holy crap … he’s coming over now. I have to get one thing ready
for him—the rst edition Thomas Hardy books are still on the
shelves in the living room. I cannot keep them. I wrap them in
brown paper, and I scrawl on the wrapping a direct quote from Tess
from the book:
“I agree to the conditions, Angel; because you know best what my punishment ought to be;
only—only—don’t make it more than I can bear!”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Hi.” I feel unbearably shy when I open the door. Christian is
standing on the porch in his jeans and leather jacket. “Hi,” he says,
and his face lights up with his radiant smile. I take a moment to
admire the pretty. Oh my, he’s hot in leather.
“Come in.”
“If I may,” he says, amused. He holds up a bottle of champagne as
he walks in. “I thought we’d celebrate your graduation. Nothing
beats a good Bollinger.”
“Interesting choice of words,” I comment dryly.
He grins. “Oh, I like your ready wit, Anastasia.”
“We only have teacups. We’ve packed all the glasses.”
“Teacups? Sounds good to me.”
I head into the kitchen. Nervous, butteries ooding my stomach,
it’s like having a panther or mountain lion all unpredictable and
predatory in my living room.
“Do you want saucers as well?”
“Teacups will be ne, Anastasia,” Christian calls distractedly from
the living room.
When I return, he’s staring at the brown parcel of books. I place
the cups on the table.
“That’s for you,” I murmur anxiously.
Crap … this is probably going to be a ght.
“Hmm, I gured as much. Very apt quote.” His long index nger
absently traces the writing. “I thought I was d’Urberville, not
Angel. You decided on the debasement.” He gives me a brief
wolsh smile. “Trust you to nd something that resonates so
appropriately.”
“It’s also a plea,” I whisper. Why am I so nervous? My mouth is
dry.
“A plea? For me to go easy on you?”
I nod.
“I bought these for you,” he says quietly, his gaze impassive. “I’ll
go easier on you if you accept them.”
I swallow convulsively.
“Christian, I can’t accept them, they’re just too much.”
“You see, this is what I was talking about, you defying me. I want
you to have them, and that’s the end of the discussion. It’s very
simple. You don’t have to think about this. As a submissive you
would just be grateful for them. You just accept what I buy you
because it pleases me for you to do so.”
“I wasn’t a submissive when you bought them for me,” I whisper.
“No … but you’ve agreed, Anastasia.” His eyes turn wary.
I sigh. I am not going to win this, so over to plan B.
“So they are mine to do with as I wish?”
He eyes me suspiciously but concedes.
“Yes.”
“In that case, I’d like to give them to a charity, one working in
Darfur since that seems to be close to your heart. They can auction
them.”
“If that’s what you want to do.” His mouth sets into a hard line.
He’s disappointed.
I ush.
“I’ll think about it,” I murmur. I don’t want to disappoint him,
and his words come back to me. I want you to want to please me.
“Don’t think, Anastasia. Not about this.” His tone is quiet and
serious.
How can I not think? You can pretend to be a car, like his other
possessions. My subconscious makes an unwelcome vitriolic return. I
ignore her. Oh, can’t we rewind? The atmosphere between us is
now tense. I don’t know what to do. I stare down at my ngers.
How do I retrieve this situation?
He puts the champagne bottle on the table and stands in front of
me. Putting his hand under my chin, he tilts my head up. He gazes
down at me, his expression grave.
“I will buy you lots of things, Anastasia. Get used to it. I can
aord it. I’m a very wealthy man.” He leans down and plants a
swift, chaste kiss on my lips. “Please.” He releases me.
Ho, my subconscious mouths at me.
“It makes me feel cheap,” I murmur.
Christian runs his hand through his hair, exasperated.
“It shouldn’t. You’re overthinking it, Anastasia. Don’t place some
vague moral judgment on yourself based on what others might
think. Don’t waste your energy. It’s only because you have
reservations about our arrangement; that’s perfectly natural. You
don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”
I frown, trying to process his words.
“Hey, stop this,” he commands softly, cupping my chin again and
pulling at it gently so I release my lower lip from my teeth. “There
is nothing about you that is cheap, Anastasia. I won’t have you
thinking that. I just bought you some old books that I thought might
mean something to you, that’s all. Have some champagne.” His eyes
warm and soften, and I smile tentatively up at him. “That’s better,”
he murmurs. He picks up the champagne, takes o the foil top and
cage, twists the bottle rather than the cork, and opens it with a
small pop and a practiced ourish that doesn’t spill a drop. He half
lls the cups.
“It’s pink,” I murmur, surprised.
“Bollinger Grande Année Rosé 1999, an excellent vintage,” he
says with relish.
“In teacups.”
He grins.
“In teacups. Congratulations on your degree, Anastasia.” We clink
cups, and he takes a drink, but I can’t help thinking this is really
about my capitulation.
“Thank you,” I murmur, and take a sip. Of course it’s delicious.
“Shall we go through the soft limits?”
He smiles, and I blush.
“Always so eager.” Christian takes my hand and leads me to the
couch, where he sits and tugs me down beside him.
“Your stepfather’s a very taciturn man.”
Oh … not soft limits, then. I just want to get this out of the way; the
anxiety is gnawing at me.
“You managed to get him eating out of your hand.” I pout.
Christian laughs softly.
“Only because I know how to sh.”
“How did you know he liked shing?”
“You told me. When we went for coee.”
“Oh … did I?” I take another sip. Wow, he has a memory for
detail. Hmm … this champagne really is very good. “Did you try
the wine at the reception?”
Christian makes a face.
“Yes. It was foul.”
“I thought of you when I tasted it. How did you get to be so
knowledgeable about wine?”
“I’m not knowledgeable, Anastasia, I just know what I like.” His
eyes shine, almost silver, and it makes me ush. “Some more?” he
asks, referring to the champagne.
“Please.”
Christian rises gracefully and collects the bottle. He lls my cup.
Is he getting me tipsy? I eye him suspiciously.
“This place looks pretty bare. Are you ready for the move?”
“More or less.”
“Are you working tomorrow?”
“Yes, my last day at Clayton’s.”
“I’d help you move, but I promised to meet my sister at the
airport.”
Oh … this is news.
“Mia arrives from Paris very early Saturday morning. I’m heading
back to Seattle tomorrow, but I hear Elliot is giving you two a
hand.”
“Yes, Kate is very excited about that.”
Christian frowns. “Yes, Kate and Elliot, who would have
thought?” he murmurs, and for some reason he doesn’t look
pleased. “So what are you doing about work in Seattle?”
When are we going to talk about the limits? What’s his game?
“I have a couple of interviews for intern places.”
“You were going tell me this when?” He arches a brow.
“Er … I’m telling you now.”
He narrows his eyes.
“Where?”
For some reason, possibly because he might use his inuence, I
don’t want to tell him.
“A couple of publishing houses.”
“Is that what you want to do, something in publishing?” I nod
warily.
“Well?” He looks at me patiently wanting more information.
“Well what?”
“Don’t be obtuse, Anastasia, which publishing houses?” he scolds.
“Just small ones,” I murmur.
“Why don’t you want me to know?”
“Undue inuence.”
He frowns.
“Oh, now you’re being obtuse.”
He laughs. “Obtuse? Me? God, you’re challenging. Drink up, let’s
talk about these limits.” He shes out another copy of my e-mail
and the list. Does he wander about with these lists in his pockets? I
think there’s one in his jacket that I have. Shit, I’d better not forget
that. I drain my cup.
He glances quickly at me.
“More?”
“Please.”
He smiles that oh-so-smug private smile of his, holds the
champagne bottle up, and pauses.
“Have you eaten anything?”
Oh no … not this old chestnut.
“Yes. I had a three-course meal with Ray.” I roll my eyes at him.
The champagne is making me bold.
He leans forward and holds my chin, staring intently into my
eyes.
“Next time you roll your eyes at me, I will take you across my
knee.”
What?
“Oh,” I breathe, and I can see the excitement in his eyes.
“Oh,” he responds, mirroring my tone. “So it begins, Anastasia.”
My heart slams against my chest, and the butteries escape from
my stomach into my constricting throat. Why is that hot?
He lls my cup, and I drink practically all of it. Chastened, I stare
up at him.
“Got your attention now, haven’t I?”
I nod.
“Answer me.”
“Yes … you’ve got my attention.”
“Good,” he smiles a knowing smile. “So sexual acts. We’ve done
most of this.”
I move closer to him on the couch and glance down at the list.
APPENDIX 3
Soft Limits
To be discussed and agreed between both parties:
Does the Submissive consent to:
• Masturbation
• Cunnilingus
• Fellatio
• Swallowing Semen
• Vaginal intercourse
• Vaginal sting
• Anal intercourse
• Anal sting
“No sting, you say. Anything else you object to?” he asks
softly. I swallow.
“Anal intercourse doesn’t exactly oat my boat.”
“I’ll agree to the sting, but I’d really like to claim your ass,
Anastasia. But we’ll wait for that. Besides, it’s not something we
can dive into.” He smirks at me. “Your ass will need training.”
“Training?” I whisper.
“Oh yes. It’ll need careful preparation. Anal intercourse can be
very pleasurable, trust me. But if we try it and you don’t like it, we
don’t have to do it again.” He grins down at me.
I blink up at him. He thinks I’ll enjoy it? How does he know it’s
pleasurable?
“Have you done that?” I whisper.
“Yes.”
Holy crap. I gasp.
“With a man?”
“No. I’ve never had sex with a man. Not my scene.”
“Mrs. Robinson?”
“Yes.”
Holy shit … how? I frown. He moves on down the list.
“And … swallowing semen. Well, you get an A in that.”
I ush, and my inner goddess smacks her lips together, glowing
with pride.
“So.” He looks down at me grinning. “Swallowing semen okay?”
I nod, not able to look him in the eye, and drain my cup again.
“More?” he asks.
“More.” And I’m suddenly reminded of our conversation earlier
today as he rells my cup. Is he referring to that or just the
champagne? Is this whole champagne thing more?
“Sex toys?” he asks.
I shrug, glancing down the list.
Does the Submissive consent to the use of:
• Vibrators
• Butt plugs
• Dildos
• Other vaginal/anal toys
“Butt plug? Does it do what it says on the box?” I scrunch my
nose up in distaste.
“Yes,” he smiles. “And I refer to anal intercourse above.
Training.”
“Oh … what’s in other?”
“Beads, eggs … that sort of stu.”
“Eggs?” I’m alarmed.
“Not real eggs.” He laughs loudly, shaking his head.
I purse my lips at him.
“I’m glad you nd me funny.” I can’t keep my injured feelings
out of my voice.
He stops laughing.
“I apologize. Miss Steele, I’m sorry,” he says, trying to look
contrite, but his eyes are still dancing with humor. “Any problem
with toys?”
“No,” I snap.
“Anastasia,” he cajoles. “I am sorry. Believe me. I don’t mean to
laugh. I’ve never had this conversation in so much detail. You’re
just so inexperienced. I’m sorry.” His eyes are big and gray and
sincere.
I thaw a little and take another sip of champagne.
“Right—bondage,” he says, returning to the list. I examine the
list, and my inner goddess bounces up and down like a small child
waiting for ice cream.
Does the Submissive consent to:
• Bondage with rope
• Bondage with leather cus
• Bondage with handcus/shackles/manacles
• Bondage with tape
• Bondage with other
Christian raises his eyebrow. “Well?”
“Fine,” I whisper and quickly look back at the list.
Does the Submissive consent to be restrained with:
• Hands bound in front
• Ankles bound
• Elbows bound
• Hands bound behind back
• Knees bound
• Wrists bound to ankles
• Binding with spreadbar
• Binding to xed items, furniture, etc.
• Suspension
Does the Submissive consent to be blindfolded?
Does the Submissive consent to be gagged?
“We’ve talked about suspension. And it’s ne if you want to set
that up as a hard limit. It takes a great deal of time, and I only have
you for short periods of time anyway. Anything else?”
“Don’t laugh at me, but what’s a spreader bar?”
“I promise not to laugh. I’ve apologized twice.” He glares at me.
“Don’t make me do it again,” he warns. And I think I visibly
shrink … oh, he’s so bossy. “A spreader is a bar with cus for
ankles and/or wrists. They’re fun.”
“Okay … Well, gagging me. I’d be worried I wouldn’t be able to
breathe.”
“I’d be worried if you couldn’t breathe. I don’t want to suocate
you.”
“And how will I use safewords if I’m gagged?”
He pauses.
“First of all, I hope you never have to use them. But if you’re
gagged, we’ll use hand signals,” he says simply.
I blink up at him. But if I’m trussed up, how’s that going to
work? My brain is beginning to fog … hmm, alcohol.
“I’m nervous about the gagging.”
“Okay. I’ll take note.”
I stare up at him, realization dawning.
“Do you like tying your submissives up so they can’t touch you?”
He gazes at me, his eyes widening.
“That’s one of the reasons,” he says quietly.
“Is that why you’ve tied my hands?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t like talking about that,” I murmur.
“No, I don’t. Would you like another drink? It’s making you
brave, and I need to know how you feel about pain.”
Holy crap … this is the tricky part. He rells my teacup, and I
sip.
“So, what’s your general attitude to receiving pain?” Christian
looks expectantly at me. “You’re biting your lip,” he says darkly.
I stop immediately, but I don’t know what to say. I ush and
stare down at my hands.
“Were you physically punished as a child?”
“No.”
“So you have no sphere of reference at all?”
“No.”
“It’s not as bad as you think. Your imagination is your worst
enemy in this,” he whispers.
“Do you have to do it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Goes with the territory, Anastasia. It’s what I do. I can see
you’re nervous. Let’s go through methods.”
He shows me the list. My subconscious runs, screaming, and hides
behind the couch.
• Spanking
• Whipping
• Biting
• Genital clamps
• Hot wax
• Paddling
• Caning
• Nipple clamps
• Ice
• Other types/methods of pain
“Well, you said no to genital clamps. That’s ne. It’s caning that
hurts the most.”
I blanch.
“We can work up to that.”
“Or not do it at all,” I whisper.
“This is part of the deal, baby, but we’ll work up to all of this.
Anastasia, I won’t push you too far.”
“This punishment thing, it worries me the most.” My voice is very
small.
“Well, I’m glad you’ve told me. We’ll keep caning o the list for
now. And as you get more comfortable with everything else, we’ll
increase intensity. We’ll take it slow.”
I swallow, and he leans forward and kisses me on my lips.
“There, that wasn’t so bad was it?”
I shrug, my heart in mouth again.
“Look, I want to talk about one more thing, then I’m taking you
to bed.”
“Bed?” I blink rapidly, and my blood pounds through my body,
warming places I didn’t know existed until very recently.
“Come on, Anastasia, talking through all this, I want to fuck you
into next week, right now. It must be having some eect on you,
too.”
I squirm. My inner goddess is panting.
“See? Besides, there’s something I want to try.”
“Something painful?”
“No—stop seeing pain everywhere. It’s mainly pleasure. Have I
hurt you yet?”
I ush. “No.”
“Well, then. Look, earlier today you were talking about wanting
more,” he halts, uncertain all of a sudden.
Oh my … where’s this going?
He clasps my hand.
“Outside of the time you’re my sub, perhaps we could try. I don’t
know if it will work. I don’t know about separating everything. It
may not work. But I’m willing to try. Maybe one night a week. I
don’t know.”
Holy cow … my mouth drops open, my subconscious is in shock.
Christian Grey is up for more! He’s willing to try! My subconscious
peeks out from behind the couch, still registering shock on her
harpy face.
“I have one condition.” He looks warily at my stunned expression.
“What?” I breathe. Anything. I’ll give you anything.
“You graciously accept my graduation present to you.”
“Oh.” And deep down I know what it is. Dread spawns in my gut.
He’s staring down at me, gauging my reaction.
“Come,” he murmurs and rises, dragging me up. Taking his jacket
o, he drapes it over my shoulders and heads for the door.
Parked outside is a red hatchback car, a two-door compact Audi.
“It’s for you. Happy graduation,” he murmurs, pulling me into his
arms and kissing my hair.
He’s bought me a damned car, brand-new by the looks of it.
Jeez … I’ve had enough trouble with the books. I stare at it
blankly, trying desperately to determine how I feel about this. I am
appalled on one level, grateful on another, shocked that he’s
actually done it, but the overriding emotion is anger. Yes, I’m
angry, especially after everything I told him about the books … but
then he’d already bought this. Taking my hand, he leads me down
the path toward this new acquisition.
“Anastasia, that Beetle of yours is old and frankly dangerous. I
would never forgive myself if something happened to you when it’s
so easy for me to make it right …”
His eyes are on me, but at the moment I cannot bring myself to
look at him. I stand silently staring at its awesome bright red
newness.
“I mentioned it to your stepfather. He was all for it,” he
murmurs.
Turning, I glare at him, my mouth open in horror.
“You mentioned this to Ray? How could you?” I can barely spit
the words out. How dare he? Poor Ray. I feel sick, mortied for my
dad.
“It’s a gift, Anastasia. Can’t you just say thank you?”
“But you know it’s too much.”
“Not to me it isn’t, not for my peace of mind.”
I frown at him, at a loss what to say. He just doesn’t get it! He’s
had money all his life. Okay, not all his life—not as a small child—
and my worldview shifts. The thought is very sobering, and I soften
toward the car, feeling guilty about my t of pique. His intentions
are good, misguided, but not from a bad place.
“I’m happy for you to loan this to me, like the laptop.”
He sighs heavily. “Okay. On loan. Indenitely.” He looks warily
at me.
“No, not indenitely, but for now. Thank you.”
He frowns. I reach up and kiss him on his cheek.
“Thank you for the car, sir,” I say as sweetly as I can manage.
He grabs me suddenly and yanks me up against him, one hand at
my back holding me to him and the other sting in my hair.
“You are one challenging woman, Ana Steele.” He kisses me
passionately, forcing my lips apart with his tongue, taking no
prisoners.
My blood heats immediately, and I’m returning his kiss with my
own passion. I want him badly—in spite of the car, the books, the
soft limits … the caning … I want him.
“It’s taking all my self-control not to fuck you on the hood of this
car right now, just to show you that you are mine, and if I want to
buy you a fucking car, I’ll buy you a fucking car,” he growls. “Now
let’s get you inside and naked.” He plants a swift rough kiss on me.
Boy, he’s angry. He grabs my hand and leads me back into the
apartment and straight into my bedroom … no passing go. My
subconscious is behind the sofa again, head hidden under her hands.
He switches on the sidelight and halts, staring at me.
“Please don’t be angry with me,” I whisper.
His gaze is impassive; his eyes cold shards of smoky glass.
“I’m sorry about the car and the books …” I trail o. He remains
silent and brooding. “You scare me when you’re angry,” I breathe,
staring at him.
He closes his eyes and shakes his head. When he opens them, his
expression has softened. He takes a deep breath and swallows.
“Turn around,” he whispers. “I want to get you out of that dress.”
Another mercurial mood swing; it’s so hard to keep up.
Obediently, I turn, and my heart is thumping, desire instantly
replacing unease, coursing through my blood and settling dark and
yearning, low, low in my belly. He scoops my hair o my back so it
hangs down my right side, curling at my breast. He places his index
nger at the nape of my neck and achingly slowly drags it down my
spine, his ngernail grazing my skin.
“I like this dress,” he murmurs. “I like to see your awless skin.”
His nger reaches the back of my halter dress midway down my
spine, and hooking his nger beneath the top, he pulls me closer so
that I step back against him so that he’s ush against my body.
Leaning down, he inhales my hair.
“You smell so good, Anastasia. So sweet.” His nose skims past my
ear down my neck, and he trails soft, featherlight kisses along my
shoulder.
My breathing changes, becoming shallow, rushed, full of
expectation. His ngers are at my zipper. Achingly slow, once more
he eases it down while his lips move, licking and kissing and
sucking their way across to my other shoulder. He is so tantalizingly
good at this. My body resonates, and I start to squirm languidly
beneath his touch.
“You. Are. Going. To. Have. To. Learn. To. Keep. Still,” he
whispers, kissing me around my nape between each word.
He tugs at the fastening at the halter neck, and the dress drops
and pools at my feet.
“No bra, Miss Steele. I like that.”
His hands reach around and cup my breasts, and my nipples
pucker at his touch.
“Lift your arms and put them around my head,” he murmurs
against my neck.
I obey immediately, and my breasts rise and push into his hands,
my nipples hardening further. My ngers weave into his hair, and
very gently I tug his soft, sexy hair. I roll my head to one side to
give him easier access to my neck.
“Mmm …” he murmurs into that space behind my ear as he starts
to extend my nipples with his long ngers, mirroring my hands in
his hair.
I groan as the sensation registers sharp and clear in my groin.
“Shall I make you come this way?” he whispers.
I arch my back to force my breasts into his expert hands.
“You like this, don’t you, Miss Steele?”
“Mmm …”
“Tell me.” He continues the slow, sensuous torture, pulling
gently.
“Yes.”
“Yes, what.”
“Yes … Sir.”
“Good girl.” He pinches me hard, and my body writhes
convulsively against his front.
I gasp at the exquisite, acute pleasure/pain. I feel him against me.
I moan and my hands clench in his hair pulling harder.
“I don’t think you’re ready to come yet,” he whispers, stilling his
hands, and he gently bites my earlobe and tugs at it. “Besides, you
have displeased me.”
Oh … no, what will this mean? My brain registers through the fog
of needy desire as I groan.
“So perhaps I won’t let you come after all.” He returns the
attention of his ngers to my nipples, pulling, twisting, kneading. I
grind my behind against him … moving side to side.
I feel his grin against my neck as his hands move down to my
hips. His ngers hook into my panties at the back, stretching them,
and he pushes his thumbs through the material, shredding them and
tossing them in front of me so I can see … holy shit. His hands move
down to my sex, and from behind, he slowly inserts his nger.
“Oh yes. My sweet girl is ready,” he breathes as he whirls me
around so I’m facing him. His breathing has quickened. He puts his
nger in his mouth. “You taste so ne, Miss Steele.” He sighs.
Holy shit. His nger tastes salty … from me.
“Undress me,” he commands quietly, staring down at me, eyes
hooded.
All I’m wearing are my shoes—well, Kate’s high-heeled pumps.
I’m taken aback. I’ve never undressed a man.
“You can do it,” he cajoles softly.
I blink rapidly. Where to start? I reach for his T-shirt, and he
grabs my hands, smiling slyly at me.
“Oh no.” He shakes his head, grinning. “Not the T-shirt. You may
need to touch me for what I have planned.” His eyes are alive with
excitement.
Oh … this is news … I can touch with clothes. He takes one of my
hands and places it against his erection.
“This is the eect you have on me, Miss Steele.”
I gasp and ex my ngers around his girth, and he grins.
“I want to be inside you. Take my jeans o. You’re in charge.”
Holy fuck … me in charge. My mouth drops open.
“What are you going to do with me?” he teases.
Oh, the possibilities … my inner goddess roars, and from
somewhere born of frustration, need, and sheer Steele bravery, I
push him on to the bed. He laughs as he falls, and I gaze down at
him, feeling victorious. My inner goddess is going to explode. I
yank o his shoes, quickly, clumsily, and his socks. He’s staring up
at me, his eyes luminous with amusement and desire. He
looks … glorious … mine. I crawl up the bed and sit astride him to
undo his jeans, sliding my ngers under the waistband, feeling the
hair in his oh-so-happy trail. He closes his eyes and exes his hips.
“You’ll have to learn to keep still,” I scold, and I tug at the hair
under his waistband.
His breath hitches, and he grins at me.
“Yes, Miss Steele,” he murmurs, eyes burning bright. “In my
pocket, condom,” he breathes.
I search in his pocket slowly, watching his face as I feel around.
His mouth is open. I sh out both foil packets that I nd and lay
them on the bed by his hips. Two! My over-eager ngers reach for
the button of his waistband and undo it, fumbling a little. I am
beyond excited.
“So eager, Miss Steele,” he murmurs, his voice laced with humor.
I tug down the zipper, and now I’m faced with the problem of
removing his pants … hmm. I shue down and pull. They hardly
move. I frown. How can this be so dicult?
“I can’t keep still if you’re going to bite that lip,” he warns, then
arches his pelvis up o the bed so I’m able to tug down his trousers
and his boxers at the same time, whoa … freeing him. He kicks his
clothes to the oor.
Holy Moses, he’s all mine to play with, and suddenly it’s
Christmas.
“Now what are you going to do?” he breathes, all trace of humor
gone. I reach up and touch him, watching his expression as I do. His
mouth shapes like a letter O as he takes a sharp breath. His skin is
so smooth and velvety … and hard … hmm, what a delicious
combination. I lean forward, my hair falling around me, and he’s in
my mouth. I suck, hard. He closes his eyes, his hips jerking beneath
me.
“Jeez, Ana, steady,” he groans.
I feel so powerful; it’s such an exhilarating feeling, teasing and
testing him with my mouth and tongue. He tenses underneath me as
I run my mouth up and down him, pushing him to the back of my
throat, my lips tight … again and again.
“Stop, Ana, stop. I don’t want to come.”
I sit up, blinking at him, and I’m panting like him, but confused. I
thought I was in charge? My inner goddess looks like someone
snatched her ice cream.
“Your innocence and enthusiasm is very disarming,” he gasps.
“You, on top … that’s what we need to do.”
Oh.
“Here, put this on.” He hands me a foil packet.
Holy crap. How? I rip the packet open, and the rubbery condom is
all tacky in my ngers.
“Pinch the top and then roll it down. You don’t want any air in
the end of that sucker,” he pants.
And very slowly, concentrating hard, I do as I’m told.
“Christ, you’re killing me here, Anastasia,” he groans.
I admire my handiwork and him. He really is a ne specimen of a
man. Looking at him is very, very arousing.
“Now. I want to be buried inside you,” he murmurs. I stare down
at him, daunted, and he sits up suddenly, so we’re nose to nose.
“Like this,” he breathes, and he snakes one hand around my hips,
lifting me, and with the other he positions himself beneath me and,
very slowly, eases me onto him.
I groan as he stretches me open, lling me, my mouth hanging
open in surprise at the sweet, sublime, agonizing, over-full feeling.
Oh … please.
“That’s right, baby, feel me, all of me,” he growls, and briey
closes his eyes.
And he’s inside me, sheathed to the hilt, and he holds me in place,
for seconds … minutes … I have no idea, staring intently into my
eyes.
“It’s deep this way,” he murmurs. He exes and swivels his hips
in the same motion, and I groan … oh my—the sensation radiates
throughout my belly … everywhere. Fuck!
“Again,” I whisper. He grins a lazy grin and obliges.
Moaning, I throw my head up, my hair tumbling down my back,
and very slowly, he sinks down on to the bed.
“You move, Anastasia, up and down, how you want. Take my
hands,” he breathes, his voice hoarse and low and oh-so-sexy.
I clasp his hands, holding on for life. Gently I push o him and
back down. His eyes are burning with wild anticipation. His
breathing is ragged, matching mine, and he lifts his pelvis as I come
down, bouncing me back up. We pick up the rhythm … up, down,
up, down … over and over … and it feels so … good. Between my
panting breaths, the deep down, brimming fullness … the vehement
sensation pulsing through me that’s building quickly, I watch him,
our eyes locked … and I see wonder there, wonder at me.
I am fucking him. I am in charge. He’s mine, and I’m his. The
thought pushes me, weighted with concrete, over the edge, and I
climax around him … shouting incoherently. He grabs my hips, and
closing his eyes, tipping his head back, his jaw strained, he comes
quietly. I collapse on to his chest, overwhelmed, somewhere
between fantasy and reality, a place where there are no hard or soft
limits.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Slowly the outside world invades my senses, and oh my, what an
invasion. I am oating, my limbs soft and languid, utterly spent.
I’m lying on top of him, my head on his chest, and he smells divine:
freshly laundered linen and some expensive body wash and the best,
most seductive scent on the planet … Christian. I don’t want to
move, I want to breathe this elixir for eternity. I nuzzle him,
wishing I didn’t have the barrier of his T-shirt. And as rhyme and
reason return to the rest of my body, I stretch my hand out on his
chest. This is the rst time I’ve touched him here. He’s
rm … strong. His hand swoops up and grabs mine, but he softens
the blow by pulling it to his mouth and sweetly kissing my
knuckles. He rolls over so he’s gazing down at me.
“Don’t,” he murmurs, then kisses me lightly.
“Why don’t you like to be touched?” I whisper, staring up into
soft gray eyes.
“Because I’m fty shades of fucked up, Anastasia.”
Oh … his honesty is completely disarming. I blink up at him.
“I had a very tough introduction to life. I don’t want to burden
you with the details. Just don’t.” He strokes his nose against mine,
and then he pulls out of me and sits up.
“I think that’s all the very basics covered. How was that?”
He looks thoroughly pleased with himself and sounds very
matter-of-fact at the same time, like he’s just marked o another
item on a checklist. I’m still reeling from the “tough introduction to
life” comment. It’s so frustrating—I am desperate to know more.
But he won’t tell me. I cock my head to one side, like he does, and
make an enormous eort to smile at him.
“If you imagine for one minute that I think you ceded control to
me, well you haven’t taken into account my GPA.” I smile shyly at
him. “But thank you for the illusion.”
“Miss Steele, you are not just a pretty face. You’ve had six
orgasms so far and all of them belong to me,” he boasts, playful
again.
I ush and blink at the same time, as he stares down at me. He’s
keeping count! His brow furrows.
“Do you have something to tell me?” his voice is suddenly stern.
I frown. Crap.
“I had a dream this morning.”
“Oh?” He glares at me.
Double crap. Am I in trouble?
“I came in my sleep.” I throw my arm over my eyes. He says
nothing. I peek up at him from under my arm, and he looks amused.
“In your sleep?”
“Woke me up.”
“I’m sure it did. What were you dreaming about?”
Crap.
“You.”
“What was I doing?”
I throw my arm over my eyes again. And like a small child, I
briey entertain the thought that if I can’t see him, then he can’t
see me.
“Anastasia, what was I doing? I won’t ask you again.”
“You had a riding crop.”
He moves my arm.
“Really?”
“Yes.” I am crimson.
“There’s hope for you yet,” he murmurs. “I have several riding
crops.”
“Brown plaited leather?”
He laughs. “No, but I’m sure I could get one.”
Leaning down, he gives me a brief kiss, then stands and grabs his
boxers. Oh no … he’s going. I glance quickly at the time—it’s only
nine forty. I scoot out of bed, too, and grab my sweatpants and a
cami top, then sit back on the bed, cross-legged, watching him. I
don’t want him to go. What can I do?
“When is your period due?” He interrupts my thoughts.
What?
“I hate wearing these things,” he grumbles. He holds up the
condom, then puts it on the oor and slips on his jeans.
“Well?” he prompts when I don’t reply, and he looks at me
expectantly as if he’s waiting for my opinion on the weather. Holy
crap … this is personal stu.
“Next week.” I stare down at my hands.
“You need to sort out some contraception.”
He is so bossy. I stare at him blankly. He sits back on the bed as
he puts on his shoes and socks.
“Do you have a doctor?”
I shake my head. We are back to mergers and acquisitions—
another 180-degree mood swing.
He frowns. “I can have mine come and see you at your apartment
—Sunday morning before you come and see me. Or he can see you
at my place. Which would you prefer?”
No pressure then. Something else that he’s paying for … but
actually this is for his benet.
“Your place.” That means I am guaranteed to see him Sunday.
“Okay. I’ll let you know the time.”
“Are you leaving?”
Don’t go … stay with me, please.
“Yes.”
Why?
“How are you getting back?” I whisper.
“Taylor will pick me up.”
“I can drive you. I have a lovely new car.”
He gazes at me, his expression warm.
“That’s more like it. But I think you’ve had too much to drink.”
“Did you get me tipsy on purpose?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you overthink everything, and you’re reticent like your
stepdad. A drop of wine in you and you start talking, and I need you
to communicate honestly with me. Otherwise you clam up and I
have no idea what you’re thinking. In vino veritas, Anastasia.”
“And you think you’re always honest with me?”
“I endeavor to be.” He looks down at me warily. “This will only
work if we’re honest with each other.”
“I’d like you to stay and use this.” I hold up the second condom.
He smiles and his eyes glow with humor.
“Anastasia, I have crossed so many lines here tonight. I have to
go. I’ll see you on Sunday. I’ll have the revised contract ready for
you, and then we can really start to play.”
“Play?” Holy shit. My heart leaps into my mouth.
“I’d like to do a scene with you. But I won’t until you’ve signed,
so I know you’re ready.”
“Oh. So I could stretch this out if I don’t sign?”
He gazes at me assessing, and then his lips twitch into a smile.
“Well, I suppose you could, but I may crack under the strain.”
“Crack? How?” My inner goddess has woken and is paying
attention.
He nods slowly, and then he grins, teasing. “Could get really
ugly.”
His grin is infectious.
“Ugly, how?”
“Oh, you know, explosions, car chases, kidnapping,
incarceration.”
“You’d kidnap me?”
“Oh yes.” He grins.
“Hold me against my will?” Jeez, this is hot.
“Oh yes.” He nods. “And then we’re talking TPE 24/7.”
“You’ve lost me,” I breathe, my heart is pounding … is he serious?
“Total Power Exchange—around the clock.” His eyes are shining,
and his excitement is palpable even from where I sit.
Holy shit.
“So you have no choice,” he says sardonically.
“Clearly.” I can’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice as my eyes
reach for the heavens.
“Oh, Anastasia Steele, did you just roll your eyes at me?”
Crap.
“No,” I squeak.
“I think you did. What did I say I’d do to you if you rolled your
eyes at me again?”
Shit. He sits down on the edge of the bed.
“Come here,” he says softly.
I blanch. Jeez … he’s serious. I sit staring at him, completely
immobile.
“I haven’t signed,” I whisper.
“I told you what I’d do. I’m a man of my word. I’m going to
spank you, and then I’m going to fuck you very quick and very
hard. Looks like we’ll need that condom after all.”
His voice is so soft, menacing, and it’s damned hot. My insides
practically contort with potent, needy, liquid, desire. He gazes at
me, waiting, eyes blazing. Tentatively, I uncurl my legs. Should I
run? This is it; our relationship hangs in the balance, right here,
right now. Do I let him do this or do I say no, and then that’s it?
Because I know it will be over if I say no. Do it! my inner goddess
pleads with me. My subconscious is as paralyzed as I am.
“I’m waiting,” he says. “I’m not a patient man.”
Oh, for the love of all that’s holy. I’m panting, afraid, turned on.
Blood pounding through my body, my legs like jelly. Slowly, I
crawl over to him until I am beside him.
“Good girl,” he murmurs. “Now stand up.”
Oh, shit … can’t he just get this over with? I’m not sure if I can
stand. Hesitantly, I clamber to my feet. He holds his hand out, and I
place the condom in his palm. Suddenly he grabs me, tipping me
across his lap. With one smooth movement, he angles his body so
my torso is resting on the bed beside him. He throws his right leg
over both of mine and plants his left forearm on the small of my
back, holding me down so I cannot move. Oh, fuck.
“Put your hands up on either side of your head,” he orders.
I obey immediately.
“Why am I doing this, Anastasia?” he asks.
“Because I rolled my eyes at you,” I can barely speak.
“Do you think that’s polite?”
“No.”
“Will you do it again?”
“No.”
“I will spank you each time you do it, do you understand?”
Very slowly, he pulls down my sweatpants. Oh, how demeaning
is this? Demeaning and scary and hot. He’s making such a meal of
this. My heart is in my mouth. I can barely breathe. Shit, is this going
to hurt?
He places his hand on my naked behind, softly fondling me,
stroking around and around with his at palm. And then his hand is
no longer there … and he hits me—hard. Ow! My eyes spring open
in response to the pain, and I try to rise, but his hand moves
between my shoulder blades, keeping me down. He caresses me
again where he’s hit me, and his breathing’s changed—it’s louder,
harsher. He hits me again and again, quickly in succession. Holy
fuck it hurts. I make no sound, my face screwed up against the pain.
I try to wriggle away from the blows—spurred on by adrenaline
spiking and coursing through my body.
“Keep still,” he growls, “or I’ll spank you for longer.”
He’s rubbing me now, and the blow follows. A rhythmic pattern
emerges: caress, fondle, hard slap. I have to concentrate to handle
this pain. My mind empties as I endeavor to absorb the grueling
sensation. He doesn’t hit me in the same place twice in succession—
he’s spreading the pain.
“Aargh!” I cry out on the tenth slap—and I’m unaware that I have
been mentally counting the blows.
“I’m just getting warmed up.”
He hits me again, then he strokes me softly. The combination of
the hard stinging blow and his gentle caress is so mind-numbing. He
hits me again … this is getting harder to take. My face hurts, it’s
screwed up so tight. He strokes me gently and then the blow comes.
I cry out again.
“No one to hear you, baby, just me.”
And he hits me again and again. From somewhere deep inside, I
want to beg him to stop. But I don’t. I don’t want to give him the
satisfaction. He continues the unrelenting rhythm. I cry out six more
times. Eighteen slaps in total. My body is singing, singing from his
merciless assault.
“Enough,” he breathes hoarsely. “Well done, Anastasia. Now I’m
going to fuck you.”
He caresses my behind gently, and it burns as he strokes me
around and around and down. Suddenly, he inserts two ngers
inside me, taking me completely by surprise. I gasp, this new
assault breaking through the numbness around my brain.
“Feel this. See how much your body likes this, Anastasia. You’re
soaking just for me.” There is awe in his voice. He moves his ngers
in and out in quick succession.
I groan. No, surely not. And then his ngers are gone … and I’m
left wanting.
“Next time, I will get you to count. Now where’s that condom?”
He reaches beside him for the condom and lifts me gently,
pushing me face down onto the bed. I hear the sound of his zipper
and the rip of the foil. He pulls my sweatpants completely o and
then guides me into a kneeling position, gently caressing my now
very sore behind.
“I’m going to take you now. You can come,” he murmurs.
What? Like I have a choice.
And he’s inside me, quickly lling me. I moan loudly. He moves,
pounding into me, a fast, intense pace against my sore behind. The
feeling is beyond exquisite, raw and debasing and mind-blowing.
My senses are ravaged, disconnected, solely concentrating on what
he’s doing to me. How he’s making me feel that familiar pull deep
in my belly, tightening, quickening. NO … and my traitorous body
explodes in an intense, body-shattering orgasm.
“Oh, Ana!” he cries out loudly as he nds his release, holding me
in place as he pours himself into me. He collapses, panting hard
beside me, and he pulls me on top of him and buries his face in my
hair, holding me close.
“Oh, baby,” he breathes. “Welcome to my world.”
We lie there, panting together, waiting for our breathing to slow.
He gently strokes my hair. I’m on his chest again. But this time, I
don’t have the strength to lift my hand and feel him. Boy … I
survived. That wasn’t so bad. I’m more stoic than I thought. My
inner goddess is prostrate … well, at least she’s quiet. Christian
nuzzles my hair again, inhaling deeply.
“Well done, baby,” he whispers, quiet joy in his voice. His words
curl around me like a soft, uy towel from the Heathman Hotel,
and I’m so pleased that he’s happy.
He picks at the strap on my camisole.
“Is this what you sleep in?” he asks gently.
“Yes,” I breathe sleepily.
“You should be in silks and satins, you beautiful girl. I’ll take you
shopping.”
“I like my sweats,” I murmur, trying and failing to sound
irritated.
He kisses my head again.
“We’ll see,” he says.
We lie for a few more minutes, hours, who knows, and I think I
doze.
“I have to go,” he says, and leaning down, he kisses my forehead
gently. “Are you okay?” His voice is soft.
I think about his question. My backside is sore. Well, glowing
now, and amazingly I feel, apart from exhausted, radiant. The
realization is humbling, unexpected. I don’t understand.
“I’m okay,” I whisper. I don’t want to say more than that.
He rises.
“Where’s your bathroom?”
“Down the hall to the left.”
He scoops up the other condom and heads out of the bedroom. I
rise stiy and put my sweatpants back on. They chafe a little
against my still-smarting behind. I’m so confused by my reaction. I
remember him saying—I can’t remember when—that I would feel
so much better after a good hiding. How can that be so? I really
don’t get it. But strangely, I do. I can’t say that I enjoyed the
experience. In fact, I would still go a long way to avoid it, but
now … I have this safe, weird, bathed in afterglow, sated feeling. I
put my head in my hands. I just don’t understand.
Christian reenters the room. I can’t look him in the eye. I stare
down at my hands.
“I found some baby oil. Let me rub it into your behind.”
What?
“No. I’ll be ne.”
“Anastasia,” he warns, and I want to roll my eyes but quickly stop
myself. I stand facing the bed. Sitting beside me, he gently pulls my
sweatpants down again. Up and down like whores’ drawers, my
subconscious remarks bitterly. In my head, I tell her where to go.
Christian squirts baby oil into his hand and then rubs my behind
with careful tenderness—from makeup remover to soothing balm
for a spanked ass, who would have thought it was such a versatile
liquid.
“I like my hands on you,” he murmurs, and I have to agree; me,
too.
“There,” he says when he’s nished, and he pulls my pants up
again.
I glance over at my clock. It’s ten thirty.
“I’m leaving now.”
“I’ll see you out.” I still can’t look at him.
Taking my hand, he leads me to the front door. Fortunately, Kate
is still not home. She must still be having dinner with her folks and
Ethan. I’m really glad she’s not been around to hear my
chastisement.
“Don’t you have to call Taylor?” I ask, avoiding eye contact.
“Taylor’s been here since nine. Look at me,” he breathes.
I struggle to meet his eyes, but when I do, he’s gazing down at
me with wonder.
“You didn’t cry,” he murmurs, then grabs me suddenly and kisses
me fervently. “Sunday,” he whispers against my lips, and it’s both a
promise and a threat.
I watch him walk down the path and climb into the big black
Audi. He doesn’t look back. I close the door and stand helpless in
the living room of an apartment that I shall only spend another two
nights in. A place I have lived happily for almost four years … yet
today, for the rst time ever, I feel lonely and uncomfortable here,
unhappy with my own company. Have I strayed so far from who I
am? I know that lurking, not very far under my rather numb
exterior, is a well of tears. What am I doing? The irony is I can’t
even sit down and enjoy a good cry. I’ll have to stand. I know it’s
late, but I decide to call my mom.
“Honey, how are you? How was graduation?” she enthuses down
the phone. Her voice is a soothing balm.
“Sorry it’s so late,” I whisper.
She pauses.
“Ana? What’s wrong?” She’s all seriousness now.
“Nothing, Mom, I just wanted to hear your voice.”
She’s silent for a moment.
“Ana, what is it? Please tell me.” Her voice is soft and
comforting, and I know that she cares. Uninvited, my tears begin to
ow. I have cried so often in the last few days.
“Please, Ana,” she says, and her anguish reects mine.
“Oh, Mom, it’s a man.”
“What’s he done to you?” Her alarm is palpable.
“It’s not like that.” Although it is … Oh, crap. I don’t want to
worry her. I just want someone else to be strong for me at the
moment.
“Ana, please, you’re worrying me.”
I take a big breath. “I’ve kind of fallen for this guy, and he’s so
dierent from me, and I don’t know if we should be together.”
“Oh, darling. I wish I could be with you. I am so sorry I missed
your graduation. You’ve fallen for someone, nally. Oh, honey,
men, they are tricky. They’re a dierent species, honey. How long
have you known him?”
Christian is denitely a dierent species … dierent planet.
“Oh, nearly three weeks or so.”
“Ana, darling, that’s no time at all. How can you possibly know
someone in that kind of time frame? Just take it easy with him and
keep him at arm’s length until you decide whether he’s worthy of
you.”
Wow … it’s unnerving when my mother is so insightful, but she’s
just too late on this. Is he worthy of me? That’s an interesting
concept. I always wonder whether I am worthy of him.
“Honey, you sound so unhappy. Come home—visit with us. I miss
you, darling. Bob would love to see you, too. You can get some
distance and maybe some perspective. You need a break. You’ve
been working so hard.”
Oh boy, is this tempting. Run away to Georgia. Grab some
sunshine, some cocktails. My mother’s good humor … her loving
arms.
“I have two job interviews in Seattle on Monday.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful news.”
The door opens and Kate appears, grinning at me. Her face falls
when she sees I’ve been crying.
“Mom, I have to go. I’ll think about a visit. Thank you.”
“Honey, please, don’t let a man get under your skin. You’re far
too young. Go and enjoy yourself.”
“Yes, Mom, love you.”
“Oh, Ana, I love you, too, so much. Stay safe, honey.” I hang up
and face Kate, who glares at me.
“Has that obscenely rich fucker upset you again?”
“No … sort of … er … yes.”
“Just tell him to take a hike, Ana. You’ve been so up and down
since you met him. I’ve never seen you like this.”
The world of Katherine Kavanagh is very clear, very black and
white. Not the intangible, mysterious, vague hues of gray that color
my world. Welcome to my world.
“Sit, let’s talk. Let’s have some wine. Oh, you’ve had
champagne.” She spies the bottle. “Some good stu, too.”
I smile ineectually, looking apprehensively at the couch. I
approach it with caution. Hmm … sitting.
“Are you okay?”
“I fell over and landed on my behind.”
She doesn’t think to question my explanation, because I am one
of the most uncoordinated people in Washington State. I never
thought I’d see that as a blessing. I sit down gingerly, pleasantly
surprised that I’m okay, and turn my attention to Kate but my mind
glazes over and I’m pulled back to the Heathman—Well, if you were
mine you wouldn’t be able to sit down for a week after the stunt you
pulled yesterday. He said it then, and all I could concentrate on at
the time was being his. All the warning signs were there, I was just
too clueless and too enamored to notice.
Kate comes back into the living area with a bottle of red wine and
washed teacups.
“Here we go.” She hands me a cup of wine. It won’t taste as good
as the Bolly.
“Ana, if he’s a jerk with commitment issues, dump him. Though I
don’t really understand his commitment issues. He couldn’t take his
eyes o you in the marquee, watched you like a hawk. I’d say he
was completely smitten, but maybe he has a funny way of showing
it.”
Smitten? Christian? Funny way of showing it? I’ll say.
“Kate, it’s complicated. How was your evening?” I ask.
I can’t talk this through with Kate without revealing too much,
but one question on her day and Kate is o. It’s reassuring to sit and
listen to her normal chatter. The hot news is that Ethan may be
coming to live with us after their vacation. That will be fun—Ethan
is a hoot. I frown. I don’t think Christian will approve.
Well … tough. He’ll just have to suck it up. I have a couple of
teacups of wine and decide to call it a night. It’s been one very long
day. Kate hugs me, and then grabs the phone to call Elliot.
I check the mean machine after I brush my teeth. There’s an e-
mail from Christian.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: You
Date: May 26 2011 23:14
To: Anastasia Steele
Dear Miss Steele,
You are quite simply exquisite. The most beautiful, intelligent, witty, and brave
woman I have ever met. Take some Advil—this is not a request. And don’t drive your
Beetle again. I will know.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
Oh, not drive my car again! I type out my reply.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Flattery
Date: May 26 2011 23:20
To: Christian Grey
Dear Mr. Grey,
Flattery will get you nowhere, but since you’ve been everywhere the point is moot.
I will need to drive my Beetle to a garage so I can sell it—so will not graciously accept
any of your nonsense over that.
Red wine is always more preferable to Advil.
Ana
P.S.: Caning is a HARD limit for me.
I hit “send.”
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Frustrating Women Who Can’t Take Compliments
Date: May 26 2011 23:26
To: Anastasia Steele
Dear Miss Steele,
I am not attering you. You should go to bed.
I accept your addition to the hard limits.
Don’t drink too much.
Taylor will dispose of your car and get a good price for it, too.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Taylor—Is He the Right Man for the Job?
Date: May 26 2011 23:40
To: Christian Grey
Dear Sir,
I am intrigued that you are happy to risk letting your right-hand man drive my car but
not some woman you fuck occasionally. How can I be sure that Taylor is the man to
get me the best deal for said car? I have, in the past, probably before I met you, been
known to drive a hard bargain.
Ana
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Careful!
Date: May 26 2011 23:44
To: Anastasia Steele
Dear Miss Steele,
I am assuming it is the RED WINE talking, and that you’ve had a very long day.
Though I am tempted to drive back over there to ensure that you don’t sit down for a
week, rather than an evening.
Taylor is ex-army and capable of driving anything from a motorcycle to a Sherman
tank. Your car does not present a hazard to him.
Now please do not refer to yourself as “some woman I fuck occasionally” because, quite
frankly, it makes me MAD, and you really wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Careful Yourself
Date: May 26 2011 23:57
To: Christian Grey
Dear Mr. Grey,
I’m not sure I like you anyway, especially at the moment.
Miss Steele
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Careful Yourself
Date: May 27 2011 00:03
To: Anastasia Steele
Why don’t you like me?
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Careful Yourself
Date: May 27 2011 00:09
To: Christian Grey
Because you never stay with me.
There, that’s given him something to think about. I shut the
machine down with a ourish I don’t really feel and crawl into my
bed. I switch o my sidelight and stare up at the ceiling. It’s been
one long day, one emotional wrench after another. It was
heartwarming to spend some time with Ray. He looked well, and
weirdly, he approved of Christian. Jeez, Kate and her gargantuan
mouth. Hearing Christian speak about being hungry. What the hell
is that all about? God, and the car. I haven’t even told Kate about
the new car. What was Christian thinking?
And then this evening, he actually hit me. I’ve never been hit in
my life. What have I gotten myself into? Very slowly, my tears,
halted by Kate’s arrival, begin to slide down the side of my face and
into my ears. I have fallen for someone who’s so emotionally shut
down, I will only get hurt—deep down I know this—someone who
by his own admission is completely fucked up. Why is he so fucked
up? It must be awful to be as aected as he is, and the thought that
as a toddler he suered some unbearable cruelty makes me cry
harder. Perhaps if he was more normal he wouldn’t want you, my
subconscious contributes snidely to my musings … and in my heart
of hearts I know this is true. I turn into my pillow and the sluice
gates open … and for the rst time in years, I am sobbing
uncontrollably into my pillow.
I am momentarily distracted from my dark night of the soul by
Kate shouting.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing here?”
“Well, you can’t!”
“What the fuck have you done to her now?”
“Since she’s met you she cries all the time.”
“You can’t come in here!”
Christian bursts into my bedroom and unceremoniously switches
on the overhead light, making me squint.
“Jesus, Ana,” he mutters. He icks the switch o again and is at
my side in a moment.
“What are you doing here?” I gasp between sobs. Crap. I can’t
stop crying.
He switches on the sidelight, making me squint again. Kate comes
and stands in the doorway.
“Do you want me to throw this asshole out?” she asks, radiating
thermonuclear hostility.
Christian raises his eyebrows at her, no doubt surprised by her
attering epithet and her feral antagonism. I shake my head, and
she rolls her eyes at me. Oh … I wouldn’t do that near Mr. G.
“Just holler if you need me,” she says more gently. “Grey—
you’re on my shit list and I’m watching you,” she hisses at him. He
blinks at her, and she turns and pulls the door closed but doesn’t
shut it.
Christian gazes down at me, his expression grave, his face ashen.
He’s wearing his pinstriped jacket, and from his inside pocket he
pulls out a handkerchief and hands it to me. I think I still have his
other one somewhere.
“What’s going on?” he asks quietly.
“Why are you here?” I ask, ignoring his question. My tears have
miraculously ceased, but I’m left with dry heaves racking my body.
“Part of my role is to look after your needs. You said you wanted
me to stay, so here I am. And yet I nd you like this.” He blinks at
me, truly bewildered. “I’m sure I’m responsible, but I have no idea
why. Is it because I hit you?”
I pull myself up, wincing from my sore behind. I sit and face him.
“Did you take some Advil?”
I shake my head. He narrows his eyes, stands, and leaves the
room. I hear him talking to Kate but not what they are saying. He’s
back a few moments later with pills and a teacup of water.
“Take these,” he orders gently as he sits on my bed beside me.
I do as I’m told.
“Talk to me,” he whispers. “You told me you were okay. I’d
never have left you if I thought you were like this.”
I stare down at my hands. What can I say that I haven’t said
already? I want more. I want him to stay because he wants to stay
with me, not because I’m a blubbering mess, and I don’t want him
to beat me, is that so unreasonable?
“I take it that when you said you were okay, you weren’t.”
I ush. “I thought I was ne.”
“Anastasia, you can’t tell me what you think I want to hear.
That’s not very honest,” he admonishes me. “How can I trust
anything you’ve said to me?”
I peek up at him, and he’s frowning, a bleak look in his eye. He
runs both hands through his hair.
“How did you feel while I was hitting you and after?”
“I didn’t like it. I’d rather you didn’t do it again.”
“You weren’t meant to like it.”
“Why do you like it?” I stare up at him.
My question surprises him.
“You really want to know?”
“Oh, trust me, I’m fascinated.” And I can’t quite keep the sarcasm
out of my voice.
He narrows his eyes again.
“Careful,” he warns.
I blanch. “Are you going to hit me again?”
“No, not tonight.”
Phew … my subconscious and I both breathe a silent sigh of
relief.
“So,” I prompt.
“I like the control it gives me, Anastasia. I want you to behave in
a particular way, and if you don’t, I shall punish you, and you will
learn to behave the way I desire. I enjoy punishing you. I’ve wanted
to spank you since you asked me if I was gay.”
I ush at the memory. Jeez, I wanted to spank myself after that
question. So Katherine Kavanagh is responsible for all this, and if
she’d gone to that interview and asked her gay question, she’d be
sitting here with the sore ass. I don’t like that thought. How
confusing is this?
“So you don’t like the way I am.”
He stares at me, bewildered again. “I think you’re lovely the way
you are.”
“So why are you trying to change me?”
“I don’t want to change you. I’d like you to be courteous and to
follow the set of rules I’ve given you and not defy me. Simple,” he
says.
“But you want to punish me?”
“Yes, I do.”
“That’s what I don’t understand.”
He sighs and runs his hands through his hair again.
“It’s the way I’m made, Anastasia. I need to control you. I need
you to behave in a certain way, and if you don’t—I love to watch
your beautiful alabaster skin pink and warm up under my hands. It
turns me on.”
Holy shit. Now we’re getting somewhere.
“So it’s not the pain you’re putting me through?”
He swallows.
“A bit, to see if you can take it, but that’s not the whole reason.
It’s the fact that you are mine to do with as I see t—ultimate
control over someone else. And it turns me on. Big time, Anastasia.
Look, I’m not explaining myself very well … I’ve never had to
before. I’ve not really thought about this in any great depth. I’ve
always been with like-minded people.” He shrugs apologetically.
“And you still haven’t answered my question—how did you feel
afterward?”
“Confused.”
“You were sexually aroused by it, Anastasia.” He closes his eyes
briey, and when he reopens them and gazes at me, they are
blazing.
His expression pulls at that dark part of me, buried in the depths
of my belly—my libido, woken and tamed by him but, even now,
insatiable.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs.
I frown. Jeez, what have I done now?
“I don’t have any condoms, Anastasia, and you know, you’re
upset. Contrary to what your roommate believes, I’m not a priapic
monster. So, you felt confused?”
I squirm under his intense gaze.
“You have no problem being honest with me in print. Your e-
mails always tell me exactly how you feel. Why can’t you do that in
conversation? Do I intimidate you that much?”
I pick at an imaginary spot on my mother’s blue-and-cream quilt.
“You beguile me, Christian. Completely overwhelm me. I feel like
Icarus ying too close to the sun,” I whisper.
He gasps. “Well, I think you’ve got that the wrong way around,”
he whispers.
“What?”
“Oh, Anastasia, you’ve bewitched me. Isn’t it obvious?”
No, not to me. Bewitched … my inner goddess is staring
openmouthed. Even she doesn’t believe this.
“You’ve still not answered my question. Write me an e-mail,
please. But right now, I’d really like to sleep. Can I stay?”
“Do you want to stay?” I can’t hide the hope in my voice.
“You wanted me here.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“I’ll write you an e-mail,” he mutters petulantly.
Standing, he empties his jeans pockets of BlackBerry, keys,
wallet, and money. Holy cow, men carry a lot of crap in their
pockets. He strips o his watch, shoes, socks, and jeans and places
his jacket over my chair. He walks around to the other side of the
bed and slides in.
“Lie down,” he orders.
I slip slowly under the covers, wincing, staring at him.
Jeez … he’s staying. I think I’m numb with elated shock. He leans
up on one elbow, staring down at me.
“If you are going to cry, cry in front of me. I need to know.”
“Do you want me to cry?”
“Not particularly. I just want to know how you’re feeling. I don’t
want you slipping through my ngers. Switch the light o. It’s late,
and we both have to work tomorrow.”
So here … and still so bossy, but I can’t complain; he’s in my bed. I
don’t quite understand why … maybe I should weep more often in
front of him. I switch o the bedside light.
“Lie on your side, facing away from me,” he murmurs in the
darkness.
I roll my eyes in the full knowledge that he cannot see me, but I
do as I’m told. Gingerly, he moves over and puts his arms around
me and pulls me to his chest.
“Sleep, baby,” he whispers, and I feel his nose in my hair as he
inhales deeply.
Holy cow. Christian Grey is sleeping with me, and in the comfort
and solace of his arms, I drift into a peaceful sleep.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The candle ame is too hot. It ickers and dances in the over-
warm breeze, a breeze that brings no respite from the heat. Soft
gossamer wings utter to and fro in the dark, sprinkling dusty
scales in the circle of light. I’m struggling to resist, but I’m drawn.
And then it’s so bright, and I am ying too close to the sun, dazzled
by the light, fried and melting from the heat, weary in my
endeavors to stay airborne. I am so warm. The heat … it’s stiing,
overpowering. It wakes me.
I open my eyes, and I’m draped in Christian Grey. He’s wrapped
around me like a victory ag. He’s fast asleep with his head on my
chest, his arm over me, holding me close, one of his legs thrown
over and hooked around both of mine. He’s suocating me with his
body heat, and he’s heavy. I take a moment to absorb that he’s still
in my bed and fast asleep, and it’s light outside—morning. He has
spent the whole night with me.
My right arm is stretched, no doubt in search of a cool spot, and
as I process the fact that he’s still with me, the thought occurs that I
can touch him. He’s asleep. Tentatively, I lift my hand and run the
tips of my ngers down his back. Deep in his throat, I hear a faint,
distressed groan, and he stirs. He nuzzles my chest, inhaling deeply
as he wakes. Sleepy, blinking gray eyes meet mine beneath his
tousled mop of hair.
“Good morning,” he mumbles, and frowns. “Jesus, even in my
sleep I’m drawn to you.” He moves slowly, unpeeling his limbs
from me as he gets his bearings. I become aware of his erection
against my hip. He notices my wide-eyed reaction, and he smiles a
slow, sexy smile.
“Hmm … this has possibilities, but I think we should wait until
Sunday.” He leans down and nuzzles my ear with his nose.
I ush, but then I feel seven shades of scarlet from his heat.
“You’re very hot,” I murmur.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” he murmurs, and presses himself
against me, suggestively.
I ush some more. That’s not what I meant. He props himself up
on his elbow, gazing down at me, amused. He bends and, to my
surprise, plants a gentle kiss on my lips.
“Sleep well?” he asks.
I nod, staring up at him, and I realize that I’ve slept very well
except maybe for the last half hour when I was too hot.
“So did I.” He frowns. “Yes, really well.” He raises his eyebrows
in confused surprise. “What’s the time?”
I glance at my alarm.
“It’s seven thirty.”
“Seven thirty … shit.” He scrambles out of bed and drags on his
jeans.
It is my turn to look amused as I sit up. Christian Grey is late and
ustered. This is something I have never seen before. I belatedly
realize that my behind is no longer sore.
“You are such a bad inuence on me. I have a meeting. I have to
go—I have to be in Portland at eight. Are you smirking at me?”
“Yes.”
He grins. “I’m late. I don’t do late. Another rst, Miss Steele.” He
pulls on his jacket and then bends down and grasps my head, his
hands on either side.
“Sunday,” he says, and the word is pregnant with an unspoken
promise. Everything deep in my body uncurls and then clenches in
delicious anticipation. The feeling is exquisite.
Holy hell, if my mind could just keep up with my body. He leans
forward and kisses me quickly. He grabs his stu from my side
table and his shoes—which he doesn’t put on.
“Taylor will come and sort your Beetle. I was serious. Don’t drive
it. I’ll see you at my place on Sunday. I’ll e-mail you a time.” And
like a whirlwind, he’s gone.
Christian Grey spent the night with me, and I feel rested. And
there was no sex, only cuddling. He told me he never slept with
anyone—but he’s slept three times with me. I grin and slowly climb
out of my bed. I feel more optimistic than I have for the last day or
so. I head for the kitchen, needing a cup of tea.
After breakfast, I shower and dress quickly for my last day at
Clayton’s. It is the end of an era—good-bye to Mr. and Mrs.
Clayton, WSU, Vancouver, the apartment, my Beetle. I glance at the
mean machine—it’s only 7:52. I have time.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Assault and Battery: The After-Eects
Date: May 27 2011 08:05
To: Christian Grey
Dear Mr. Grey,
You wanted to know why I felt confused after you—which euphemism should we apply
—spanked, punished, beat, assaulted me. Well, during the whole alarming process, I
felt demeaned, debased, and abused. And much to my mortication, you’re right, I was
aroused, and that was unexpected. As you are well aware, all things sexual are new to
me—I only wish I was more experienced and therefore more prepared. I was shocked to
feel aroused.
What really worried me was how I felt afterward. And that’s more dicult to
articulate. I was happy that you were happy. I felt relieved that it wasn’t as painful as I
thought it would be. And when I was lying in your arms, I felt … sated. But I feel very
uncomfortable, guilty even, feeling that way. It doesn’t sit well with me, and I’m
confused as a result. Does that answer your question?
I hope the world of Mergers and Acquisitions is as stimulating as ever … and that you
weren’t too late.
Thank you for staying with me.
Ana
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Free Your Mind
Date: May 27 2011 08:24
To: Anastasia Steele
Interesting … if slightly overstated title heading, Miss Steele.
To answer your points:
• I’ll go with spanking—as that’s what it was.
• So you felt demeaned, debased, abused, and assaulted—how very Tess Durbeyeld of
you. I believe it was you who decided on the debasement, if I remember correctly. Do
you really feel like this or do you think you ought to feel like this? Two very dierent
things. If that is how you feel, do you think you could just try to embrace these
feelings, deal with them, for me? That’s what a submissive would do.
• I am grateful for your inexperience. I value it, and I’m only beginning to understand
what it means. Simply put … it means that you are mine in every way.
• Yes, you were aroused, which in turn was very arousing, there’s nothing wrong with
that.
• Happy does not even begin to cover how I felt. Ecstatic joy comes close.
• Punishment spanking hurts far more than sensual spanking—so that’s about as hard as
it gets, unless, of course, you commit some major transgression, in which case I’ll use
some implement to punish you with. My hand was very sore. But I like that.
• I felt sated, too—more so than you could ever know.
• Don’t waste your energy on guilt, feelings of wrongdoing, etc. We are consenting adults
and what we do behind closed doors is between ourselves. You need to free your mind
and listen to your body.
• The world of M&A is not nearly as stimulating as you are, Miss Steele.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
Holy crap … mine in every way. My breath hitches.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Consenting Adults!
Date: May 27 2011 08:26
To: Christian Grey
Aren’t you in a meeting?
I’m very glad your hand was sore.
And if I listened to my body, I’d be in Alaska by now.
Ana
P.S.: I will think about embracing these feelings.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: You Didn’t Call the Cops
Date: May 27 2011 08:35
To: Anastasia Steele
Miss Steele,
I am in a meeting discussing the futures market, if you’re really interested.
For the record, you stood beside me knowing what I was going to do.
You didn’t at any time ask me to stop—you didn’t use either safeword.
You are an adult—you have choices.
Quite frankly, I’m looking forward to the next time my palm is ringing with pain.
You’re obviously not listening to the right part of your body.
Alaska is very cold and no place to run. I would nd you.
I can track your cell phone—remember?
Go to work.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
I scowl at the screen. He’s right, of course. It’s my choice. Hmm.
Is he serious about coming to nd me? Should I decide to escape for
a while? My mind its briey to my mother’s oer. I hit “reply.”
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Stalker
Date: May 27 2011 08:36
To: Christian Grey
Have you sought therapy for your stalker tendencies?
Ana
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Stalker? Me?
Date: May 27 2011 08:38
To: Anastasia Steele
I pay the eminent Dr. Flynn a small fortune with regard to my stalker and other
tendencies.
Go to work.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Expensive Charlatans
Date: May 27 2011 08:40
To: Christian Grey
May I humbly suggest you seek a second opinion? I am not sure that Dr. Flynn is very
eective.
Miss Steele
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Second Opinions
Date: May 27 2011 08:43
To: Anastasia Steele
Not that it’s any of your business, humble or otherwise, but Dr. Flynn is the second
opinion.
You will have to speed, in your new car, putting yourself at unnecessary risk—I think
that’s against the rules.
GO TO WORK.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: SHOUTY CAPITALS
Date: May 27 2011 08:47
To: Christian Grey
As the object of your stalker tendencies, I think it is my business, actually.
I haven’t signed yet. So rules, schmules. And I don’t start until 9:30.
Miss Steele
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Descriptive Linguistics
Date: May 27 2011 08:49
To: Anastasia Steele
“Schmules”? Not sure where that appears in Webster’s Dictionary.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Descriptive Linguistics
Date: May 27 2011 08:52
To: Christian Grey
It’s between control freak and stalker.
And descriptive linguistics is a hard limit for me.
Will you stop bothering me now?
I’d like to go to work in my new car.
Ana
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Challenging but Amusing Young Women
Date: May 27 2011 08:56
To: Anastasia Steele
My palm is twitching.
Drive safely, Miss Steele.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
The Audi is a joy to drive. It has power steering. Wanda, my
Beetle, has no power in it at all—anywhere—so my daily workout,
which was driving my Beetle, will cease. Oh, but I will have a
personal trainer to contend with, according to Christian’s rules. I
frown. I hate exercising.
While I am driving, I try to analyze our e-mail exchange. He’s a
patronizing son of a bitch sometimes. And then I think of Grace and
I feel guilty. But of course, she wasn’t his birth mother. Hmm, that’s
a whole world of unknown pain. Well, patronizing son of a bitch
works well, then. Yes. I’m an adult, thank you for reminding me,
Christian Grey, and it is my choice. The problem is, I just want
Christian, not all his … baggage—and right now he has a 747 cargo
hold’s worth of baggage. Could I just lie back and embrace it? Like
a submissive? I’ve said I’d try. It’s an awfully big ask.
I pull into the parking lot at Clayton’s. As I make my way in, I
can hardly believe it’s my last day. Fortunately, the store is busy
and time passes quickly. At lunchtime, Mr. Clayton summons me
from the stockroom. He’s standing beside a motorcycle courier.
“Miss Steele?” the courier asks. I frown questioningly at Mr.
Clayton, who shrugs, as puzzled as me. My heart sinks. What has
Christian sent me now? I sign for the small package and open it
immediately. It’s a BlackBerry. My heart sinks further. I switch it
on.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: BlackBerry ON LOAN
Date: May 27 2011 11:15
To: Anastasia Steele
I need to be able to contact you at all times, and since this is your most honest form of
communication, I gured you needed a BlackBerry.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Consumerism Gone Mad
Date: May 27 2011 13:22
To: Christian Grey
I think you need to call Dr. Flynn right now.
Your stalker tendencies are running wild.
I am at work. I will e-mail you when I get home.
Thank you for yet another gadget.
I wasn’t wrong when I said you were the ultimate consumer.
Why do you do this?
Ana
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Sagacity from One So Young
Date: May 27 2011 13:24
To: Anastasia Steele
Fair point well made, as ever, Miss Steele.
Dr. Flynn is on vacation.
And I do this because I can.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
I put the thing in my back pocket, hating it already. E-mailing
Christian is addictive, but I am supposed to be working. It buzzes
once against my behind … How apt, I think ironically, but
summoning all my willpower, I ignore it.
At four, Mr. and Mrs. Clayton gather all the other employees in
the shop and, during a hair-curlingly embarrassing speech, present
me with a check for three hundred dollars. In that moment, all the
events from the past three weeks well up inside of me: exams,
graduation, an intense, fucked-up billionaire, deowering, hard and
soft limits, playrooms with no consoles, helicopter rides, and the
fact that I will move tomorrow. Amazingly, I hold myself together.
My subconscious is in awe. I hug the Claytons hard.
They have been kind and generous employers, and I will miss
them.
KATE IS CLIMBING OUT of her car when I arrive home.
“What’s that?” she says accusingly, pointing at the Audi. I can’t
resist.
“It’s a car,” I quip. She narrows her eyes, and for a brief moment,
I wonder if she’s going to put me across her knee, too. “My
graduation present.” I try to act nonchalant. Yes, I get expensive cars
given to me every day. Her mouth drops open.
“Generous, over-the-top bastard, isn’t he?”
I nod. “I did try not to accept it, but frankly, it’s just not worth
the ght.”
Kate purses her lips. “No wonder you’re overwhelmed. I did note
that he stayed.”
“Yeah.” I smile wistfully.
“Shall we nish packing?”
I nod and follow her inside. I check the e-mail from Christian.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Sunday
Date: May 27 2011 13:40
To: Anastasia Steele
Shall I see you at 1 p.m. Sunday?
The doctor will be at Escala to see you at 1:30.
I’m leaving for Seattle now.
I hope your move goes well, and I look forward to Sunday.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
Jeez, he could be discussing the weather. I decide to e-mail him
once we’ve nished packing. He can be such fun one minute, and
then he can be so formal and stuy the next. It’s dicult to keep
up. Honestly, it’s like an e-mail to an employee. I roll my eyes at it
deantly and join Kate to pack.
KATE AND I ARE in the kitchen when there’s a knock at the door.
Taylor stands on the porch, looking immaculate in his suit. I notice
the trace of ex-army in his buzz cut, his trim physique, and his cool
stare.
“Miss Steele,” he says, “I’ve come for your car.”
“Oh yes, of course. Come in, I’ll get the keys.”
Surely this is above and beyond the call of duty. I wonder again
at Taylor’s job description. I hand him the keys, and we walk in an
uncomfortable silence—for me—toward the light blue Beetle. I
open the door and remove the ashlight from the glove box. That’s
it. I have nothing else that’s personal in Wanda. Good-bye, Wanda.
Thank you. I caress her roof as I close the passenger door.
“How long have you worked for Mr. Grey?” I ask.
“Four years, Miss Steele.”
Suddenly, I have an overwhelming urge to bombard him with
questions. What this man must know about Christian, all his secrets.
But then he’s probably signed an NDA. I look nervously at him. He
has the same taciturn expression as Ray, and I warm to him.
“He’s a good man, Miss Steele,” he says with a smile. Then he
gives me a little nod, climbs into my car, and drives away.
Apartment, Beetle, Clayton’s—it’s all change now. I shake my
head as I wander back inside. And the biggest change of all is
Christian Grey. Taylor thinks he’s a good man. Can I believe him?
JOSÉ JOINS US WITH Chinese takeout at eight. We’re done. We’re
packed and ready to go. He brings several bottles of beer, and Kate
and I sit on the couch while he’s cross-legged on the oor between
us. We watch crap TV, drink beer, and, as the evening wears on, we
fondly and loudly reminisce as the beer takes eect. It’s been a
good four years.
The atmosphere between José and me has returned to normal, the
attempted kiss forgotten. Well, it’s been swept under the rug that
my inner goddess is lying on, eating grapes and tapping her ngers,
waiting not so patiently for Sunday. There’s a knock on the door,
and my heart leaps into my throat. Is it …?
Kate answers the door and is nearly knocked o her feet by
Elliot. He seizes her in a Hollywood-style clinch that moves quickly
into a European art house embrace. Honestly … get a room. José and
I stare at each other. I’m appalled at their lack of modesty.
“Shall we walk down to the bar?” I ask José, who nods
frantically. We are too uncomfortable with the unrestrained sexing
unfolding in front of us. Kate looks up at me, ushed and bright-
eyed.
“José and I are going for a quick drink.” I roll my eyes at her. Ha!
I can still roll my eyes in my own time.
“Okay.” She grins.
“Hi, Elliot. Bye, Elliot.”
He winks a big blue eye at me, and José and I are out the door,
giggling like teenagers.
As we stroll down to the bar, I put my arm through José’s. God,
he’s so uncomplicated—I hadn’t really appreciated that before.
“You’ll still come to the opening of my show, won’t you?”
“Of course, José, when is it?”
“June ninth.”
“What day is that?” I suddenly panic.
“It’s a Thursday.”
“Yeah, I should make that … and you will visit us in Seattle?”
“Try to stop me.” He grins.
IT’S LATE WHEN I arrive back from the bar. Kate and Elliot are
nowhere to be seen, but boy, can they be heard. Holy shit. I hope
I’m not that loud. I know Christian isn’t. I ush at the thought and
escape to my room. After a brief not-at-all-awkward-thank-goodness
hug, José has gone. I don’t know when I’ll see him again, probably
his photography show, and once again, I’m blown away that he
nally has an exhibition. I shall miss him and his boyish charm. I
couldn’t bring myself to tell him about the Beetle. I know he’ll
freak when he nds out, and I can only deal with one man at a time
freaking out at me. Once in my room, I check the mean machine,
and of course, there’s an e-mail from Christian.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Where Are You?
Date: May 27 2011 22:14
To: Anastasia Steele
“I am at work. I will e-mail you when I get home.”
Are you still at work or have you packed your phone, BlackBerry, and MacBook?
Call me, or I may be forced to call Elliot.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
Crap … José … shit.
I grab my phone. Five missed calls and one voice message.
Tentatively, I listen to the message. It’s Christian.
“I think you need to learn to manage my expectations. I am not a
patient man. If you say you are going to contact me when you nish
work, then you should have the decency to do so. Otherwise, I worry,
and it’s not an emotion I’m familiar with, and I don’t tolerate it very
well. Call me.”
Double crap. Will he ever give me a break? I scowl at the phone.
He is suocating me. With a deep dread uncurling in my stomach, I
scroll down to his number and press “call.” My heart is in my mouth
as I wait for him to answer. He’d probably like to beat seven shades
of shit out of me. The thought is depressing.
“Hi,” he says softly, and his response knocks me o balance
because I am expecting his anger, but if anything, he sounds
relieved.
“Hi,” I murmur.
“I was worried about you.”
“I know. I’m sorry I didn’t reply, but I’m ne.”
He pauses for a beat.
“Did you have a pleasant evening?” He is crisply polite.
“Yes. We nished packing and Kate and I had Chinese takeout
with José.” I close my eyes tightly as I say José’s name. Christian
says nothing.
“How about you?” I ask to ll the sudden deafening chasm of
silence. I will not let him make me feel guilty about José.
Eventually, he sighs.
“I went to a fund-raising dinner. It was deathly dull. I left as soon
as I could.”
He sounds so sad and resigned. My heart clenches. I picture him
all those nights ago sitting at the piano in his huge living room and
the unbearable bittersweet melancholy of the music he was playing.
“I wish you were here,” I whisper, because I have an urge to hold
him. Soothe him. Even though he won’t let me. I want his
proximity.
“Do you?” he murmurs blandly. Holy shit. This doesn’t sound like
him, and my scalp prickles with dawning apprehension.
“Yes,” I breathe. After an eternity, he sighs.
“I’ll see you Sunday?”
“Yes, Sunday,” I murmur, and a thrill courses through my body.
“Good night.”
“Good night, Sir.”
My address catches him unawares, I can tell by his sharp intake of
breath.
“Good luck with your move tomorrow, Anastasia.” His voice is
soft. And we’re both hanging on the phone like teenagers, neither
wanting to hang up.
“You hang up,” I whisper. Finally, I sense his smile.
“No, you hang up.” And I know he’s grinning.
“I don’t want to.”
“Neither do I.”
“Were you very angry with me?”
“Yes.”
“Are you still?”
“No.”
“So you’re not going to punish me?”
“No. I’m an in-the-moment kind of guy.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“You can hang up now, Miss Steele.”
“Do you really want me to, Sir?”
“Go to bed, Anastasia.”
“Yes, Sir.”
We both stay on the line.
“Do you ever think you’ll be able to do what you’re told?” He’s
amused and exasperated at once.
“Maybe. We’ll see after Sunday.” And I press “end” on the phone.
Elliot stands and admires his handiwork. He has replugged our TV
into the satellite system in our Pike Place Market apartment. Kate
and I op onto the couch giggling, impressed by his prowess with a
power drill. The at screen looks odd against the brickwork of the
converted warehouse, but no doubt I will get used to it.
“See, baby, easy.” He grins a wide, white-toothed smile at Kate,
and she almost literally dissolves into the couch.
I roll my eyes at the pair of them.
“I’d love to stay, baby, but my sister is back from Paris. It’s a
compulsory family dinner tonight.”
“Can you come by after?” Kate asks tentatively, all soft and un-
Kate-like.
I stand and make my way over to the kitchen area on the
pretense of unpacking one of the crates. They are going to get icky.
“I’ll see if I can escape,” he promises.
“I’ll come down with you.” Kate smiles.
“Laters, Ana.” Elliot grins.
“Bye, Elliot. Say hi to Christian from me.”
“Just hi?” His eyebrows shoot up suggestively.
“Yes.” I ush. He winks at me, and I go crimson as he follows
Kate out of the apartment.
Elliot is adorable and so dierent from Christian. He’s warm,
open, physical, very physical, too physical, with Kate. They can
barely keep their hands o each other—to be honest it’s
embarrassing—and I am pea green with envy.
Kate returns about twenty minutes later with pizza, and we sit,
surrounded by crates, in our new open space, eating straight from
the box. Kate’s dad has done us proud. The apartment is not large,
but it’s big enough, three bedrooms and a large living space that
looks out onto Pike Place Market itself. It’s all solid wood oors
and red brick, and the kitchen tops are smooth concrete, very
utilitarian, very now. We both love that we will be in the heart of
the city.
At eight, the entry-phone buzzes. Kate leaps up—and my heart
leaps into my mouth.
“Delivery, Miss Steele, Miss Kavanagh.” Disappointment ows
freely and unexpectedly through my veins. It’s not Christian.
“Second oor, apartment two.”
Kate buzzes the delivery boy in. His mouth falls open when he
sees Kate, all tight jeans, T-shirt, and hair piled high with escaping
tendrils. She has that eect on men. He holds a bottle of champagne
with a helicopter-shaped balloon attached. She gives him a dazzling
smile to send him on his way and proceeds to read the card out to
me.
Ladies,
Good luck in your new home.
Christian Grey
Kate shakes her head in disapproval.
“Why can’t he just write ‘from Christian’? And what’s with the
weird helicopter balloon?”
“Charlie Tango.”
“What?”
“Christian ew me to Seattle in his helicopter.” I shrug.
Kate stares at me openmouthed. I have to say I love these
occasions—Katherine Kavanagh, silent and oored—they are so
rare. I take a brief and luxurious moment to enjoy it.
“Yep, he has a helicopter, which he ew himself,” I state proudly.
“Of course the obscenely rich bastard has a helicopter. Why didn’t
you tell me?” Kate looks accusingly at me, but she’s smiling,
shaking her head in disbelief.
“I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.”
She frowns.
“Are you going to be okay while I’m away?”
“Of course,” I answer reassuringly. New city, no job … nut-job
boyfriend.
“Did you give him our address?
“No, but stalking is one of his specialties,” I muse matter-of-
factly.
Kate’s brow knits further.
“Somehow I’m not surprised. He worries me, Ana. At least it’s a
good champagne and it’s chilled.”
Of course. Only Christian would send chilled champagne, or get
his secretary to do it … or maybe Taylor. We open it there and then
and nd our teacups—they were the last items to be packed.
“Bollinger Grande Année Rosé 1999, an excellent vintage.” I grin
at Kate, and we clink teacups.
I WAKE EARLY TO a gray Sunday morning after a surprisingly
refreshing night’s sleep and lie awake staring at my crates. You
should really be unpacking these, my subconscious nags, pursing her
harpy lips together. No … today’s the day. My inner goddess is
beside herself, hopping from foot to foot. Anticipation hangs heavy
and portentous over my head like a dark tropical storm cloud.
Butteries ood my belly—as well as a darker, carnal, captivating
ache as I try to imagine what he will do to me … and of course, I
have to sign that damned contract, or do I? I hear the ping of
incoming mail from the mean machine on the oor beside my bed.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: My Life in Numbers
Date: May 29 2011 08:04
To: Anastasia Steele
If you drive you’ll need this access code for the underground garage at Escala: 146963.
Park in bay ve—it’s one of mine.
Code for the elevator: 1880.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: An Excellent Vintage
Date: May 29 2011 08:08
To: Christian Grey
Yes, Sir. Understood.
Thank you for the champagne and the blow-up Charlie Tango, which is now tied to my
bed.
Ana
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Envy
Date: May 29 2011 08:11
To: Anastasia Steele
You’re welcome.
Don’t be late.
Lucky Charlie Tango.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
I roll my eyes at his bossiness, but his last line makes me smile. I
head for the bathroom, wondering if Elliot made it back last night
and trying hard to rein in my nerves.
I CAN DRIVE THE Audi in high heels! At 12:55 p.m. precisely, I pull
into the garage at Escala and park in bay ve. How many bays does
he own? The Audi SUV and R8 are there, along with two smaller
Audi SUVs … hmm. I check my seldom-worn mascara in the light-up
vanity mirror on my visor. Didn’t have one of these in the Beetle.
Go girl! My inner goddess has her pom-poms in hand—she’s in
cheerleading mode. In the innity mirrors of the elevator, I check
out my plum dress—well, Kate’s plum dress. The last time I wore
this, he wanted to peel it o me. My body clenches at the thought.
The feeling is just exquisite, and I catch my breath. I’m wearing the
underwear that Taylor bought for me. I ush at the thought of his
buzz cut roaming the aisles of Agent Provocateur or wherever he
bought it. The doors open, and I’m facing the foyer of apartment
number one.
Taylor stands at the double doors as I step out of the elevator.
“Good afternoon, Miss Steele,” he says.
“Oh, please, call me Ana.”
“Ana.” He smiles. “Mr. Grey is expecting you.”
I bet he is.
Christian is seated on his living room couch reading the Sunday
papers. He glances up as Taylor directs me into the living area. The
room is exactly as I remember it—it’s been a whole week since I’ve
been here, but it feels so much longer. Christian looks cool and calm
—actually, he looks heavenly. He’s in a loose white linen shirt and
jeans, no shoes or socks. His hair is tousled and unkempt, and his
eyes twinkle wickedly. He rises and strolls toward me, an amused
appraising smile on his beautiful sculptured lips.
I stand immobilized at the entrance of the room, paralyzed by his
beauty and the sweet anticipation of what’s to come. The familiar
charge between us is there, sparking slowly in my belly, drawing
me to him.
“Hmm … that dress,” he murmurs approvingly as he gazes down
at me. “Welcome back, Miss Steele,” he whispers and, clasping my
chin, he leans down and proers a gentle, light kiss on my lips. The
touch of his lips to mine reverberates throughout my body. My
breath hitches.
“Hi,” I whisper as I ush.
“You’re on time. I like punctual. Come.” He takes my hand and
leads me to the couch. “I wanted to show you something,” he says
as we sit. He hands me the Seattle Times. On page eight, there’s a
photograph of the two of us together at the graduation ceremony.
Holy crap. I’m in the paper. I check the caption.
Christian Grey and friend at the graduation ceremony at WSU
Vancouver.
I laugh. “So I’m your ‘friend’ now.”
“So it would appear. And it’s in the newspaper, so it must be
true.” He smirks.
Sitting beside me, his whole body is turned toward me, one of his
legs tucked under the other. Reaching over, he tucks my hair behind
my ear with his long index nger. My body comes alive at his
touch, waiting and needful.
“So, Anastasia, you have a much better idea of what I’m about
since you were last here.”
“Yes.” Where’s he going with this?
“And yet you’ve returned.”
I nod shyly, and his eyes blaze. He shakes his head as if he’s
struggling with the idea.
“Have you eaten?” he asks out of the blue.
Shit.
“No.”
“Are you hungry?” He’s really trying not to look annoyed.
“Not for food,” I whisper, and his nostrils are in reaction.
He leans forward and whispers in my ear. “You are as eager as
ever, Miss Steele, and just to let you in on a little secret, so am I.
But Dr. Greene is due here shortly.” He sits up. “I wish you’d eat,”
he scolds me mildly. My heated blood cools. Holy cow—the doctor.
I’d forgotten.
“What can you tell me about Dr. Greene?” I ask to distract us
both.
“She’s the best ob-gyn in Seattle. What more can I say?” He
shrugs.
“I thought I was seeing your doctor, and don’t tell me you’re
really a woman, because I won’t believe you.”
He gives me a don’t-be-ridiculous look.
“I think it’s more appropriate that you see a specialist. Don’t
you?” he says mildly.
I nod. Holy Moses, if she’s the best ob-gyn, he’s scheduled her to
see me on a Sunday—at lunchtime! I cannot begin to imagine how
much that costs. Christian frowns suddenly as if recalling something
unpleasant.
“Anastasia, my mother would like you to come to dinner this
evening. I believe Elliot is asking Kate, too. I don’t know how you
feel about that. It will be odd for me to introduce you to my
family.”
Odd? Why?
“Are you ashamed of me?” I can’t keep the wounded hurt out of
my voice.
“Of course not.” He rolls his eyes.
“Why is it odd?”
“Because I’ve never done it before.”
“Why are you allowed to roll your eyes, and I’m not?”
He blinks at me. “I wasn’t aware that I was.”
“Neither am I, usually,” I snap.
Christian glares at me, speechless. Taylor appears at the doorway.
“Dr. Greene is here, sir.”
“Show her up to Miss Steele’s room.”
Miss Steele’s room!
“Ready for some contraception?” he asks as he stands and holds
out his hand to me.
“You’re not going to come as well, are you?” I gasp, shocked.
He laughs. “I’d pay very good money to watch, believe me,
Anastasia, but I don’t think the good doctor would approve.”
I take his hand, and he pulls me up into his arms and kisses me
deeply. I clutch his arms, taken by surprise. His hand is in my hair,
holding my head, and he pulls me against him, his forehead against
mine.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he whispers. “I can’t wait to get you
naked.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Dr. Greene is tall, blond, and immaculate, dressed in a royal-blue
suit. I’m reminded of the women who work in Christian’s oce.
She’s like an identikit model—another Stepford blonde. Her long
hair is swept up in an elegant chignon. She must be in her early
forties.
“Mr. Grey.” She shakes Christian’s outstretched hand.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” Christian says.
“Thank you for making it worth my while, Mr. Grey. Miss
Steele.” She smiles, her eyes cool and assessing.
We shake hands, and I know she’s one of those women who
doesn’t tolerate fools gladly. Like Kate. I like her immediately. She
gives Christian a pointed stare, and after an awkward beat, he takes
his cue.
“I’ll be downstairs,” he mutters, and he leaves what will be my
bedroom.
“Well, Miss Steele. Mr. Grey is paying me a small fortune to
attend to you. What can I do for you?”
AFTER A THOROUGH EXAMINATION and lengthy discussion, Dr. Greene
and I decide on the mini pill. She writes me a prepaid prescription
and instructs me to pick the pills up tomorrow. I love her no-
nonsense attitude—she has lectured me until she’s as blue as her
dress about taking it at the same time every day. And I can tell
she’s burning with curiosity about my so-called relationship with
Mr. Grey. I don’t give her any details. Somehow I don’t think she’d
look so calm and collected if she’d seen his Red Room of Pain. I
ush as we pass its closed door and head back downstairs to the art
gallery that is Christian’s living room.
Christian is reading, seated on his couch. A breathtaking aria is
playing on the music system, swirling around him, cocooning him,
lling the room with a sweet, soulful song. For a moment, he looks
serene. He turns and glances at us when we enter and smiles
warmly at me.
“Are you done?” he asks as if he’s genuinely interested. He points
the remote at a sleek white box beneath the replace that houses
his iPod, and the exquisite melody fades but continues in the
background. Standing, he strolls toward us.
“Yes, Mr. Grey. Look after her; she’s a beautiful, bright young
woman.”
Christian is taken aback—as am I. What an inappropriate thing
for a doctor to say. Is she giving him some kind of not-so-subtle
warning? Christian recovers himself.
“I fully intend to,” he mutters, bemused.
Gazing at him, I shrug, embarrassed.
“I’ll send you my bill,” she says crisply as she shakes his hand.
“Good day, and good luck to you, Ana.” She smiles, her eyes
crinkling, as we shake hands.
Taylor appears from nowhere to escort her through the double
doors and out to the elevator. How does he do that? Where does he
lurk?
“How was that?” Christian asks.
“Fine, thank you. She said that I had to abstain from all sexual
activity for the next four weeks.”
Christian’s mouth drops open in shock, and I cannot keep a
straight face any longer and grin at him like an idiot.
“Gotcha!”
He narrows his eyes, and I immediately stop laughing. In fact, he
looks rather forbidding. Oh, shit. My subconscious quails in the
corner as all the blood drains from my face, and I imagine him
putting me across his knee again.
“Gotcha!” he says, and smirks. He grabs me around my waist and
pulls me up against him. “You are incorrigible, Miss Steele,” he
murmurs, staring down into my eyes as he weaves his ngers into
my hair, holding me rmly in place. He kisses me, hard, and I cling
on to his muscular arms for support.
“As much as I’d like to take you here and now, you need to eat
and so do I. I don’t want you passing out on me later,” he murmurs
against my lips.
“Is that all you want me for—my body?” I whisper.
“That and your smart mouth,” he breathes.
He kisses me again passionately, and then abruptly releases me,
taking my hand and leading me to the kitchen. I am reeling. One
minute we’re joking and the next … I fan my heated face. He’s just
sex on legs, and now I have to recover my equilibrium and eat
something. The aria is still playing in the background.
“What’s the music?”
“ ‘Villa Lobos,’ an aria from Bachianas Brasileiras. Good, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I murmur in total agreement.
The breakfast bar is laid for two. Christian takes a salad bowl
from the fridge.
“Chicken caesar salad okay with you?”
Oh, thank heavens, nothing too heavy.
“Yes, ne, thank you.”
I watch as he moves gracefully through his kitchen. He’s so at
ease with his body on one level, but then he doesn’t like to be
touched … so maybe deep down he isn’t. No man is an island, I
muse—except perhaps Christian Grey.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, pulling me from my reverie. I
ush.
“I was just watching the way you move.”
He raises an eyebrow, amused.
“And?” he says dryly.
I ush some more.
“You’re very graceful.”
“Why thank you, Miss Steele,” he murmurs. He sits down beside
me, holding a bottle of wine. “Chablis?”
“Please.”
“Help yourself to salad,” he says, his voice soft. “Tell me—what
method did you opt for?”
I am momentarily thrown by his question, when I realize he’s
talking about Dr. Greene’s visit.
“Mini pill.”
He frowns.
“And will you remember to take it regularly, at the right time,
every day?”
Jeez … of course I will. How does he know? I blush at the thought
—probably from one or more of the fteen.
“I’m sure you’ll remind me,” I murmur dryly.
He glances at me with amused condescension.
“I’ll put an alarm on my calendar.” He smirks. “Eat.”
The chicken caesar is delicious. To my surprise, I’m famished, and
for the rst time since I’ve been with him, I nish my meal before
he does. The wine is crisp, clean, and fruity.
“Eager as ever, Miss Steele?” he smiles down at my empty plate.
I look at him from beneath my lashes.
“Yes,” I whisper.
His breath hitches. And as he stares down at me, the atmosphere
between us slowly shifting, evolving … charging. His look goes
from dark to smoldering, taking me with him. He stands, closing
the distance between us, and tugs me o my barstool into his arms.
“Do you want to do this?” he breathes, looking down at me
intently.
“I haven’t signed anything.”
“I know—but I’m breaking all the rules these days.”
“Are you going to hit me?”
“Yes, but it won’t be to hurt you. I don’t want to punish you right
now. If you’d caught me yesterday evening, well, that would have
been a dierent story.”
Holy cow. He wants to hurt me … how do I deal with this? I can’t
hide the horror on my face.
“Don’t let anyone try to convince you otherwise, Anastasia. One
of the reasons people like me do this is because we either like to
give or receive pain. It’s very simple. You don’t, so I spent a great
deal of time yesterday thinking about that.”
He pulls me against him, and his erection presses into my belly. I
should run, but I can’t. I’m drawn to him on some deep, elemental
level that I can’t begin to understand.
“Did you reach any conclusions?” I whisper.
“No, and right now, I just want to tie you up and fuck you
senseless. Are you ready for that?”
“Yes,” I breathe as everything in my body tightens at
once … wow.
“Good. Come.” He takes my hand and, leaving all the dirty dishes
on the breakfast bar, we head upstairs.
My heart starts pounding. This is it. I’m really going to do this.
My inner goddess is spinning like a world-class ballerina, pirouette
after pirouette. He opens the door to his playroom, standing back
for me to walk through, and I am once more in the Red Room of
Pain.
It’s the same, the smell of leather, citrus-scented polish, and dark
wood, all very sensual. My blood is running heated and scared
through my system—adrenaline mixed with lust and longing. It’s a
heady, potent cocktail. Christian’s stance has changed completely,
subtly altered, harder and meaner. He gazes down at me and his
eyes are heated, lustful … hypnotic.
“When you’re in here, you are completely mine,” he breathes,
each word slow and measured. “To do with as I see t. Do you
understand?”
His gaze is so intense. I nod, my mouth dry, my heart feeling as if
it will jump out of my chest.
“Take your shoes o,” he orders softly.
I swallow, and rather clumsily, I take them o. He bends and
picks them up and deposits them beside the door.
“Good. Don’t hesitate when I ask you to do something. Now I’m
going to peel you out of this dress. Something I’ve wanted to do for
a few days, if I recall. I want you to be comfortable with your body,
Anastasia. You have a beautiful body, and I like to look at it. It is a
joy to behold. In fact, I could gaze at you all day, and I want you
unembarrassed and unashamed of your nakedness. Do you
understand?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?” He leans over me, glaring.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Do you mean that?” he snaps.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good. Lift your arms up over your head.”
I do as instructed, and he reaches down and grabs the hem.
Slowly, he pulls my dress up over my thighs, my hips, my belly, my
breasts, my shoulders, and up over my head. He stands back to
examine me and absentmindedly folds my dress, not taking his eyes
o me. He places it on the large chest beside the door. Reaching up,
he pulls at my chin, his touch searing me.
“You’re biting your lip,” he breathes. “You know what that does
to me,” he adds darkly. “Turn around.”
I turn immediately, no hesitation. He unclasps my bra and then,
taking both straps, he slowly pulls it down my arms, brushing my
skin with his ngers and the tip of his thumbnails as he slides my
bra o. His touch sends shivers down my spine, waking every nerve
ending in my body. He’s standing behind me, so close that I feel the
heat radiating from him, warming me, warming me all over. He
pulls my hair so it’s all hanging down my back, grasps a handful at
my nape, and angles my head to one side. He runs his nose down
my exposed neck, inhaling all the way, then back up to my ear. The
muscles in my belly clench, carnal and wanting. Jeez, he’s hardly
touched me, and I want him.
“You smell as divine as ever, Anastasia,” he whispers as he places
a soft kiss beneath my ear.
I moan.
“Quiet,” he breathes. “Don’t make a sound.”
Pulling my hair behind me, to my surprise, he starts braiding it in
one large braid, his ngers fast and deft. He ties it with an unseen
hair tie when he’s nished and gives it a quick tug so I’m forced
back against him.
“I like your hair braided in here,” he whispers.
Hmm … why?
He releases my hair.
“Turn around,” he orders.
I do as I’m bid, my breathing shallow, fear and longing mixed
together. It’s an intoxicating mix.
“When I tell you to come in here, this is how you will dress. Just
in your panties. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?” He glowers at me.
“Yes, Sir.”
A trace of a smile lifts the corner of his mouth.
“Good girl.” His eyes burn into mine. “When I tell you to come in
here, I expect you to kneel over there.” He points to a spot beside
the door. “Do it now.”
I blink, processing his words, then turn and rather clumsily kneel
as directed.
“You can sit back on your heels.”
I sit back.
“Place your hands and forearms at on your thighs. Good. Now
part your knees. Wider. Wider. Perfect. Look down at the oor.”
He walks over to me, and I can see his feet and shins in my eld
of vision. Naked feet. I should be taking notes if he wants me to
remember. He reaches down and grasps my braid again, then pulls
my head back so I am looking up at him. It’s only just not painful.
“Will you remember this position, Anastasia?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good. Stay here, don’t move.” He leaves the room.
I’m on my knees, waiting. Where’s he gone? What is he going to
do to me? Time shifts. I have no idea how long he leaves me like
this … a few minutes, ve, ten? My breathing becomes shallower;
the anticipation is devouring me from the inside out.
And suddenly he’s back—and all at once I’m calmer and more
excited in the same breath. Could I be more excited? I can see his
feet. He’s changed his jeans. These are older, ripped, soft, and over-
washed. Holy cow. These jeans are hot. He shuts the door and hangs
something on the back.
“Good girl, Anastasia. You look lovely like that. Well done. Stand
up.”
I stand, but I keep my face down.
“You may look at me.”
I peek up at him, and he’s staring at me intently, assessing, but
his eyes soften. He’s taken o his shirt. Oh my … I want to touch
him. The top button of his jeans is undone.
“I’m going to chain you now, Anastasia. Give me your right
hand.”
I give him my hand. He turns it palm up, and before I know it, he
swats the center with a riding crop I hadn’t noticed is in his right
hand. It happens so quickly that the surprise hardly registers. Even
more astonishing—it doesn’t hurt. Well, not much, just a slight
ringing sting.
“How does that feel?” he asks.
I blink at him, confused.
“Answer me.”
“Okay.” I frown.
“Don’t frown.”
I blink and try for impassive. I succeed.
“Did that hurt?”
“No.”
“This is not going to hurt. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” My voice is uncertain. Is it really not going to hurt?
“I mean it,” he says.
Jeez, my breathing is so shallow. Does he know what I’m
thinking? He shows me the crop. It’s brown plaited leather. My
eyes jerk up to meet his, and they’re alight with re and a trace of
amusement.
“We aim to please, Miss Steele,” he murmurs. “Come.” He takes
my elbow and moves me to beneath the grid. He reaches up and
takes down some shackles with black leather cus.
“This grid is designed so the shackles move across the grid.”
I glance up. Holy shit—it’s like a subway map.
“We’re going to start here, but I want to fuck you standing up. So
we’ll end up by the wall over there.” He points with the riding crop
to where the large wooden X is on the wall.
“Put your hands above your head.”
I oblige immediately, feeling like I’m exiting my body—a casual
observer of events as they unfold around me. This is beyond
fascinating, beyond erotic. It’s singularly the most exciting and
scary thing I’ve ever done. I’m entrusting myself to a beautiful man
who, by his own admission, is fty shades of fucked up. I suppress
the brief thrill of fear. Kate and Elliot, they know I’m here.
He stands very close as he fastens the cus. I’m staring at his
chest. His proximity is heavenly. He smells of body wash and
Christian, an inebriating mix, and that drags me back into the now.
I want to run my nose and tongue through that smattering of chest
hair. I could just lean forward …
He steps back and gazes at me, his expression hooded, salacious,
carnal, and I am helpless, my hands tied, but just looking at his
lovely face, reading his need and longing for me, I can feel the
dampness between my legs. He walks slowly around me.
“You look mighty ne trussed up like this, Miss Steele. And your
smart mouth quiet for now. I like that.”
Standing in front of me again, he hooks his ngers into my
panties and, at a most unhurried pace, peels them down my legs,
stripping me agonizingly slowly, so that he ends up kneeling in
front of me. Not taking his eyes o mine, he scrunches my panties
in his hand, holds them up to his nose, and inhales deeply. Holy
fuck. Did he just do that? He grins wickedly at me and tucks them
into the pocket of his jeans.
Uncoiling from the oor, rising lazily, like a jungle cat, he points
the end of the riding crop at my navel, leisurely circling it—
tantalizing me. At the touch of the leather, I quiver and gasp. He
walks around me again, trailing the crop around the middle of my
body. On his second circuit, he suddenly icks the crop, and it hits
me underneath my behind … against my sex. I cry out in surprise as
all my nerve endings stand to attention. I pull against the restraints.
The shock runs through me, and it’s the sweetest, strangest,
hedonistic feeling.
“Quiet,” he whispers as he walks around me again, the crop
slightly higher around the middle of my body. This time when he
icks it against me in the same place, I’m anticipating it. My body
convulses at the sweet, stinging bite.
As he makes his way around me, he icks again, this time hitting
my nipple, and I throw my head back as my nerve endings sing. He
hits the other … a brief, swift, sweet chastisement. My nipples
harden and elongate from the assault, and I moan loudly, pulling on
my leather cus.
“Does that feel good?” he breathes.
“Yes.”
He hits me again across the buttocks. The crop stings this time.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, Sir,” I whimper.
He comes to a stop … but I can no longer see him. My eyes are
closed as I try to absorb the myriad sensations coursing through my
body. Very slowly, he rains small, biting licks of the crop down my
belly, heading south. I know where this is leading, and I try to
psyche myself up for it—but when he hits my clitoris, I cry out
loudly.
“Oh … please!” I groan.
“Quiet,” he orders, and he hits me again on my behind.
I did not expect this to be like this … I am lost. Lost in a sea of
sensation. And suddenly, he’s dragging the crop against my sex,
through my pubic hair, down to the entrance of my vagina.
“See how wet you are for this, Anastasia. Open your eyes and
your mouth.”
I do as I’m told, completely seduced. He pushes the tip of the
crop into my mouth, like my dream. Holy shit.
“See how you taste. Suck. Suck hard, baby.”
My mouth closes around the crop as my eyes lock on his. I can
taste the rich leather and the saltiness of my arousal. His eyes are
blazing. He’s in his element.
He pulls the tip from my mouth, and he stands forward and grabs
me and kisses me hard, his tongue invading my mouth. Wrapping
his arms around me, he pulls me against him. His chest crushes
mine, and I itch to touch, but I can’t, my hands useless above me.
“Oh, Anastasia, you taste mighty ne,” he breathes. “Shall I make
you come?”
“Please,” I beg.
The crop bites my buttock. Ow!
“Please, what?”
“Please, Sir,” I whimper.
He smiles at me, triumphant.
“With this?” He holds the crop up so I can see it.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Are you sure?” He looks sternly at me.
“Yes, please, Sir.”
“Close your eyes.”
I shut the room out, him out … the crop out. He starts small,
biting licks of the crop against my belly once more. Moving down,
soft small licks against my clitoris, once, twice, three times, again
and again, until nally, that’s it—I can take no more—and I come,
gloriously, loudly, sagging weakly. His arms curl around me as my
legs turn to jelly. I dissolve in his embrace, my head against his
chest, and I’m mewling and whimpering as the aftershocks of my
orgasm consume me. He lifts me, and suddenly we’re moving, my
arms still tethered above my head, and I can feel the cool wood of
the polished cross at my back, and he’s popping the buttons on his
jeans. He puts me down against the cross briey while he slides on
a condom, and then his hands wrap around my thighs as he lifts me
again.
“Lift your legs, baby, wrap them around me.”
I feel so weak, but I do as he asks as he wraps my legs around his
hips and positions himself beneath me. With one thrust, he’s inside
me, and I cry out again, listening to his mued moan at my ear.
My arms are resting on his shoulders as he thrusts into me. Jeez, it’s
deep this way. He thrusts again and again, his face at my neck, his
harsh breathing at my throat. I feel the build up again. Jeez,
no … not again … I don’t think my body will withstand another
Earth-shattering moment. But I have no choice … and with an
inevitability that’s becoming familiar, I let go and come again, and
it’s sweet and agonizing and intense. I lose all sense of self.
Christian follows, shouting his release through clenched teeth and
holding me hard and close as he does.
He pulls out of me swiftly and sets me down against the cross, his
body supporting mine. Unbuckling the cus, he frees my hands, and
we both sink to the oor. He pulls me into his lap, cradling me, and
I lean my head against his chest. If I had the strength, I’d touch
him, but I don’t. Belatedly, I realize he’s still wearing his jeans.
“Well done, baby,” he murmurs. “Did that hurt?”
“No,” I breathe. I can barely keep my eyes open. Why am I so
tired?
“Did you expect it to?” he whispers as he holds me close, his
ngers pushing some escaped tendrils of hair o my face.
“Yes.”
“You see, most of your fear is in your head, Anastasia.” He
pauses. “Would you do it again?”
I think for a moment as fatigue clouds my brain … Again?
“Yes.” My voice is so soft.
He hugs me tightly.
“Good. So would I,” he murmurs, then leans down and softly
kisses the top of my head.
“And I haven’t nished with you yet.”
Not nished with me yet. Holy Moses. There’s no way I can do any
more. I am utterly spent and ghting an overwhelming desire to
sleep. I’m leaning against his chest, my eyes are closed, and he’s
wrapped around me—arms and legs—and I feel … safe, and oh so
comfortable. Will he let me sleep, perchance to dream? My mouth
quirks up at the silly thought, and turning my face into Christian’s
chest, I inhale his unique scent and nuzzle him, but immediately he
tenses … oh crap. I open my eyes and glance up at him. He’s staring
down at me.
“Don’t,” he breathes in warning.
I ush and look back at his chest in longing. I want to run my
tongue through the hair, kiss him, and for the rst time, I notice he
has a few random and faint small, round scars dotted around his
chest. Chicken pox? Measles? I think absently.
“Kneel by the door,” he orders as he sits back, putting his hands
on his knees, eectively releasing me. No longer warm, the
temperature of his voice has dropped several degrees.
I stumble clumsily up into a standing position and scoot over to
the door and kneel as instructed. I’m shaky and very, very tired,
monumentally confused. Who would have thought I could have
found such gratication in this room. Who could have thought it
would be so exhausting? My limbs are deliciously heavy, sated. My
inner goddess has a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the outside of her room.
Christian is moving about in the periphery of my vision. My eyes
start to droop.
“Boring you, am I, Miss Steele?”
I jump awake, and Christian is standing in front of me, his arms
crossed, glaring down at me. Oh, shit, caught napping—this is not
going to be good. His eyes soften as I gaze up at him.
“Stand up,” he orders.
I climb warily to my feet. He stares at me and his mouth quirks
up.
“You’re shattered, aren’t you?”
I nod shyly, ushing.
“Stamina, Miss Steele.” He narrows his eyes at me. “I haven’t had
my ll of you yet. Hold out your hands in front as if you’re
praying.”
I blink at him. Praying! Praying for you to go easy on me. I do as
I’m told. He takes a cable tie and fastens it around my wrists,
tightening the plastic. Holy hell. My eyes y to his.
“Look familiar?” he asks, unable to conceal his smile.
Jeez … the plastic cable ties. Restocking at Clayton’s! It all
becomes clear. I gape up at him as adrenaline spikes though my
body anew. Okay—that’s got my attention—I’m awake now.
“I have scissors here.” He holds them up for me to see. “I can cut
you out of this in a moment.”
I try to pull my wrists apart, testing my bonds, and as I do, the
plastic bites into my esh. It’s sore, but if I relax my wrists they’re
ne—the tie is not cutting into my skin.
“Come.” He takes my hands and leads me over to the four-poster
bed. I notice now that it has dark red sheets on it and a shackle at
each corner.
He leans down and whispers in my ear, “I want more—much,
much more.”
And my heartbeat starts pounding again. Oh boy.
“But I’ll make this quick. You’re tired. Hold on to the post,” he
says.
I frown. Not on the bed then? I nd I can part my hands as I grasp
the ornately carved wooden post.
“Lower,” he orders. “Good. Don’t let go. If you do, I’ll spank you.
Understand?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good.”
He stands behind me and grasps my hips, and then quickly lifts
me backward so I’m bending forward, holding the post.
“Don’t let go, Anastasia,” he warns. “I’m going to fuck you hard
from behind. Hold the post to support your weight. Understand?”
“Yes.”
He smacks me across my behind with his hand. Ow … It stings.
“Yes, Sir,” I mutter quickly.
“Part your legs.” He puts his leg between mine, and holding my
hips, he pushes my right leg to the side.
“That’s better. After this, I’ll let you sleep.”
Sleep? I’m panting. I’m not thinking of sleep now. He reaches up
and gently strokes my back.
“You have such beautiful skin, Anastasia,” he breathes as he bends
down and kisses me along my spine, gentle featherlight kisses. At
the same time, his hands move around to my front, palming my
breasts, and as he does this he traps my nipples between his ngers
and tugs them gently.
I stie my moan as I feel my whole body respond, coming alive
once more for him.
He gently bites and sucks me at my waist, tugging my nipples,
and my hands tighten on the exquisitely carved post. His hands drop
away, and I hear the now familiar tear of foil, and he kicks o his
jeans.
“You have such a captivating, sexy ass, Anastasia Steele. What I’d
like to do to it.” His hands smooth and shape each of my buttocks,
then his ngers glide down, and he slips two ngers inside me.
“So wet. You never disappoint, Miss Steele,” he whispers, and I
hear the wonder in his voice. “Hold tight … this is going to be
quick, baby.”
He grabs my hips and positions himself, and I brace myself for his
assault. But he reaches over me and grabs my braid near the end
and winds it around his wrist to my nape, holding my head in place.
Very slowly he eases into me, pulling my hair at the same
time … Oh, the fullness. He eases out of me slowly, and his other
hand grabs my hip, holding tight, and then he slams into me, jolting
me forward.
“Hold on, Anastasia!” he shouts through clenched teeth.
I grip the post harder and push back against him as he continues
his merciless onslaught, again and again, his ngers digging into my
hip. My arms are aching, my legs feel uncertain, my scalp is getting
sore from his tugging my hair … and I can feel a gathering deep
inside me. Oh no … and for the rst time, I fear my orgasm … if I
come … I’ll collapse. Christian continues to move roughly against
me, in me, his breathing harsh, moaning, groaning. My body is
responding … how? I feel a quickening. But suddenly, Christian
stills, slamming really deep.
“Come on, Ana, give it to me,” he groans, and my name on his
lips sends me over the edge as I become all body and spiraling
sensation and sweet, sweet release, and then completely and utterly
mindless.
When sense returns, I’m lying on him. He’s on the oor, and I’m
lying on top of him, my back to his front, and I’m staring at the
ceiling, all postcoital, glowing, shattered. Oh … the carabiners, I
think absently—I’d forgotten about those. Christian nuzzles my ear.
“Hold up your hands,” he says softly.
My arms feel like they’re made of lead, but I hold them up. He
wields the scissors and passes one blade under the plastic.
“I declare this Ana open,” he breathes, and cuts the plastic.
I giggle and rub my wrists as they’re freed. I feel his grin.
“That is such a lovely sound,” he says wistfully. He sits suddenly,
taking me with him so that I’m once more sitting in his lap.
“That’s my fault,” he says, and shifts me so that he can rub my
shoulders and arms. Gently he massages some life back into my
limbs.
What?
I glance up at him behind me, trying to understand what he
means.
“That you don’t giggle more often.”
“I’m not a great giggler,” I mumble sleepily.
“Oh, but when it happens, Miss Steele, ’tis a wonder and joy to
behold.”
“Very owery, Mr. Grey,” I mutter, trying to keep my eyes open.
His eyes soften, and he smiles.
“I’d say you’re thoroughly fucked and in need of sleep.”
“That wasn’t owery at all,” I grumble playfully.
He grins and gently lifts me o him and stands, gloriously naked.
I wish momentarily that I were more awake to really appreciate
him. Picking up his jeans, he slides them back on, commando.
“Don’t want to frighten Taylor, or Mrs. Jones for that matter,” he
mutters.
Hmm … they must know what a kinky bastard he is. The thought
preoccupies me.
He stoops to help me to my feet and leads me to the door, on the
back of which hangs a gray wae robe. He patiently dresses me as
if I’m a small child. I don’t have the strength to lift my arms. When
I’m covered and respectable, he leans down and kisses me gently,
his mouth quirks up in a smile.
“Bed,” he says.
Oh … no …
“For sleep,” he adds reassuringly when he sees my expression.
Suddenly, he scoops me up and carries me curled against his chest
to the room down the corridor where earlier today Dr. Greene
examined me. My head drops against his chest. I am exhausted. I
don’t remember ever being this tired. Pulling back the duvet, he
lays me down and, even more surprisingly, climbs in beside me and
holds me close.
“Sleep now, gorgeous girl,” he whispers, and he kisses my hair.
And before I can make a facetious comment, I’m asleep.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Soft lips brush across my temple, leaving sweet tender kisses in
their wake, and part of me wants to turn and respond, but mostly I
want to stay asleep. I moan and burrow into my pillow.
“Anastasia, wake up.” Christian’s voice is soft, cajoling.
“No,” I moan.
“We have to leave in half an hour for dinner at my parents’.”
He’s amused.
I open my eyes reluctantly. It’s dusk outside. Christian is leaning
over, gazing at me intently.
“Come on, sleepyhead. Get up.” He stoops down and kisses me
again.
“I’ve brought you a drink. I’ll be downstairs. Don’t go back to
sleep, or you’ll be in trouble,” he threatens, but his tone is mild. He
kisses me briey and exits, leaving me blinking sleep from my eyes
in the cool, stark room.
I’m refreshed but suddenly nervous. Holy cow, I am meeting his
folks! He’s just worked me over with a riding crop and trussed me
up using a cable tie which I sold him, for heaven’s sake—and I’m
going to meet his parents. It will be Kate’s rst time meeting them,
too—at least she’ll be there for support. I roll my shoulders.
They’re sti. His demands for a personal trainer don’t seem so
outlandish now. In fact, it’s mandatory if I am to have any hope of
keeping up with him.
I climb slowly out of bed and note that my dress is hanging
outside the wardrobe and my bra is on the chair. Where are my
panties? I check beneath the chair. Nothing. Then I remember—he
squirreled them away in the pocket of his jeans. I ush at the
memory, after he … I can’t even bring myself to think about it, he
was so—barbarous. I frown. Why hasn’t he given me back my panties?
I steal into the bathroom, bewildered by my lack of underwear.
While drying myself after my enjoyable but far too brief shower, I
realize he’s done this on purpose. He wants me to be embarrassed
and ask for my panties back, and he’ll either say yes or no. My
inner goddess grins at me. Hell … two can play that particular game.
Resolving there and then not to ask him for them and not give him
that satisfaction, I shall go meet his parents sans culottes. Anastasia
Steele! my subconscious chides me, but I don’t want to listen to her
—I almost hug myself with glee because I know this will drive him
crazy.
Back in the bedroom, I put on my bra, slip into my dress, and
climb into my shoes. I remove the braid and hastily brush out my
hair, then glance down at the drink he’s left. It’s pale pink. What’s
this? Cranberry and sparkling water. Hmm … it tastes delicious and
quenches my thirst.
Dashing back into the bathroom, I check myself in the mirror:
eyes bright, cheeks slightly ushed, slightly smug look because of
my panty plan, and I head downstairs. Fifteen minutes. Not bad,
Ana.
Christian is standing by the panoramic window, wearing the grey
annel pants that I love, the ones that hang in that unbelievably
sexy way o his hips, and, of course, a white linen shirt. Doesn’t he
have any other colors? Frank Sinatra sings softly over the surround-
sound speakers.
Christian turns and smiles as I enter. He looks at me expectantly.
“Hi,” I say softly, and my sphinxlike smile meets his.
“Hi,” he says. “How are you feeling?” His eyes are alight with
amusement.
“Good, thanks. You?”
“I feel mighty ne, Miss Steele.”
He is so waiting for me to say something.
“Frank. I never gured you for a Sinatra fan.”
He raises his eyebrows at me, his look speculative.
“Eclectic taste, Miss Steele,” he murmurs, and he paces toward
me like a panther until he’s standing in front of me. His gaze so
intense it takes my breath away.
Frank starts crooning … an old song, one of Ray’s favorites,
“Witchcraft” Christian leisurely traces his ngertips down my cheek,
and I feel it all the way down there.
“Dance with me,” he murmurs, his voice husky.
Taking the remote out of his pocket, he turns up the volume and
holds his hand out to me, his gray gaze full of promise and longing
and humor. He is totally beguiling, and I’m bewitched. I place my
hand in his. He grins lazily down at me and pulls me into his
embrace, his arm curling around my waist.
I put my free hand on his shoulder and grin up at him, caught in
his infectious, playful mood. He sways once, then we’re o. Boy,
can he dance. We cover the oor, from the window to the kitchen
and back again, whirling and turning in time to the music. And he
makes it so eortless for me to follow.
We glide around the dining table, over to the piano, and
backward and forward in front of the glass wall, Seattle twinkling
outside, a dark and magical mural to our dance. I can’t help my
carefree laugh. He grins down at me as the song comes to a close.
“There’s no nicer witch than you,” he murmurs, then kisses me
sweetly. “Well, that’s brought some color to your cheeks, Miss
Steele. Thank you for the dance. Shall we go and meet my parents?”
“You’re welcome, and yes, I can’t wait to meet them,” I answer
breathlessly.
“Do you have everything you need?”
“Oh yes,” I respond sweetly.
“Are you sure?”
I nod as nonchalantly as I can manage under his intense, amused
scrutiny. His face splits into a huge grin, and he shakes his head.
“Okay. If that’s the way you want to play it, Miss Steele.”
He grabs my hand, collects his jacket, which is hanging on one of
the barstools, and leads me through the foyer to the elevator. Oh,
the many faces of Christian Grey. Will I ever be able to understand
this mercurial man?
I peek up at him in the elevator. He’s enjoying a private joke, a
trace of a smile irting with his lovely mouth. I fear that it may be
at my expense. What was I thinking? I’m going to see his parents,
and I’m not wearing any underwear. My subconscious gives me an
unhelpful I-told-you-so expression. In the relative safety of his
apartment, it seemed like a fun, teasing idea. Now, I’m almost
outside with no panties! He peers down at me, and it’s there, the
charge building between us. The amused look disappears from his
face and his expression clouds, his eyes dark … oh my.
The elevator doors open on the ground oor. Christian shakes his
head as if to clear his thoughts and gestures for me to exit before
him in a most gentlemanly manner. Who’s he kidding? He’s no
gentleman. He has my panties.
Taylor pulls up in the large Audi. Christian opens the rear door
for me, and I climb inside as elegantly as I can, considering my state
of wanton undress. I’m grateful that Kate’s plum dress is so clingy
and hangs to the top of my knees.
We speed up Interstate 5, both of us quiet, no doubt inhibited by
Taylor’s steady presence in the front. Christian’s mood is almost
tangible and seems to shift, the humor dissipating slowly as we
head north. He’s brooding, staring out the window, and I know he’s
slipping away from me. What is he thinking? I can’t ask him. What
can I say in front of Taylor?
“Where did you learn to dance?” I ask tentatively. He turns to
gaze at me, his eyes unreadable beneath the intermittent light of the
passing street lamps.
“Do you really want to know?” he replies softly.
My heart sinks, and now I don’t because I can guess.
“Yes,” I murmur reluctantly.
“Mrs. Robinson was fond of dancing.”
Oh, my worst suspicions conrmed. She has taught him well, and
the thought depresses me—there’s nothing I can teach him. I have
no special skills. “She must have been a good teacher.”
“She was.”
My scalp prickles. Did she have the best of him? Before he
became so closed? Or did she bring him out of himself? He has such
a fun, playful side. I smile involuntarily as I recall being in his arms
as he spun me around his living room, so unexpected, and he has
my panties somewhere.
And then there’s the Red Room of Pain. I rub my wrists
reexively—thin strips of plastic will do that to a girl. She taught
him all that, too, or ruined him, depending on one’s point of view.
Or perhaps he would have found his way there anyway in spite of
Mrs. R. I realize, in that moment, that I hate her. I hope that I never
meet her because I will not be responsible for my actions if I do. I
can’t remember ever feeling this passionately about anyone,
especially someone I’ve never met. Gazing unseeing out the
window, I nurse my irrational anger and jealousy.
My mind drifts back to the afternoon. Given what I understand of
his preferences, I think he’s been easy on me. Would I do it again? I
can’t even pretend to put up an argument against that. Of course I
would, if he asked me—as long as he didn’t hurt me and if it’s the
only way to be with him.
That’s the bottom line. I want to be with him. My inner goddess
sighs with relief. I reach the conclusion that she rarely uses her
brain to think but another vital part of her anatomy, and at the
moment, it’s a rather exposed part.
“Don’t,” he murmurs.
I frown and turn to look at him.
“Don’t what?” I haven’t touched him.
“Overthink things, Anastasia.” Reaching out, he grasps my hand,
draws it up to his lips, and kisses my knuckles gently. “I had a
wonderful afternoon. Thank you.”
And he’s back with me again. I blink up at him and smile shyly.
He’s so confusing. I ask a question that’s been bugging me.
“Why did you use a cable tie?”
He grins at me.
“It’s quick, it’s easy, and it’s something dierent for you to feel
and experience. I know they’re quite brutal, and I do like that in a
restraining device.” He smiles at me mildly. “Very eective at
keeping you in your place.”
I ush and glance nervously at Taylor, who remains impassive,
eyes on the road. What am I supposed to say to that? Christian shrugs
innocently.
“All part of my world, Anastasia.” He squeezes my hand and lets
go, staring out the window again.
His world, indeed, and I want to belong in it, but on his terms? I
just don’t know. He hasn’t mentioned that damned contract. My
inner musings do nothing to cheer me. I stare out the window and
the landscape has changed. We’re crossing one of the bridges,
surrounded by inky darkness. The somber night reects my
introspective mood, closing in, suocating.
I glance briey at Christian, and he’s staring at me.
“Penny for your thoughts?” he asks.
I sigh and frown.
“That bad, huh?” he says.
“I wish I knew what you were thinking.”
He smirks. “Ditto, baby,” he says as Taylor whisks us into the
night toward Bellevue.
IT IS JUST BEFORE eight when the Audi turns into the driveway of a
colonial-style mansion. It’s breathtaking, even down to the roses
around the door. Picture-book perfect.
“Are you ready for this?” Christian asks as Taylor pulls up outside
the impressive front door.
I nod, and he gives my hand another reassuring squeeze.
“First for me, too,” he whispers, then smiles wickedly. “Bet you
wish you were wearing your underwear right now,” he teases.
I ush. I’d forgotten my missing panties. Fortunately, Taylor has
climbed out of the car and is opening my door so he can’t hear our
exchange. I scowl at Christian, who grins broadly as I turn and
climb out of the car.
Dr. Grace Trevelyan-Grey is on the doorstep waiting for us. She
looks elegantly sophisticated in a pale blue silk dress. Behind her
stands Mr. Grey, I presume, tall, blond, and as handsome in his own
way as Christian.
“Anastasia, you’ve met my mother, Grace. This is my dad,
Carrick.”
“Mr. Grey, what a pleasure to meet you.” I smile and shake his
outstretched hand.
“The pleasure is all mine, Anastasia.”
“Please, call me Ana.”
His blue eyes are soft and gentle.
“Ana, how lovely to see you again.” Grace wraps me in a warm
hug. “Come in, my dear.”
“Is she here?” I hear a screech from within the house. I glance
nervously at Christian.
“That would be Mia, my little sister,” he says almost irritably, but
not quite.
There’s an undercurrent of aection in his words, the way his
voice grows softer and his eyes crinkle as he mentions her name.
Christian obviously adores her. It’s a revelation. And she comes
barreling down the hall, raven haired, tall, and curvaceous. She’s
about my age.
“Anastasia! I’ve heard so much about you.” She hugs me hard.
Holy cow. I can’t help but smile at her boundless enthusiasm.
“Ana, please,” I murmur as she drags me into the large vestibule.
It’s all dark wood oors and antique rugs with a sweeping staircase
to the second oor.
“He’s never brought a girl home before,” says Mia, dark eyes
bright with excitement.
I glimpse Christian rolling his eyes, and I raise an eyebrow at
him. He narrows his eyes at me.
“Mia, calm down,” Grace admonishes softly. “Hello, darling,” she
says as she kisses Christian on both cheeks. He smiles down at her
warmly, and then shakes hands with his father.
We all turn and head into the living room. Mia has not let go of
my hand. The room is spacious, tastefully furnished in creams,
browns, and pale blues—comfortable, understated, and very stylish.
Kate and Elliot are cuddled together on a couch, clutching
champagne utes. Kate bounces up to embrace me, and Mia nally
releases my hand.
“Hi, Ana!” She beams. “Christian.” She nods curtly to him.
“Kate.” He is equally formal with her.
I frown at their exchange. Elliot grasps me in an all-embracing
hug. What is this, Hug Ana Week? This dazzling display of aection
—I’m just not used to it. Christian stands at my side, wrapping his
arm around me. Placing his hand on my hip, he spreads out his
ngers and pulls me close. Everyone is staring at us. It’s unnerving.
“Drinks?” Mr. Grey seems to recover himself. “Prosecco?”
“Please,” Christian and I speak in unison.
Oh … this is beyond weird. Mia claps her hands.
“You’re even saying the same things. I’ll get them.” She scoots
out of the room.
I ush scarlet, and seeing Kate sitting with Elliot, it occurs to me
suddenly that the only reason Christian invited me was because
Kate is here. Elliot probably freely and happily asked Kate to meet
his parents. Christian was trapped—knowing that I would have
found out via Kate. I frown at the thought. He’s been forced into
the invitation. The realization is bleak and depressing. My
subconscious nods sagely, a you’ve-nally-worked-it-out-stupid look
on her face.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” Grace says as she follows Mia out of the
room.
Christian frowns as he gazes at me.
“Sit,” he commands, pointing to the plush couch, and I do as I’m
told, carefully crossing my legs. He sits down beside me but doesn’t
touch me.
“We were just talking about vacations, Ana,” Mr. Grey says
kindly. “Elliot has decided to follow Kate and her family to
Barbados for a week.”
I glance at Kate, and she grins, her eyes bright and wide. She’s
delighted. Katherine Kavanagh, show some dignity!
“Are you taking a break now that you’ve nished your degree?”
Mr. Grey asks.
“I’m thinking about going to Georgia for a few days,” I reply.
Christian gapes at me, blinking a couple of times, his expression
unreadable. Oh, shit. I haven’t mentioned this to him.
“Georgia?” he murmurs.
“My mother lives there, and I haven’t seen her for a while.”
“When were you thinking of going?” His voice is low.
“Tomorrow, late evening.”
Mia saunters back into the living room and hands us champagne
utes lled with pale pink prosecco.
“Your good health!” Mr. Grey raises his glass. An appropriate
toast from a doctor’s husband, it makes me smile.
“For how long?” Christian asks, his voice deceptively soft.
Holy crap … he’s angry.
“I don’t know yet. It will depend how my interviews go
tomorrow.”
His jaw clenches, and Kate gets that interfering look on her face.
She smiles over-sweetly.
“Ana deserves a break,” she says pointedly at Christian. Why is
she so antagonistic toward him? What is her problem?
“You have interviews?” Mr. Grey asks.
“Yes, for internships at two publishers, tomorrow.”
“I wish you the best of luck.”
“Dinner is ready,” Grace announces.
We all stand. Kate and Elliot follow Mr. Grey and Mia out of the
room. I go to follow, but Christian clutches my elbow, bringing me
to an abrupt halt.
“When were you going to tell me you were leaving?” he asks
urgently. His tone is soft, but he’s masking his anger.
“I’m not leaving, I’m going to see my mother, and I was only
thinking about it.”
“What about our arrangement?”
“We don’t have an arrangement yet.”
He narrows his eyes, and then seems to remember himself.
Releasing my hand, he takes my elbow and leads me out of the
room.
“This conversation is not over,” he whispers threateningly as we
enter the dining room.
Oh, crapola. Don’t get your panties in such a twist … and give me
back mine. I glare at him.
The dining room reminds me of our private dinner at the
Heathman. A crystal chandelier hangs over the dark wood table and
there’s a massive, ornately carved mirror on the wall. The table,
covered with a crisp white linen tablecloth, is set, with a bowl of
pale pink peonies as the centerpiece. It’s stunning.
We take our places. Mr. Grey is at the head of the table, while I
sit at his right hand, and Christian is seated beside me. Mr. Grey
reaches for the opened bottle of red wine and oers some to Kate.
Mia takes her seat beside Christian and, grabbing his hand, squeezes
it tightly. Christian smiles warmly at her.
“Where did you meet, Ana?” Mia asks him.
“She interviewed me for the WSU student newspaper.”
“Which Kate edits,” I add, hoping to steer the conversation away
from me.
Mia beams at Kate, seated opposite next to Elliot, and they start
talking about the student newspaper.
“Wine, Ana?” Mr. Grey asks.
“Please.” I smile at him. Mr. Grey rises to ll the rest of the
glasses.
I peek up at Christian, and he turns to look at me, his head
cocked to one side.
“What?” he asks.
“Please don’t be mad at me,” I whisper.
“I’m not mad at you.”
I stare at him. He sighs.
“Yes, I am mad at you.” He closes his eyes briey.
“Palm-twitchingly mad?” I ask nervously.
“What are you two whispering about?” Kate interjects.
I ush, and Christian glares at her in a butt-out-of-this-Kavanagh
kind of way. Even Kate wilts under his stare.
“Just about my trip to Georgia,” I say sweetly, hoping to diuse
their mutual hostility.
Kate smiles, a wicked gleam in her eye.
“How was José when you went to the bar with him on Friday?”
Holy fuck, Kate. I widen my eyes at her. What is she doing? She
widens her eyes back at me, and I realize she’s trying to make
Christian jealous. How little she knows. I thought I’d got away with
this.
“He was ne,” I murmur.
Christian leans over.
“Palm-twitchingly mad,” he whispers. “Especially now.” His tone
is quiet and deadly.
Oh no. I squirm.
Grace reappears carrying two plates, followed by a pretty young
woman with blond pigtails, dressed smartly in pale blue, carrying a
tray of plates. Her eyes immediately nd Christian’s in the room.
She blushes and gazes at him from under her long mascara-covered
lashes. What?
Somewhere in the house the phone starts ringing.
“Excuse me.” Mr. Grey rises again and exits.
“Thank you, Gretchen,” Grace says gently, frowning as Mr. Grey
exits. “Just leave the tray on the console.” Gretchen nods, and with
another furtive glance at Christian, she leaves.
So the Greys have sta, and the sta are eyeing up my would-be
Dominant. Can this evening get any worse? I scowl at my hands in
my lap.
Mr. Grey returns.
“Call for you, darling. It’s the hospital,” he says to Grace.
“Please start, everyone.” Grace smiles as she hands me a plate
and leaves.
It smells delicious—chorizo and scallops with roasted red peppers
and shallots, sprinkled with at-leaf parsley. And in spite of the fact
that my stomach is churning from Christian’s veiled threats, the
surreptitious glances from pretty little Miss Pigtails, and the debacle
of my missing underwear, I am starving. I ush as I realize it’s the
physical eort of this afternoon that’s given me such an appetite.
Moments later Grace returns, her brow furrowed. Mr. Grey cocks
his head to one side … like Christian.
“Everything okay?”
“Another measles case.” Grace sighs.
“Oh no.”
“Yes, a child. The fourth case this month. If only people would
get their kids vaccinated.” She shakes her head sadly, and then
smiles. “I’m so glad our children never went through that. They
never caught anything worse than chicken pox, thank goodness.
Poor Elliot,” she says as she sits down, smiling indulgently at her
son. Elliot frowns mid-chew and squirms uncomfortably. “Christian
and Mia were lucky. They got it so mildly, only a spot to share
between them.”
Mia giggles, and Christian rolls his eyes.
“So, did you catch the Mariners game, Dad?” Elliot’s clearly keen
to move the conversation on.
The hors d’oeuvres are delicious, and I concentrate on eating
while Elliot, Mr. Grey, and Christian talk baseball. Christian seems
relaxed and calm talking to his family. My mind is working
furiously. Damn Kate, what game is she playing? Will he punish me?
I quail at the thought. I haven’t signed that contract yet. Perhaps I
won’t. Perhaps I’ll stay in Georgia where he can’t reach me.
“How are you settling into your new apartment, dear?” Grace
asks politely.
I’m grateful for her question, distracting me from my discordant
thoughts, and I tell her about our move.
As we nish our starters, Gretchen appears, and not for the rst
time, I wish I felt able to put my hands freely on Christian just to
let her know—he may be fty shades of fucked up, but he’s mine.
She proceeds to clear the table, brushing rather too closely to
Christian for my liking. Fortunately, he seems oblivious to her, but
my inner goddess is smoldering and not in a good way.
Kate and Mia are waxing lyrical about Paris.
“Have you been to Paris, Ana?” Mia asks innocently, distracting
me from my jealous reverie.
“No, but I’d love to go.” I know I’m the only one at the table who
has never left the USA.
“We honeymooned in Paris.” Grace smiles at Mr. Grey, who grins
back at her.
It’s almost embarrassing to witness. They obviously love each
other deeply, and I wonder for a brief moment what it must be like
to grow up with both one’s parents in situ.
“It’s a beautiful city,” Mia agrees. “In spite of the Parisians.
Christian, you should take Ana to Paris,” Mia states rmly.
“I think Anastasia would prefer London,” Christian says softly.
Oh … he remembered. He places his hand on my knee—his ngers
traveling up my thigh. My whole body tightens in response.
No … not here, not now. I ush and shift, trying to pull away from
him. His hand clamps down on my thigh, stilling me. I reach for my
wine in desperation.
Little Miss European Pigtails returns, all coy glances and swaying
hips, with our entrées: beef Wellington, I think. Fortunately, she
gives us our plates and then leaves, although she lingers handing
Christian his. He looks quizzically at me as I watch her close the
dining room door.
“So what was wrong with the Parisians?” Elliot asks his sister.
“Didn’t they take to your winsome ways?”
“Ugh, no they didn’t. And Monsieur Floubert, the ogre I was
working for, he was such a domineering tyrant.”
I splutter into my wine.
“Anastasia, are you okay?” Christian asks solicitously, taking his
hand o my thigh.
Humor has returned to his voice. Oh, thank heavens. When I nod,
he pats my back gently and only removes his hand when he knows
I’ve recovered.
The beef is delicious and served with roasted sweet potatoes,
carrots, parsnips, and green beans. It is even more palatable since
Christian manages to retain his good humor for the rest of the meal.
I suspect that it’s because I’m eating so heartily. The conversation
ows freely among the Greys, warm and caring, gently teasing one
another. Over our dessert of lemon syllabub, Mia regales us with
her exploits in Paris, lapsing at one point into uent French. We all
stare at her, and she stares back puzzled, until Christian tells her in
equally uent French what she’s done, whereupon she bursts into a
t of giggles. She has a very infectious laugh, and soon we’re all in
stitches.
Elliot holds forth about his latest building project, a new eco-
friendly community to the north of Seattle. I glance up at Kate, and
she’s hanging on every word Elliot says, her eyes glowing with lust
or love. I haven’t quite worked out which yet. He grins down at
her, and it’s as if an unspoken promise passes between them. Laters,
baby, he’s saying, and it’s hot, freaking hot. I ush just watching
them.
I sigh and peek up at Fifty Shades. I could stare at him forever.
He has light stubble over his chin, and my ngers itch to scratch it
and feel it against my face, against my breasts … between my
thighs. I blush at the direction of my thoughts. He peers down at me
and raises his hand to pull at my chin.
“Don’t bite your lip,” he murmurs huskily. “I want to do that.”
Grace and Mia clear our dessert glasses and head to the kitchen,
while Mr. Grey, Kate, and Elliot discuss the merits of solar panels in
Washington State. Christian, feigning interest in their conversation,
puts his hand once more on my knee, and his ngers travel up my
thigh. My breathing hitches and I press my thighs together in a bid
to halt his progress. I can see him smirk.
“Shall I give you a tour of the grounds?” he asks me quite openly.
I know I’m meant to say yes, but I don’t trust him. Before I can
answer, however, he’s on his feet and holding his hand out to me. I
place my hand in his, and I feel all the muscles clench deep in my
belly, responding to his dark, hungry gaze.
“Excuse me,” I say to Mr. Grey, and follow Christian out of the
dining room.
He leads me through the hallway and into the kitchen, where Mia
and Grace are stacking the dishwasher. European Pigtails is
nowhere to be seen.
“I’m going to show Anastasia the backyard,” Christian says
innocently to his mother. She waves us out with a smile as Mia
heads back to the dining room.
We step out onto a gray agstone patio area lit by recessed lights
in the rock. There are shrubs in gray stone tubs and a chic metal
table and chairs set up in one corner. Christian walks past those, up
some steps, and onto a vast lawn that leads down to the bay … oh
my—it’s beautiful. Seattle twinkles on the horizon and the cool,
bright May moon etches a sparkling silver path across the water
toward a jetty where two boats are moored. Beside the jetty stands
a boathouse. It is so picturesque, so peaceful. I stand and gape for a
moment.
Christian pulls me behind him, and my heels sink into the soft
grass.
“Stop, please.” I am stumbling in his wake.
He stops and gazes at me, his expression unfathomable.
“My heels. I need to take my shoes o.”
“Don’t bother,” he says, and he bends down and scoops me over
his shoulder. I squeal loudly with shocked surprise, and he gives me
a ringing slap on my behind.
“Keep your voice down,” he growls.
Oh no … this is not good. My subconscious is quaking at the knees.
He’s mad about something—could be José, Georgia, no panties,
biting my lip. Jeez, he’s easy to rile.
“Where are we going?” I breathe.
“Boathouse,” he snaps.
I hang on to his hips as I’m tipped upside down, and he strides
purposefully in the moonlight across the lawn.
“Why?” I sound breathless, bouncing on his shoulder.
“I need to be alone with you.”
“What for?”
“Because I’m going to spank and then fuck you.”
“Why?” I whimper softly.
“You know why,” he hisses.
“I thought you were an in-the-moment guy?” I plead breathlessly.
“Anastasia, I’m in the moment, trust me.”
Holy fuck.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Christian bursts through the wooden door of the boathouse and
pauses to ick on some switches. Fluorescents ping and buzz in
sequence as harsh white light oods the large wooden building.
From my upside-down view, I can see an impressive cruiser in the
dock oating gently on the dark water, but I only get a brief look
before he’s carrying me up some wooden stairs to the room above.
He pauses at the doorway and ips another switch—halogens, this
time, that are softer, on a dimmer—and we’re in an attic room with
sloping ceilings. It’s decorated with a nautical New England theme:
navy blues and creams with dashes of red. The furnishings are
sparse, just a couple of couches are all I can see.
Christian sets me on my feet on the wooden oor. I don’t have
time to examine my surroundings—my eyes can’t leave him. I am
mesmerized … watching him like one would watch a rare and
dangerous predator, waiting for him to strike. His breathing is
harsh, but then he’s just carried me across the lawn and up a ight
of stairs. Gray eyes blaze with anger, need, and pure unadulterated
lust.
Holy shit. I could spontaneously combust from his look alone.
“Please don’t hit me,” I whisper, pleading.
His brow furrows, his eyes widening. He blinks twice.
“I don’t want you to spank me, not here, not now. Please don’t.”
His mouth drops open in surprise, and beyond brave, I tentatively
reach up and run my ngers down his cheek, along the edge of his
sideburn, to the stubble on his chin. It’s a curious mixture of soft
and prickly. Slowly closing his eyes, he leans his face into my touch,
and his breath hitches in his throat. Reaching up with my other
hand, I run my ngers into his hair. I love his hair. His soft moan is
barely audible, and when he opens his eyes, his look is wary, like he
doesn’t understand what I’m doing.
Stepping forward so I am ush against him, I pull gently on his
hair, bringing his mouth down to mine, and I kiss him, forcing my
tongue between his lips and into his mouth. He groans, and his arms
embrace me, pulling me to him. His hands nd their way into my
hair, and he kisses me back, hard and possessive. His tongue and my
tongue twist and turn together, consuming each other. He tastes
divine.
He pulls back suddenly, our collective breathing ragged and
mingling. My hands drop to his arms, and he glares down at me.
“What are you doing to me?” he whispers, confused.
“Kissing you.”
“You said no.”
“What?” No to what?
“At the dinner table, with your legs.”
Oh … that’s what this is all about.
“But we were at your parents’ dining table.” I stare up at him,
completely bewildered.
“No one’s ever said no to me before. And it’s so—hot.”
His eyes widen, lled with wonder and lust. It’s a heady mix. I
swallow instinctively. His hand moves down to my behind. He pulls
me sharply against him, against his erection.
Oh my …
“You’re mad and turned on because I said no?” I breathe,
astonished.
“I’m mad because you never mentioned Georgia to me. I’m mad
because you went drinking with that guy who tried to seduce you
when you were drunk and who left you when you were ill with an
almost complete stranger. What kind of friend does that? And I’m
mad and aroused because you closed your legs on me.” His eyes
glitter dangerously, and he’s slowly inching up the hem of my
dress.
“I want you, and I want you now. And if you’re not going to let
me spank you—which you deserve—I’m going to fuck you on the
couch this minute, quickly, for my pleasure, not yours.”
My dress is now barely covering my naked behind. He moves
suddenly so that his hand is cupping my sex, and one of his ngers
sinks slowly into me. His other arm holds me rmly in place around
my waist. I suppress my moan.
“This is mine,” he whispers aggressively. “All mine. Do you
understand?” He eases his nger in and out as he gazes down at me,
gauging my reaction, his eyes burning.
“Yes, yours,” I breathe as my desire, hot and heavy, surges
through my bloodstream, aecting … everything. My nerve
endings, my breathing. My heart is pounding, trying to leave my
chest, the blood thrumming in my ears.
Abruptly, he moves, doing several things at once: withdrawing
his ngers, leaving me wanting, unzipping his y, and pushing me
down onto the couch so he’s lying on top of me.
“Hands on your head,” he commands through gritted teeth as he
kneels, forcing my legs wider, and reaches into the inside pocket of
his jacket. He takes out a foil packet, gazing down at me, his
expression dark, before shrugging o his jacket so it falls to the
oor. He rolls the condom down over his impressive length.
I place my hands on my head, and I know it’s so I won’t touch
him. I’m so turned on. I feel my hips moving already up to meet
him—wanting him inside me, like this—rough and hard. Oh … the
anticipation.
“We don’t have long. This will be quick, and it’s for me, not you.
Do you understand? Don’t come, or I will spank you,” he says
through clenched teeth.
Holy crap … how do I stop?
With one swift thrust, he’s fully inside me. I groan loudly,
gutturally, and revel in the fullness of his possession. He puts his
hands on mine on top of my head, his elbows hold my arms out and
down, and his legs pinion me. I am trapped. He’s everywhere,
overwhelming me, almost suocating. But it’s heavenly, too; this is
my power, this is what I do to him, and it’s a hedonistic, triumphant
feeling. He moves quickly and furiously inside me, his breathing
harsh at my ear, and my body responds, melting around him. I
mustn’t come. No. But I’m meeting him thrust for thrust, a perfect
counterpoint. Abruptly, and all too soon, he rams into me and stills
as he nds his release, air hissing through his teeth. He relaxes
momentarily, so I feel his entire, delicious weight on me. I’m not
ready to let him go, my body craving relief, but he’s so heavy, and
in that moment, I can’t push against him. All of a sudden, he
withdraws, leaving me aching and hungry for more. He glares down
at me.
“Don’t touch yourself. I want you frustrated. That’s what you do
to me by not talking to me, by denying me what’s mine.” His eyes
blaze anew, angry again.
I nod, panting. He stands and removes the condom, knotting it at
the end, and puts it in his pants pocket. I gaze at him, my breathing
still erratic, and involuntarily I squeeze my thighs together, trying
to nd some relief. Christian does up his y and runs his hand
through his hair as he reaches down to collect his jacket. He turns
back to gaze down at me, his expression softer.
“We’d better get back to the house.”
I sit up, a little unsteadily, dazed.
“Here. You may put these on.”
From his inside pocket, he produces my panties. I don’t grin as I
take them from him, but inside I know—I’ve taken a punishment
fuck but gained a small victory over the panties. My inner goddess
nods in agreement, a satised grin over her face: You didn’t have to
ask for them.
“Christian!” Mia shouts from the oor below.
He turns and raises his eyebrows at me. “Just in time. Christ, she
can be really irritating.”
I scowl back at him, hastily restore my panties to their rightful
place, and stand with as much dignity as I can muster in my just-
fucked state. Quickly, I attempt to smooth my just-fucked hair.
“Up here, Mia,” he calls down. “Well, Miss Steele, I feel better for
that—but I still want to spank you,” he says softly.
“I don’t believe I deserve it, Mr. Grey, especially after tolerating
your unprovoked attack.”
“Unprovoked? You kissed me.” He tries his best to look wounded.
I purse my lips. “It was attack as the best form of defense.”
“Defense against what?”
“You and your twitchy palm.”
He cocks his head to one side and smiles at me as Mia comes
clattering up the stairs. “But it was tolerable?” he asks softly.
I ush. “Barely,” I whisper, but I can’t help my smirk.
“Oh, there you are.” She beams at us.
“I was showing Anastasia around.” Christian holds his hand out to
me, his gray eyes intense.
I put my hand into his, and he gives it a soft squeeze.
“Kate and Elliot are about to leave. Can you believe those two?
They can’t keep their hands o each other.” Mia feigns disgust and
looks from Christian to me. “What have you been doing in here?”
Jeez, she’s forward. I blush scarlet.
“Showing Anastasia my rowing trophies,” Christian says without
missing a beat, completely poker-faced. “Let’s go say good-bye to
Kate and Elliot.”
Rowing trophies? He pulls me gently in front of him, and as Mia
turns to go, he swats my behind. I gasp in surprise.
“I will do it again, Anastasia, and soon,” he threatens quietly
close to my ear, then he pulls me into an embrace, my back to his
front, and kisses my hair.
BACK IN THE HOUSE, Kate and Elliot are making their farewells to
Grace and Mr. Grey. Kate hugs me hard.
“I need to speak to you about antagonizing Christian,” I hiss
quietly in her ear as she embraces me.
“He needs antagonizing; then you can see what he’s really like.
Be careful, Ana—he’s so controlling,” she whispers. “See you later.”
I KNOW WHAT HE’S REALLY LIKE—YOU DON’T! I scream at her
in my head. I’m fully aware that her actions come from a good
place, but sometimes she just oversteps boundaries, and right now
she’s so far over that she’s in the neighboring state. I scowl at her,
and she pokes her tongue out at me, making me smile unwillingly.
Playful Kate is novel; must be Elliot’s inuence. We wave them o
at the doorway, and Christian turns to me.
“We should go, too—you have interviews tomorrow.”
Mia embraces me warmly as we say our good-byes.
“We never thought he’d nd anyone!” she gushes.
I ush, and Christian rolls his eyes again. I purse my lips. Why
can he do that when I can’t? I want to roll my eyes back at him, but
I do not dare, not after his threat in the boathouse.
“Take care of yourself, Ana dear,” Grace says kindly.
Christian, embarrassed or frustrated by the lavish attention I’m
receiving from the remaining Greys, grabs my hand and pulls me to
his side.
“Let’s not frighten her away or spoil her with too much
aection,” he grumbles.
“Christian, stop teasing,” Grace scolds him indulgently, her eyes
glowing with love and aection for him.
Somehow, I don’t think he’s teasing. I surreptitiously watch their
interaction. It’s obvious Grace adores him with a mother’s
unconditional love. He bends and kisses her stiy.
“Mom,” he says, and there’s an undercurrent in his voice—
reverence maybe?
“Mr. Grey—good-bye and thank you.” I hold out my hand to him,
and he hugs me, too!
“Please, call me Carrick. I do hope we see you again very soon,
Ana.”
Our farewells said, Christian leads me to the car, where Taylor is
waiting. Has he been waiting here the whole time? Taylor opens my
door, and I slide into the back of the Audi.
I feel some of the tension leaving my shoulders. Jeez, what a day.
I am exhausted, physically and emotionally. After a brief
conversation with Taylor, Christian clambers into the car beside me.
He turns to face me.
“Well, it seems my family likes you, too,” he murmurs.
Too? The depressing thought about how I came to be invited pops
unbidden and very unwelcome into my head. Taylor starts the car
and heads away from the circle of light in the driveway to the
darkness of the road. I gaze at Christian, and he’s staring at me.
“What?” he asks, his voice quiet.
I ounder momentarily. No—I’ll tell him. He’s always
complaining that I don’t talk to him.
“I think that you felt trapped into bringing me to meet your
parents.” My voice is soft and hesitant. “If Elliot hadn’t asked Kate,
you’d never have asked me.” I can’t see his face in the dark, but he
tilts his head, gaping at me.
“Anastasia, I’m delighted that you’ve met my parents. Why are
you so lled with self-doubt? It never ceases to amaze me. You’re
such a strong, self-contained young woman, but you have such
negative thoughts about yourself. If I hadn’t wanted you to meet
them, you wouldn’t be here. Is that how you were feeling the whole
time you were there?”
Oh! He wanted me there—and it’s a revelation. He doesn’t seem
uncomfortable answering me as he would if he were hiding the
truth. He seems genuinely pleased that I’m here … a warm glow
spreads slowly through my veins. He shakes his head and reaches
for my hand. I glance nervously at Taylor.
“Don’t worry about Taylor. Talk to me.”
I shrug.
“Yes. I thought that. And another thing, I only mentioned Georgia
because Kate was talking about Barbados. I haven’t made up my
mind.”
“Do you want to go and see your mother?”
“Yes.”
He looks oddly at me, like he’s having some internal struggle.
“Can I come with you?” he asks eventually.
What!
“Erm … I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“I was hoping for a break from all this … intensity to try to think
things through.”
He stares at me.
“I’m too intense?”
I burst out laughing. “That’s putting it mildly!”
In the light of the passing street lamps, I see his lips quirk up.
“Are you laughing at me, Miss Steele?”
“I wouldn’t dare, Mr. Grey,” I reply with mock seriousness.
“I think you dare, and I think you do laugh at me, frequently.”
“You are quite funny.”
“Funny?”
“Oh yes.”
“Funny peculiar or funny ha-ha?”
“Oh … a lot of one and some of the other.”
“Which way more?”
“I’ll leave you to gure that out.”
“I’m not sure if I can gure anything out around you, Anastasia,”
he says sardonically, and then continues quietly, “What do you need
to think about in Georgia?”
“Us,” I whisper.
He stares at me, impassive.
“You said you’d try,” he murmurs.
“I know.”
“Are you having second thoughts?”
“Possibly.”
He shifts as if uncomfortable.
“Why?”
Holy crap. How did this suddenly become such an intense and
meaningful conversation? It’s been sprung on me, like an exam that
I’m not prepared for. What do I say? Because I think I love you, and
you just see me as a toy. Because I can’t touch you, because I’m too
frightened to show you any aection in case you inch or tell me
o or worse—beat me? What can I say?
I stare momentarily out of the window. The car is heading back
across the bridge. We are both shrouded in darkness, masking our
thoughts and feelings, but we don’t need the night for that.
“Why, Anastasia?” Christian presses me for an answer.
I shrug, trapped. I don’t want to lose him. In spite of all his
demands, his need to control, his scary vices, I have never felt as
alive as I do now. It’s a thrill to be sitting here beside him. He’s so
unpredictable, sexy, smart, and funny. But his moods … oh—and he
wants to hurt me. He says he’ll think about my reservations, but it
still scares me. I close my eyes. What can I say? Deep down I would
just like more, more aection, more playful Christian, more … love.
He squeezes my hand.
“Talk to me, Anastasia. I don’t want to lose you. This last
week …”
We’re coming near to the end of the bridge, and the road is once
more bathed in the neon light of the street lamps so his face is
intermittently in the light and the dark. And it’s such a tting
metaphor. This man, whom I once thought of as a romantic hero, a
brave shining white knight—or the dark knight, as he said. He’s not
a hero; he’s a man with serious, deep emotional aws, and he’s
dragging me into the dark. Can I not guide him into the light?
“I still want more,” I whisper.
“I know,” he says. “I’ll try.”
I blink up at him, and he relinquishes my hand and pulls at my
chin, releasing my trapped lip.
“For you, Anastasia, I will try.” He’s radiating sincerity.
And that’s my cue. I unbuckle my seatbelt, reach across, and
clamber into his lap, taking him completely by surprise. Wrapping
my arms around his head, I kiss him, long and hard, and in a
nanosecond, he’s responding.
“Stay with me, tonight,” he breathes. “If you go away, I won’t
see you all week. Please.”
“Yes,” I acquiesce. “And I’ll try, too. I’ll sign your contract.” And
it’s a spur-of-the-moment decision.
He gazes down at me.
“Sign after Georgia. Think about it. Think about it hard, baby.”
“I will.” And we sit in silence for a mile or two.
“You really should wear your seat belt,” Christian whispers
disapprovingly into my hair, but he makes no move to shift me
from his lap.
I nuzzle up against him, eyes closed, my nose at his throat,
drinking in his sexy Christian-and-spiced-musky-bodywash
fragrance, my head on his shoulder. I let my mind drift, and I allow
myself to fantasize that he loves me. Oh, and it’s so real, tangible
almost, and a small part of my nasty harpy subconscious acts
completely out of character and dares to hope. I’m careful not to
touch his chest but just snuggle in his arms as he holds me tightly.
All too soon, I’m torn from my impossible daydream.
“We’re home,” Christian murmurs, and it’s such a tantalizing
sentence, full of so much potential.
Home, with Christian. Except his apartment is an art gallery, not a
home.
Taylor opens the door for us, and I thank him shyly, aware that
he’s been within earshot of our conversation, but his kind smile is
reassuring and gives nothing away. Once out of the car, Christian
assesses me critically. Oh no … what have I done now?
“Why don’t you have a jacket?” he frowns as he shrugs out of his
and drapes it over my shoulders.
Relief washes through me.
“It’s in my new car,” I reply sleepily, yawning.
He smirks at me.
“Tired, Miss Steele?”
“Yes, Mr. Grey.” I feel bashful under his teasing scrutiny.
Nevertheless I feel an explanation is in order. “I’ve been prevailed
upon in ways I never thought possible today.”
“Well, if you’re really unlucky, I may prevail upon you some
more,” he promises as he takes my hand and leads me into the
building. Holy shit … Again!
I gaze up at him in the elevator. I have assumed he’d like me to
sleep with him, and then I remember that he doesn’t sleep with
anyone, although he has with me a few times. I frown, and abruptly
his gaze darkens. He reaches up and grasps my chin, freeing my lip
from teeth.
“One day I will fuck you in this elevator, Anastasia, but right now
you’re tired—so I think we should stick to a bed.”
Bending down, he clamps his teeth around my lower lip and pulls
gently. I melt against him, and my breathing stops as my insides
unfurl with longing. I reciprocate, fastening my teeth over his top
lip, teasing him, and he groans. When the elevator doors open, he
grabs my hand and tugs me into the foyer, through the double
doors, and into the hallway.
“Do you need a drink or anything?”
“No.”
“Good. Let’s go to bed.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You’re going to settle for plain old
vanilla?”
He cocks his head to one side. “Nothing plain or old about vanilla
—it’s a very intriguing avor,” he breathes.
“Since when?”
“Since last Saturday. Why? Were you hoping for something more
exotic?”
My inner goddess pops her head above the parapet.
“Oh no. I’ve had enough exotic for one day.” My inner goddess
pouts at me, failing miserably to hide her disappointment.
“Sure? We cater for all tastes here—at least thirty-one avors.”
He grins at me lasciviously.
“I’ve noticed,” I reply dryly.
He shakes his head. “Come on, Miss Steele, you have a big day
tomorrow. Sooner you’re in bed, sooner you’ll be fucked, and
sooner you can sleep.”
“Mr. Grey, you are a born romantic.”
“Miss Steele, you have a smart mouth. I may have to subdue it
some way. Come.” He leads me down the hallway into his bedroom
and kicks the door closed.
“Hands in the air,” he commands.
I oblige, and in one breathtakingly swift move he removes my
dress like a magician, grasping it at the hem and pulling it smoothly
and eetly over my head.
“Ta-da!” he says playfully.
I giggle and applaud politely. He bows gracefully, grinning. How
can I resist him when he’s like this? He places my dress on the lone
chair beside his chest of drawers.
“And for your next trick?” I prompt, teasing.
“Oh, my dear Miss Steele. Get into my bed,” he growls, “and I’ll
show you.”
“Do you think that for once I should play hard to get?” I ask
coquettishly.
His eyes widen with surprise, and I see a glimmer of excitement.
“Well … the door’s closed. Not sure how you’re going to avoid
me,” he says sardonically. “I think it’s a done deal.”
“But I’m a good negotiator.”
“So am I.” He stares down at me, but as he does, his expression
changes, confusion washes over him and the atmosphere in the
room shifts abruptly, tensing. “Don’t you want to fuck?” he asks.
“No,” I breathe.
“Oh.” He frowns.
Okay, here goes … deep breath.
“I want you to make love to me.”
He stills and stares at me blankly. His expression darkens. Oh,
shit, this doesn’t look good. Give him a minute! My subconscious
snaps.
“Ana, I …” He runs his hands through his hair. Two hands. Jeez,
he’s really bewildered. “I thought we did?” he says eventually.
“I want to touch you.”
He takes an involuntary step back from me, his expression for a
moment fearful, and then he reins it in.
“Please,” I whisper.
He recovers himself. “Oh no, Miss Steele, you’ve had enough
concessions from me this evening. And I’m saying no.”
“No?”
“No.”
Oh … I can’t argue with that … can I?
“Look, you’re tired, I’m tired. Let’s just go to bed,” he says,
watching me carefully.
“So touching is a hard limit for you?”
“Yes. This is old news.”
“Please tell me why.”
“Oh, Anastasia, please. Just drop it for now,” he mutters
exasperated.
“It’s important to me.”
Again he runs both hands through his hair, and he utters an oath
beneath his breath. Turning on his heel, he heads for the chest of
drawers, pulls out a T-shirt, and throws it at me. I catch it,
bemused.
“Put that on and get into bed,” he snaps, irritated.
I frown but decide to humor him. Turning my back, I quickly
remove my bra, pulling the T-shirt on as hastily as I can to cover
my nakedness. I leave my panties on; I haven’t worn them for most
of the evening.
“I need the bathroom.” My voice is a whisper.
He frowns, bemused.
“Now you’re asking permission?”
“Er … no.”
“Anastasia, you know where the bathroom is. Today, at this point
in our strange arrangement, you don’t need my permission to use
it.” He cannot hide his irritation. He shrugs out of his shirt, and I
scoot into the bathroom.
I stare at myself in the over-large mirror, shocked that I still look
the same. After all that I’ve done today, it’s still the same ordinary
girl gaping back at me. What did you expect—that you’d grow horns
and a little pointy tail? my subconscious snaps at me. And what the
hell are you doing? Touching is his hard limit. Too soon, you idiot. He
needs to walk before he can run. My subconscious is furious, Medusa-
like in her anger, hair ying, her hands clenched around her face
like in Edvard Munch’s The Scream. I ignore her, but she won’t
climb back into her box. You are making him mad—think about all
that’s he’s said, all he’s conceded. I scowl at my reection. I need to
be able to show him aection—then perhaps he can reciprocate.
I shake my head, resigned, and grasp Christian’s toothbrush. My
subconscious is right, of course. I’m rushing him. He’s not ready
and neither am I. We are balanced on the delicate seesaw that is our
strange arrangement—at dierent ends, vacillating, and it tips and
sways between us. We both need to edge closer to the middle. I just
hope neither of us falls o in our attempt to do so. This is all so
quick. Maybe I need some distance. Georgia seems more appealing
than ever. As I begin brushing my teeth, he knocks.
“Come in,” I splutter through a mouthful of toothpaste.
Christian stands in the doorway, his PJs hanging o his hips in
that way that makes every little cell in my body stand up and take
notice. He’s bare-chested, and I drink him in like I’m crazed with
thirst and he’s clear, cool mountain spring water. He gazes at me
impassively, then smirks and comes to stand beside me. Our eyes
lock in the mirror, gray to blue. I nish with his toothbrush, rinse it
o, and hand it to him, my look never leaving his. Wordlessly, he
takes the toothbrush from me and puts it in his mouth. I smirk back
at him, and his eyes are suddenly dancing with humor.
“Do feel free to borrow my toothbrush.” His tone is gently
mocking.
“Thank you, Sir,” I smile sweetly, and I leave, heading back to
bed.
A few minutes later he joins me.
“You know this is not how I saw tonight panning out,” he mutters
petulantly.
“Imagine if I said to you that you couldn’t touch me.”
He clambers onto the bed and sits cross-legged.
“Anastasia, I’ve told you. Fifty shades. I had a rough start in life
—you don’t want that shit in your head. Why would you?”
“Because I want to know you better.”
“You know me well enough.”
“How can you say that?” I struggle up onto my knees, facing him.
He rolls his eyes at me, frustrated.
“You’re rolling your eyes. Last time I did that, I ended up over
your knee.”
“Oh, I’d like to put you there again.”
Inspiration hits me.
“Tell me and you can.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“You’re bargaining with me?” His voice resonates with astonished
disbelief.
I nod. Yes … this is the way.
“Negotiating.”
“It doesn’t work that way, Anastasia.”
“Okay. Tell me, and I’ll roll my eyes at you.”
He laughs, and I get a rare glimpse of carefree Christian. I’ve not
seen him for a while. He sobers.
“Always so keen and eager for information.” He gazes at me
speculatively. After a moment, he gracefully climbs o the bed.
“Don’t go away,” he says and exits the room.
Trepidation lances through me, and I hug myself. What’s he
doing? Does he have some evil plan? Crap. Suppose he returns with
a cane, or some weird kinky implement? Holy shit, what will I do
then? When he does return, he’s holding something small in his
hands. I can’t see what it is, and I’m burning with curiosity.
“When’s your rst interview tomorrow?” he asks softly.
“Two.”
A slow, wicked grin spreads across his face.
“Good.” And before my eyes, he subtly changes. He’s harder,
intractable … hot. This is Dominant Christian.
“Get o the bed. Stand over here.” He points to beside the bed,
and I scramble up and o in double time. He stares intently down at
me, his eyes glittering with promise. “Trust me?” he asks.
I nod. He holds out his hand, and in his palm are two shiny silver
balls linked with a thick black thread.
“These are new,” he says emphatically.
I look questioningly up at him.
“I am going to put these inside you, and then I’m going to spank
you, not for punishment, but for your pleasure and mine.” He
pauses, gauging my wide-eyed reaction.
Inside me! I gasp, and all the muscles deep in my belly clench. My
inner goddess is doing the dance of the seven veils.
“Then we’ll fuck, and if you’re still awake, I’ll impart some
information about my formative years. Agreed?”
He’s asking my permission! Breathlessly, I nod. I’m incapable of
speech.
“Good girl. Open your mouth.”
Mouth?
“Wider.”
Very gently, he puts the balls in my mouth.
“They need lubrication. Suck,” he orders, his voice soft.
The balls are cold, smooth, surprisingly heavy, and metallic
tasting. My dry mouth pools with saliva as my tongue explores the
unfamiliar objects. Christian’s gaze does not leave mine. Holy hell,
this is turning me on. I squirm.
“Keep still, Anastasia,” he warns.
“Stop.” He tugs them from my mouth. Moving toward the bed, he
throws the duvet aside and sits down on the edge.
“Come here.”
I stand in front of him.
“Now turn around, bend down, and grab your ankles.”
I blink at him, and his expression darkens.
“Don’t hesitate,” he admonishes me softly, an undercurrent in his
voice, and he pops the balls in his mouth.
Fuck, this is sexier than the toothbrush. I follow his orders
immediately. Jeez, can I touch my ankles? I nd I can, with ease.
The T-shirt slides up my back, exposing my behind. Thank heavens I
have retained my panties, but I suspect I won’t for long.
He places his hand reverently on my backside and very softly
caresses it with his whole hand. With my eyes open, I can see his
legs through mine, nothing else. I close my eyes tightly as he gently
moves my panties to the side and slowly runs his nger up and
down my sex. My body braces itself in a heady mix of wild
anticipation and arousal. He slides one nger inside me, and he
circles it deliciously slowly. Oh, it feels good. I moan.
His breathing halts and I hear him gasp as he repeats the motion.
He withdraws his nger and very slowly inserts the objects, one
slow, delicious ball at a time. Oh my. They’re body temperature,
warmed by our collective mouths. It’s a curious feeling. Once
they’re inside me, I can’t really feel them—but then again I know
they’re there.
He straightens my panties and leans forward, and his lips softly
kiss my behind.
“Stand up,” he orders, and shakily I get to my feet.
Oh! Now I can feel them … sort of. He grasps my hips to steady
me while I reestablish my equilibrium.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice stern.
“Yes.”
“Turn around.” I turn and face him.
The balls pull downward and involuntarily I clench around them.
The feeling startles me but not in a bad way.
“How does that feel?” he asks.
“Strange.”
“Strange good or strange bad?”
“Strange good,” I confess, blushing.
“Good.” There’s a trace of humor lurking in his eyes.
“I want a glass of water. Go and fetch one for me please.”
Oh.
“And when you come back, I shall put you across my knee. Think
about that, Anastasia.”
Water? He wants water—now—why?
As I leave the bedroom, it becomes abundantly clear why he
wants me to walk around—as I do, the balls weigh down inside me,
massaging me internally. It’s such a weird feeling and not entirely
unpleasant. In fact, my breathing accelerates as I stretch up for a
glass from the kitchen cabinet, and I gasp. Oh my … I may have to
keep these. They make me needy, needy for sex.
He’s watching me carefully when I return.
“Thank you,” he says as he takes the glass from me.
Slowly, he takes a sip, then places the glass on his bedside table.
There’s a foil packet, ready and waiting, like me. And I know he’s
doing this to build the anticipation. My heart has picked up a beat.
He turns his bright gray gaze to mine.
“Come. Stand beside me. Like last time.”
I sidle up to him, my blood thrumming through my body, and this
time … I’m excited. Aroused.
“Ask me,” he says softly.
I frown. Ask him what?
“Ask me,” his voice is slightly harder.
What? How was your water? What does he want?
“Ask me, Anastasia. I won’t say it again.” And there’s such a
threat implicit in his words, and it dawns on me. He wants me to
ask him to spank me.
Holy shit. He’s looking at me expectantly, his eyes growing
colder. Shit.
“Spank me, please … Sir,” I whisper.
He closes his eyes momentarily, savoring my words. Reaching up,
he grasps my left hand and he tugs me over his knees. I fall
instantly, and he steadies me as I land in his lap. My heart is in my
mouth as his hand gently strokes my behind. I’m angled across his
lap again so that my torso rests on the bed beside him. This time he
doesn’t throw his leg over mine but smoothes my hair out of my
face and tucks it behind my ear. Once he’s done, he clasps my hair
at the nape to hold me in place. He tugs gently and my head shifts
back.
“I want to see your face while I spank you, Anastasia,” he
murmurs, all the while softly rubbing my backside.
His hand moves down between the cheeks of my behind, and he
pushes against my sex, and the full feeling is … I moan. Oh, the
sensation is exquisite.
“This is for pleasure, Anastasia, mine and yours,” he whispers.
He lifts his hand and brings it down in a resounding slap against
the junction of my thighs, my behind, and my sex. The balls are
forced forward inside me, and I’m lost in a quagmire of sensation.
The stinging across my behind, the fullness of the balls inside me,
and the fact that he’s holding me down. I screw my face up as my
faculties attempt to absorb all these foreign feelings. I note
somewhere in my brain that he’s not smacked me as hard as last
time. He caresses my backside again, trailing his palm across my
skin and over my underwear.
Why’s he not removed my panties? Then his palm disappears, and
he brings it down again. I groan as the sensation spreads. He starts
a pattern: left to right and then down. The down ones are the best.
Everything moving forward, inside me … and in between each
smack he caresses me, kneads me—so I am massaged inside and
out. It’s such a stimulating, erotic feeling, and for some reason,
because this is on my terms, I don’t mind the pain. It’s not painful
as such—well, it is, but not unbearable. It’s somehow manageable
and, yes, pleasurable … even. I groan. Yes, I can do this.
He pauses as he slowly peels my panties down my legs. I writhe
on his legs, not because I want to escape the blows, but I want
more … release, something. His touch against my sensitized skin is
all sensuous tingle. It’s overwhelming, and he starts again. A few
soft slaps, then building up, left to right and down. Oh, the downs. I
groan.
“Good girl, Anastasia,” he groans, and his breathing is ragged.
He spanks me twice more, and then he pulls at the small threads
attached to the balls and jerks them out of me suddenly. I almost
climax—the feeling is out of this world. Moving swiftly, he gently
turns me over. I hear rather than see the rip of the foil packet, and
then he’s lying beside me. He seizes my hands, hoists them over my
head, and eases himself onto me, into me, sliding slowly, lling me
where the silver globes have been. I groan loudly.
“Oh, baby,” he whispers as he moves back, forward, a slow
sensual tempo, savoring me, feeling me.
It is the most gentle he has ever been, and it takes no time at all
for me to fall over the edge, spiraling into a delicious, violent,
exhausting orgasm. As I clench around him, it ignites his release,
and he slides into me, stilling, gasping out my name in desperate
wonder.
“Ana!”
He’s silent and panting on top of me, his hands still entwined in
mine above my head. Finally, he leans back and stares down at me.
“I enjoyed that,” he whispers, and then kisses me sweetly.
He doesn’t linger for more sweet kisses but rises, covers me with
the duvet, and disappears into the bathroom. On his return, he’s
carrying a bottle of white lotion. He sits beside me on the bed.
“Roll over,” he orders, and begrudgingly I move onto my front.
Honestly, all this fuss. I feel very sleepy.
“Your ass is a glorious color,” he says approvingly, and he
tenderly massages the cooling lotion into my pink behind.
“Spill the beans, Grey.” I yawn.
“Miss Steele, you know how to ruin a moment.”
“We had a deal.”
“How do you feel?”
“Shortchanged.”
He sighs, slides in beside me, and pulls me into his arms. Careful
not to touch my stinging behind, we are spooning again. He kisses
me very softly beside my ear.
“The woman who brought me into this world was a crack whore,
Anastasia. Go to sleep.”
Holy fuck … what does that mean?
“Was?”
“She’s dead.”
“How long?”
He sighs.
“She died when I was four. I don’t really remember her. Carrick
has given me some details. I only remember certain things. Please
go to sleep.”
“Good night, Christian.”
“Good night, Ana.”
And I slip into a dazed and exhausted sleep, dreaming of a four-
year-old gray-eyed boy in a dark, scary, miserable place.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
There is light everywhere. Bright, warm, piercing light, and I
endeavor to keep it at bay for a few more precious minutes. I want
to hide, just a few more minutes. But the glare is too strong, and I
nally succumb to wakefulness. A glorious Seattle morning greets
me—sunshine pouring through the full-height windows and ooding
the room with too-bright light. Why didn’t we close the blinds last
night? I am in Christian Grey’s vast bed minus one Christian Grey.
I lie back for a moment staring through the windows at the lofty
vista of Seattle’s skyline. Life in the clouds sure feels unreal. A
fantasy—a castle in the air, adrift from the ground, safe from the
realities of life—far away from neglect, hunger, and crack-whore
mothers. I shudder to think what he went through as a small child,
and I understand why he lives here, isolated, surrounded by
beautiful, precious works of art—so far removed from where he
started … mission statement indeed. I frown because it still doesn’t
explain why I can’t touch him.
Ironically, I feel the same up here in his lofty tower. I’m adrift
from reality. I’m in this fantasy apartment, having fantasy sex with
my fantasy boyfriend, when the grim reality is he wants a special
arrangement, though he’s said he’ll try more. What does that
actually mean? This is what I need to clarify between us to see if we
are still at opposite ends on the seesaw or if we are inching closer
together.
I clamber out of bed feeling sti and, for want of a better
expression, well used. Yes, that would be all the sex then. My
subconscious purses her lips in disapproval. I roll my eyes at her,
grateful that a certain twitchy-palmed control freak is not in the
room, and resolve to ask him about the personal trainer. That’s if I
sign. My inner goddess glares at me in desperation. Of course you’ll
sign. I ignore them both, and after a quick trip to the bathroom, I go
in search of Christian.
He’s not in the art gallery, but an elegant middle-aged woman is
cleaning in the kitchen area. The sight of her stops me in my tracks.
She has short blond hair and clear blue eyes; she wears a plain
white tailored shirt and a navy-blue pencil skirt. She smiles broadly
when she sees me.
“Good morning, Miss Steele. Would you like some breakfast?”
Her tone is warm but businesslike, and I am stunned. Who is this
attractive blonde in Christian’s kitchen? I’m only wearing
Christian’s T-shirt. I feel self-conscious and embarrassed by my lack
of clothing.
“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.” My voice is quiet,
unable to hide the anxiety in my voice.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry—I’m Mrs. Jones, Mr. Grey’s
housekeeper.”
Oh.
“How do you do?” I manage.
“Would you like some breakfast, ma’am?”
Ma’am!
“Just some tea would be lovely, thank you. Do you know where
Mr. Grey is?”
“In his study.”
“Thank you.”
I scuttle o toward the study, mortied. Why does Christian only
have attractive blondes working for him? And a nasty thought
comes involuntarily into my mind: Are they all ex-subs? I refuse to
entertain that hideous idea. I poke my head shyly round the door.
He’s on the phone, facing the window, in black pants and a white
shirt. His hair is still wet from the shower, and I’m completely
distracted from my negative thoughts.
“Unless that company’s P&L improves, I’m not interested, Ros.
We’re not carrying deadweight … I don’t need any more lame
excuses … Have Marco call me, it’s shit or bust time … Yes, tell
Barney that the prototype looks good, though I’m not sure about
the interface … No, it’s just missing something … I want to meet
him this afternoon to discuss … In fact, him and his team, we can
brainstorm.… Okay. Transfer me back to Andrea …” He waits,
staring out the window, master of his universe, looking down at the
little people below from this castle in the sky. “Andrea …”
Glancing up, he notices me at the door. A slow, sexy smile
spreads across his lovely face, and I’m rendered speechless as my
insides melt. He is without a doubt the most beautiful man on the
planet, too beautiful for the little people below, too beautiful for
me. No, my inner goddess scowls at me, not too beautiful for me.
He is sort of mine, for now. The idea sends a thrill through my blood
and dispels my irrational self-doubt.
He continues his conversation, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Clear my schedule this morning, but get Bill to call me. I’ll be in
at two. I need to talk to Marco this afternoon, that will need at least
half an hour … Schedule Barney and his team in after Marco or
maybe tomorrow, and nd time for me to see Claude every day this
week … Tell him to wait … Oh … No, I don’t want publicity for
Darfur … Tell Sam to deal with it … No … Which event? … That’s
next Saturday? … Hold on.”
“When will you be back from Georgia?” he asks.
“Friday.”
He resumes his phone conversation.
“I’ll need an extra ticket because I have a date … Yes Andrea,
that’s what I said, a date, Miss Anastasia Steele will accompany
me … That’s all.” He hangs up. “Good morning, Miss Steele.”
“Mr. Grey.” I smile shyly.
He walks around his desk with his usual grace and stands in front
of me. He gently strokes my cheek with the back of his ngers.
“I didn’t want to wake you, you looked so peaceful. Did you sleep
well?”
“I am very well rested, thank you. I just came to say hi before I
had a shower.”
I gaze up at him, drinking him in. He leans down and gently
kisses me, and I can’t help myself. I throw my arms around his neck
and my ngers twist in his still-damp hair. Pushing my body ush
against his, I kiss him back. I want him. My attack takes him by
surprise, but after a beat, he responds, a low groan in his throat. His
hands slip into my hair and down my back to cup my naked behind,
his tongue exploring my mouth. He pulls back, his eyes hooded.
“Well, sleep seems to agree with you,” he murmurs. “I suggest
you go and have your shower, or shall I lay you across my desk
now?”
“I choose the desk,” I whisper recklessly as desire sweeps like
adrenaline through my system, waking everything in its path.
He stares bewildered down at me for a millisecond.
“You’ve really got a taste for this, haven’t you, Miss Steele?
You’re becoming insatiable,” he murmurs.
“I’ve only got a taste for you,” I whisper.
His eyes widen and darken while his hands knead my naked
backside.
“Damn right, only me,” he growls, and suddenly, with one uid
movement, he clears all the plans and papers o his desk so that
they scatter on the oor, sweeps me up in his arms, and lays me
down across the short end of his desk so that my head is almost o
the edge.
“You want it, you got it, baby,” he mutters, producing a foil
packet from his pants pocket while he unzips his pants. Oh, Mr. Boy
Scout. He rolls the condom over his erection and gazes down at me.
“I sure hope you’re ready,” he breathes, a salacious smile across his
face. And in a moment, he’s lling me, holding my wrists tightly by
my side, and thrusting into me deeply.
I groan … oh yes.
“Christ, Ana. You’re so ready,” he whispers in veneration.
Wrapping my legs around his waist, I hold him the only way I can
as he stays standing, staring down at me, gray eyes glowing,
passionate and possessive. He starts to move, really move. This is
not making love, this is fucking—and I love it. I groan. It’s so raw,
so carnal, making me so wanton. I revel in his possession, his lust
slaking mine. He moves with ease, luxuriating in me, enjoying me,
his lips slightly parted as his breathing increases. He twists his hips
from side to side, and the feeling is exquisite.
I close my eyes, feeling the build up—that delicious, slow, step-
climbing build. Pushing me higher, higher to the castle in the air.
Oh yes … his stroke increases fractionally. I moan loudly. I am all
sensation … all him, enjoying every thrust, every push that lls me.
And he picks up the pace, thrusting faster … harder … and my
whole body is moving to his rhythm, and I can feel my legs
stiening, and my insides quivering and quickening.
“Come on, baby, give it up for me,” he cajoles through gritted
teeth, and the fervent need in his voice—the strain—sends me over
the edge.
I cry out a wordless, passionate plea as I touch the sun and burn,
falling around him, falling down, back to a breathless, bright
summit on Earth. He slams into me and stops abruptly as he reaches
his climax, pulling at my wrists and sinking gracefully and
wordlessly onto me.
Wow … that was unexpected. I slowly materialize back on Earth.
“What the hell are you doing to me?” he breathes as he nuzzles
my neck. “You completely beguile me, Ana. You weave some
powerful magic.”
He releases my wrists, and I run my ngers through his hair,
coming down from my high. I tighten my legs around him.
“I’m the one beguiled,” I whisper.
He gazes at me. His expression is disconcerted, alarmed even.
Placing his hands on either side of my face, he holds my head in
place.
“You. Are. Mine,” he says, each word a staccato. “Do you
understand?”
He’s so earnest, so impassioned—a zealot. The force of his plea is
so unexpected and disarming. I wonder why he’s feeling like this.
“Yes, yours,” I whisper, derailed by his fervor.
“Are you sure you have to go to Georgia?”
I nod slowly. And in that brief moment, I watch his expression
change and the shutters coming down. Abruptly he withdraws,
making me wince.
“Are you sore?” he asks, leaning over me.
“A little,” I confess.
“I like you sore.” His eyes smolder. “Reminds you where I’ve
been, and only me.”
He grabs my chin and kisses me roughly, then stands and holds
his hand out to help me up. I glance down at the foil packet beside
me.
“Always prepared,” I murmur.
He looks at me confused as he redoes his y. I hold up the empty
packet.
“A man can hope, Anastasia, dream even, and sometimes his
dreams come true.”
He sounds so odd, his eyes burning. I just don’t understand. My
postcoital glow is fading fast. What is his problem?
“So, on your desk, that’s been a dream?” I ask dryly, trying
humor to lighten the atmosphere between us.
He smiles an enigmatic smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and I
know immediately this is not the rst time he’s had sex on his desk.
The thought is unwelcome. I squirm uncomfortably as my postcoital
glow evaporates.
“I’d better go and have a shower.” I stand and start to move past
him.
He frowns and runs a hand through his hair.
“I’ve got a couple more calls to make. I’ll join you for breakfast
once you’re out of the shower. I think Mrs. Jones has laundered
your clothes from yesterday. They’re in the closet.”
What? When the hell did she do that? Jeez, could she hear us? I
ush.
“Thank you,” I mutter.
“You’re most welcome,” he replies automatically, but there’s an
edge to his voice.
I’m not saying thank you for fucking me. Although, it was very …
“What?” he asks, and I realize I’m frowning.
“What’s wrong?” I ask softly.
“What do you mean?”
“Well … you’re being more weird than usual.”
“You nd me weird?” He tries to stie a smile.
“Sometimes.”
He regards me for a moment, his eyes speculative. “As ever, I’m
surprised by you, Miss Steele.”
“Surprised how?”
“Let’s just say that was an unexpected treat.”
“We aim to please, Mr. Grey.” I cock my head to one side like he
often does to me and give his words back to him.
“And please me you do,” he says, but he looks uneasy. “I thought
you were going to have a shower.”
Oh, he’s dismissing me.
“Yes … um, I’ll see you in a moment.” I scurry out of his oce
completely dumbfounded.
He seemed confused. Why? I have to say as physical experiences
go, that was very satisfying. But emotionally—well, I’m rattled by
his reaction, and that was about as emotionally enriching as cotton
candy is nutritious.
Mrs. Jones is still in the kitchen. “Would you like your tea now,
Miss Steele?”
“I’ll have a shower rst, thank you,” I mutter and take my
blazing face quickly out of the room.
In the shower, I try to gure out what’s up with Christian. He is
the most complicated person I know, and I cannot understand his
ever-changing moods. He seemed ne when I went into his study.
We had sex … and then he wasn’t. No, I don’t get it. I look to my
subconscious. She’s whistling with her hands behind her back and
looking anywhere but at me. She hasn’t got a clue, and my inner
goddess is still basking in a remnant of postcoital glow. No—we’re
all clueless.
I towel-dry my hair, comb it through with Christian’s one and
only hair implement, and put my hair up in a bun. Kate’s plum dress
hangs laundered and ironed in the closet along with my clean bra
and panties. Mrs. Jones is a marvel. Slipping on Kate’s shoes, I
straighten my dress, take a deep breath, and head back out to the
great room.
Christian is still nowhere to be seen, and Mrs. Jones is checking
the contents of the pantry.
“Tea now, Miss Steele?” she asks.
“Please.” I smile at her. I feel slightly more condent now that
I’m dressed.
“Would you like something to eat?”
“No, thank you.”
“Of course you’ll have something to eat,” Christian snaps,
glowering. “She likes pancakes, bacon, and eggs, Mrs. Jones.”
“Yes, Mr. Grey. What would you like, sir?”
“Omelet, please, and some fruit.” He doesn’t take his eyes o me,
his expression unfathomable. “Sit,” he orders, pointing to one of the
barstools.
I oblige, and he sits beside me while Mrs. Jones busies herself
with breakfast. Gosh, it’s unnerving having someone else listen to
our conversation.
“Have you bought your air ticket?”
“No, I’ll buy it when I get home—over the Internet.”
He leans on his elbow, rubbing his chin.
“Do you have the money?”
Oh no.
“Yes,” I say with mock patience as if I’m talking to a small child.
He raises a censorious eyebrow at me. Crap.
“Yes, I do, thank you,” I amend rapidly.
“I have a jet. It’s not scheduled to be used for three days; it’s at
your disposal.”
I gape at him. Of course he has a jet, and I have to resist my
body’s natural inclination to roll my eyes at him. I want to laugh.
But I don’t, as I can’t read his mood.
“We’ve already made serious misuse of your company’s aviation
eet. I wouldn’t want to do it again.”
“It’s my company, it’s my jet.” He sounds almost wounded. Oh,
boys and their toys!
“Thank you for the oer. But I’d be happier taking a scheduled
ight.”
He looks like he wants to argue further but decides against it.
“As you wish.” He sighs. “Do you have much preparation to do
for your interview?”
“No.”
“Good. You’re still not going to tell me which publishing
houses?”
“No.”
His lips curl up in a reluctant smile. “I am a man of means, Miss
Steele.”
“I am fully aware of that, Mr. Grey. Are you going to track my
phone?” I ask innocently.
“Actually, I’ll be quite busy this afternoon, so I’ll have to get
someone else to do it.” He smirks.
Is he joking?
“If you can spare someone to do that, you’re obviously
overstaed.”
“I’ll send an e-mail to the head of human resources and have her
look into our head count.” His lips twitch to hide his smile.
Oh, thank the Lord, he’s recovered his sense of humor.
Mrs. Jones serves us breakfast and we eat quietly for a few
moments. After clearing the pans, tactfully, she heads out of the
living area. I peek up at him.
“What is it, Anastasia?”
“You know, you never did tell me why you don’t like to be
touched.”
He blanches, and his reaction makes me feel guilty for asking.
“I’ve told you more than I’ve ever told anybody.” His voice is
quiet as he gazes at me impassively.
And it’s clear to me that he’s never conded in anyone. Doesn’t
he have any close friends? Perhaps he told Mrs. Robinson? I want to
ask him, but I can’t—I can’t pry that invasively. I shake my head at
the realization. He really is an island.
“Will you think about our arrangement while you’re away?” he
asks.
“Yes.”
“Will you miss me?”
I gaze at him, surprised by his question.
“Yes,” I answer honestly.
How could he mean so much to me in such a short time? He’s got
right under my skin … literally. He smiles and his eyes light up.
“I’ll miss you, too. More than you know,” he breathes.
My heart warms at his words. He really is trying hard. He gently
strokes my cheek, bends down, and kisses me softly.
It is late afternoon, and I sit nervous and dgeting in the lobby
waiting for Mr. J. Hyde of Seattle Independent Publishing. This is
my second interview today, and the one I’m most anxious about.
My rst interview went well, but it was for a larger conglomerate
with oces based throughout the United States, and I would be one
of many editorial assistants there. I can imagine being swallowed up
and spat out pretty quickly in such a corporate machine. SIP is
where I want to be. It’s small and unconventional, championing
local authors, and has an interesting and quirky roster of clients.
My surroundings are sparse, but I think it’s a design statement
rather than frugality. I am seated on one of two dark green
chestereld couches made of leather—not unlike the couch that
Christian has in his playroom. I stroke the leather appreciatively
and wonder idly what Christian does on that couch. My mind
wanders as I think of the possibilities … no—I must not go there
now. I ush at my wayward and inappropriate thoughts. The
receptionist is a young African-American woman with large silver
earrings and long straightened hair. She has a bohemian look about
her, the sort of woman I could be friendly with. The thought is
comforting. Every few moments she glances up at me, away from
her computer, and smiles reassuringly. I tentatively return her
smile.
My ight is booked, my mother is in seventh heaven that I am
visiting, I am packed, and Kate has agreed to drive me to the
airport. Christian has ordered me to take my BlackBerry and the
Mac. I roll my eyes at the memory of his overbearing bossiness, but
I realize now that’s just the way he is. He likes control over
everything, including me. Yet he’s so unpredictably and disarmingly
agreeable, too. He can be tender, good-humored, even sweet. And
when he is, it’s so left eld and unexpected. He insisted on
accompanying me all the way down to my car in the garage. Jeez,
I’m only going for a few days; he’s acting like I’m going for weeks.
He always keeps me o balance.
“Ana Steele?” A woman with long, black, pre-Raphaelite hair
standing by the reception desk distracts me from my introspection.
She has the same bohemian, oaty look as the receptionist. She
could be in her late thirties, maybe in her forties. It’s so dicult to
tell with older women.
“Yes,” I reply, standing awkwardly.
She gives me a polite smile, her cool hazel eyes assessing me. I
am wearing one of Kate’s dresses, a black pinafore over a white
blouse, and my black pumps. Very interview, I think. My hair is
restrained in a tight bun, and for once the tendrils are behaving
themselves. She holds her hand out to me.
“Hello, Ana, my name’s Elizabeth Morgan. I’m head of human
resources here at SIP.”
“How do you do?” I shake her hand. She looks very casual to be
the head of HR.
“Please follow me.”
We go through the double doors behind the reception area into a
large brightly decorated open-plan oce, and from there head into
a small meeting room. The walls are pale green, lined with pictures
of book covers. At the head of the maple conference table sits a
young man with red hair tied in a ponytail. Small silver hooped
earrings glint in both his ears. He wears a pale blue shirt, no tie,
and stone chinos. As I approach him, he stands and gazes at me with
fathomless dark blue eyes.
“Ana Steele, I’m Jack Hyde, the acquisitions editor here at SIP,
and I’m very pleased to meet you.”
We shake hands, and his dark expression is unreadable, though
friendly enough, I think.
“Have you traveled far?” he asks pleasantly.
“No, I’ve recently moved to the Pike Street Market area.”
“Oh, not far at all then. Please, take a seat.”
I sit, and Elizabeth takes a seat beside him.
“So why would you like to intern for us at SIP, Ana?” he asks.
He says my name softly and cocks his head to one side, like
someone I know—it’s unnerving. Doing my best to ignore the
irrational wariness he inspires, I launch into my carefully prepared
speech, conscious that a rosy ush is spreading across my cheeks. I
look at both of them, remembering the Katherine Kavanagh
Successful Interviewing Technique lecture: Maintain eye contact,
Ana! Boy, that woman can be bossy, too, sometimes. Jack and
Elizabeth both listen attentively.
“You have a very impressive GPA. What extracurricular activities
did you indulge in at WSU?”
Indulge? I blink at him. What an odd choice of word. I launch into
details of my librarianship at the campus central library and my one
experience of interviewing an obscenely rich despot for the student
newspaper. I gloss over the fact that I didn’t actually write the
article. I mention the two literary societies that I belonged to and
conclude with working at Clayton’s and all the useless knowledge I
now possess about hardware and DIY. They both laugh, which is the
response I’d hoped for. Slowly, I relax and begin to enjoy myself.
Jack Hyde asks sharp, intelligent questions, but I’m not thrown—
I keep up, and when we discuss my reading preferences and my
favorite books, I think I hold my own. Jack, on the other hand,
appears to only favor American literature written after 1950.
Nothing else. No classics—not even Henry James or Upton Sinclair
or F. Scott Fitzgerald. Elizabeth says nothing, just nods occasionally
and takes notes. Jack, though argumentative, is charming in his
way, and my initial wariness dissipates the longer we talk.
“And where do you see yourself in ve years’ time?” he asks.
With Christian Grey, the thought comes involuntarily into my
head. My errant mind makes me frown.
“Copyediting, perhaps? Maybe a literary agent, I’m not sure. I am
open to opportunities.”
He grins. “Very good, Ana. I don’t have any further questions. Do
you?” he directs his question at me.
“When would you like someone to start?” I ask.
“As soon as possible,” Elizabeth pipes up. “When could you
start?”
“I’m available from next week.”
“That’s good to know,” Jack says.
“If that’s all everyone has to say”—Elizabeth glances at the two
of us—“I think that concludes the interview.” She smiles kindly.
“It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Ana,” Jack says softly as he
takes my hand. He squeezes it gently, so that I blink up at him as I
say good-bye.
I feel unsettled as I make my way to my car, though I’m not sure
why. I think the interview went well, but it’s so hard to say.
Interviews seem such articial situations; everyone on their best
behavior trying desperately to hide behind a professional façade.
Did my face t? I shall have to wait and see.
I climb into my Audi A3 and head back to the apartment, though I
take my time. I’m on the red-eye with a stopover in Atlanta, but my
ight doesn’t leave until 10:25 this evening, so I have plenty of
time.
Kate is unpacking boxes in the kitchen when I return.
“How did they go?” she asks, excited. Only Kate can look
gorgeous in an oversized shirt, tattered jeans, and a dark blue
bandana.
“Good, thanks, Kate. Not sure this outt was cool enough for the
second interview.”
“Oh?”
“Boho chic might have done it.”
Kate raises an eyebrow.
“You and boho chic.” She cocks her head to one side—gah! Why
is everyone reminding me of my favorite Fifty Shades? “Actually,
Ana, you’re one of the few people who could really pull that look
o.”
I grin. “I really liked the second place. I think I could t in there.
The guy who interviewed me was unnerving, though …” I trail o
—shit, I’m talking to Megaphone Kavanagh here. Shut up, Ana!
“Oh?” The Katherine Kavanagh radar for an interesting tidbit of
information swoops into action—a tidbit that will only resurface at
some inopportune and embarrassing moment, which reminds me.
“Incidentally, will you please stop winding Christian up? Your
comment about José at dinner yesterday was out of line. He’s a
jealous guy. It doesn’t do any good, you know.”
“Look, if he wasn’t Elliot’s brother I’d have said a lot worse. He’s
a real control freak. I don’t know how you stand it. I was trying to
make him jealous—give him a little help with his commitment
issues.” She holds her hands up defensively. “But if you don’t want
me to interfere, I won’t,” she says hastily at my scowl.
“Good. Life with Christian is complicated enough, trust me.”
Jeez, I sound like him.
“Ana.” She pauses, staring at me. “You’re okay, aren’t you?
You’re not running to your mother’s to escape?”
I ush. “No, Kate. It was you who said I needed a break.”
She closes the distance between us and takes my hands—a most
un-Kate thing to do. Oh no … tears threaten.
“You’re just, I don’t know … dierent. I hope you’re okay, and
whatever issues you’re having with Mr. Moneybags, you can talk to
me. And I will try not to wind him up, though frankly it’s like
shooting sh in a barrel with him. Look, Ana, if something’s wrong,
tell me, I won’t judge. I’ll try to understand.”
I blink back tears. “Oh, Kate.” I hug her. “I think I’ve really fallen
for him.”
“Ana, anyone can see that. And he’s fallen for you. He’s mad
about you. Won’t take his eyes o you.”
I laugh uncertainly. “Do you think so?”
“Hasn’t he told you?”
“Not in so many words.”
“Have you told him?”
“Not in so many words.” I shrug apologetically.
“Ana! Someone has to make the rst move, otherwise you’ll
never get anywhere.”
What … tell him how I feel?
“I’m just afraid I’ll frighten him away.”
“And how do you know he’s not feeling the same?”
“Christian, afraid? I can’t imagine him being frightened of
anything.” But as I say the words, I imagine him as a small child.
Maybe fear was all he knew then. Sorrow grips and squeezes my
heart at the thought.
Kate gazes at me with pursed lips and narrowed eyes, rather like
my subconscious—all she needs are the half-moon specs.
“You two need to sit down and talk to each other.”
“We haven’t been doing much talking lately.” I blush. Other stu.
Nonverbal communication and that’s okay. Well, much more than
okay.
She grins. “That’ll be the sexing! If that’s going well, then that’s
half the battle, Ana. I’ll grab some Chinese takeout. Are you ready
to go?”
“I will be. We don’t have to leave for a couple of hours or so.”
“No—I’ll see you in twenty.” She grabs her jacket and leaves,
forgetting to close the door. I shut it behind her and head o to my
bedroom, mulling over her words.
Is Christian afraid of his feelings for me? Does he even have
feelings for me? He seems very keen, says I’m his—but that’s just
part of his I-must-own-and-have-everything-now control freak
Dominant self, surely. I realize that while I’m away, I will have to
run through all our conversations again and see if I can pick out
telltale signs.
I’ll miss you, too … more than you know …
You’ve completely beguiled me …
I shake my head. I don’t want to think about it now. I am
charging the BlackBerry, so I haven’t had it with me all afternoon. I
approach it with caution, and I’m disappointed that there are no
messages. I switch on the mean machine, and there are no messages
there, either. Same e-mail address, Ana—my subconscious rolls her
eyes at me, and for the rst time I understand why Christian wants
to spank me when I do that.
Okay. Well, I’ll write him an e-mail.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Interviews
Date: May 30 2011 18:49
To: Christian Grey
Dear Sir,
My interviews went well today.
Thought you might be interested.
How was your day?
Ana
I sit and glare at the screen. Christian’s responses are usually
instantaneous. I wait … and wait, and nally I hear the welcome
ping from my inbox.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: My Day
Date: May 30 2011 19:03
To: Anastasia Steele
Dear Miss Steele,
Everything you do interests me. You are the most fascinating woman I know.
I’m glad your interviews went well.
My morning was beyond all expectations.
My afternoon was very dull in comparison.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Fine Morning
Date: May 30 2011 19:05
To: Christian Grey
Dear Sir,
The morning was exemplary for me, too, in spite of you weirding out on me after the
impeccable desk sex. Don’t think I didn’t notice.
Thank you for breakfast. Or thank Mrs. Jones.
I’d like to ask you questions about her—without you weirding out on me again.
Ana
My nger hovers over the “send” button, and I am reassured that
I’ll be on the other side of the continent this time tomorrow.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Publishing and You?
Date: May 30 2011 19:10
To: Anastasia Steele
Anastasia,
“Weirding” is not a verb and should not be used by anyone who wants to go into
publishing. Impeccable? Compared to what, pray tell? And what do you need to ask
about Mrs. Jones? I’m intrigued.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: You and Mrs. Jones
Date: May 30 2011 19:17
To: Christian Grey
Dear Sir,
Language evolves and moves on. It is an organic thing. It is not stuck in an ivory
tower, hung with expensive works of art and overlooking most of Seattle with a
helipad stuck on its roof.
Impeccable—compared to the other times we have … what’s your word … oh
yes … fucked. Actually the fucking has been pretty impeccable, period, in my humble
opinion—but then, as you know, I have very limited experience.
Is Mrs. Jones an ex-sub of yours?
Ana
My nger hovers once more over the “send” button, and I press
it.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Language. Watch Your Mouth!
Date: May 30 2011 19:22
To: Anastasia Steele
Anastasia,
Mrs. Jones is a valued employee. I have never had any relationship with her beyond
our professional one. I do not employ anyone I’ve had any sexual relations with. I am
shocked that you would think so. The only person I would make an exception to this
rule is you—because you are a bright young woman with remarkable negotiating
skills. Though, if you continue to use such language, I may have to reconsider taking
you on here. I am glad you have limited experience. Your experience will continue to
be limited—just to me. I shall take impeccable as a compliment—though with you, I’m
never sure if that’s what you mean or if your sense of irony is getting the better of you
—as usual.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc., from His Ivory Tower
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Not for All the Tea in China
Date: May 30 2011 19:27
To: Christian Grey
Dear Mr. Grey,
I think I have already expressed my reservations about working for your company. My
views on this have not changed, are not changing, and will not change, ever. I must
leave you now, as Kate has returned with food. My sense of irony and I bid you good
night.
I will contact you once I’m in Georgia.
Ana
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Even Twinings English Breakfast Tea?
Date: May 30 2011 19:29
To: Anastasia Steele
Good night, Anastasia.
I hope you and your sense of irony have a safe ight.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
Kate and I pull up outside the drop-o area at Sea-Tac Airport
departure terminal. Leaning across, she hugs me.
“Enjoy Barbados, Kate. Have a wonderful vacation.”
“I’ll see you when I get back. Don’t let old moneybags grind you
down.”
“I won’t.”
We hug again—and then I’m on my own. I head over to check-in
and stand in line, waiting with my carry-on luggage. I haven’t
bothered with a suitcase, just a smart rucksack that Ray gave me for
my last birthday.
“Ticket, please?” The bored young man behind the desk holds up
his hand without looking at me.
Mirroring his boredom, I hand over my ticket and my driver’s
license as ID. I am hoping for a window seat if at all possible.
“Okay, Miss Steele. You’ve been upgraded to rst class.”
“What?”
“Ma’am, if you’d like to go through to the rst class lounge and
wait for your ight there …” He seems to have woken up and is
beaming at me like I’m Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny rolled into
one.
“Surely there’s some mistake.”
“No, no.” He checks his computer screen again. “Anastasia Steele
—upgrade.” He simpers.
Ugh. I narrow my eyes. He hands me my boarding pass, and I
head toward the rst class lounge muttering under my breath.
Damn Christian Grey, interfering control freak—he just can’t leave
well enough alone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I am manicured, massaged, and I’ve had two glasses of champagne.
The rst class lounge has many redeeming features. With each sip
of Moet, I feel slightly more inclined to forgive Christian and his
intervention. I open up my MacBook, hoping to test the theory that
it works anywhere on the planet.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Over-Extravagant Gestures
Date: May 30 2011 21:53
To: Christian Grey
Dear Mr. Grey,
What really alarms me is how you knew which ight I was on.
Your stalking knows no bounds. Let’s hope that Dr. Flynn is back from vacation.
I have had a manicure, a back massage, and two glasses of champagne—a very nice
start to my vacation.
Thank you.
Ana
From: Christian Grey
Subject: You’re Most Welcome
Date: May 30 2011 21:59
To: Anastasia Steele
Dear Miss Steele,
Dr. Flynn is back, and I have an appointment this week.
Who was massaging your back?
Christian Grey
CEO with friends in the right places,
Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
Aha! Payback time. Our ight has been called, so I shall e-mail
him from the plane. It will be safer. I almost hug myself with
mischievous glee.
THERE IS SO MUCH room in rst class. Champagne cocktail in hand, I
settle myself into the sumptuous leather window seat as the cabin
slowly lls. I call Ray to tell him where I am—a mercifully brief
call, as it’s so late for him. “Love you, Dad,” I murmur.
“You, too, Annie. Say hi to your mom. Good night.”
“Good night.” I hang up.
Ray is in good form. I stare at my Mac, and with the same
childish glee building, I open my laptop and open up my e-mail.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Strong Able Hands
Date: May 30 2011 22:22
To: Christian Grey
Dear Sir,
A very pleasant young man massaged my back. Yes. Very pleasant indeed. I wouldn’t
have encountered Jean-Paul in the ordinary departure lounge—so thank you again for
that treat. I’m not sure if I’ll be allowed to e-mail once we take o, and I need my
beauty sleep since I’ve not been sleeping so well recently.
Pleasant dreams, Mr. Grey … thinking of you.
Ana
Oh, he’s going to ip out—and I shall be airborne and out of
reach. Serves him right. If I’d been in the ordinary departure
lounge, then Jean-Paul wouldn’t have gotten his hands on me. He
was a very nice young man, in a blond, perma-tanned way—
honestly, who has a tan in Seattle? It’s just so wrong. I think he was
gay—but I’ll just keep that detail to myself. I stare at my e-mail.
Kate is right. It is like shooting sh in a barrel with him. My
subconscious stares at me with an ugly twist to her mouth; Do you
really want to wind him up? What he’s done is sweet, you know! He
cares about you and wants you to travel in style. Yes, but he could
have asked me or told me. Not made me look like a complete klutz
at check-in. I press “send” and wait, feeling like a very naughty girl.
“Miss Steele, you’ll need to stow your laptop for takeo,” the
over-made-up ight attendant says politely. She makes me jump.
My guilty conscience is at work.
“Oh, sorry.”
Crap. Now I’ll have to wait to know if he’s replied. She hands me
a soft blanket and pillow, showing her perfect teeth. I drape the
blanket over my knees. It’s nice to feel pampered sometimes.
First class has lled up, except for the seat beside me, which is
still unoccupied. Oh no … a disturbing thought crosses my mind.
Perhaps the seat is Christian’s. Oh, shit … no … he wouldn’t do that.
Would he? I told him I didn’t want him to come with me. I glance
anxiously at my watch, and then the disembodied voice from the
ight deck announces, “Cabin crew, doors to automatic and cross
check.”
What does that mean? Are they closing the doors? My scalp
prickles as I sit in palpitating anticipation. The seat next to me is the
only unoccupied one in the sixteen-seat cabin. The plane jolts as it
pulls away from the gate, and I breathe a sigh of relief but feel a
faint tingle of disappointment too … no Christian for four days. I
take a sneak peek at my BlackBerry.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Enjoy It While You Can
Date: May 30 2011 22:25
To: Anastasia Steele
Dear Miss Steele,
I know what you’re trying to do—and trust me, you’ve succeeded. Next time you’ll be
in the cargo hold, bound and gagged in a crate. Believe me when I say that attending
to you in that state will give me so much more pleasure than merely upgrading your
ticket.
I look forward to your return.
Christian Grey
Palm-Twitching CEO,
Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
Holy crap. That’s the problem with Christian’s humor—I can
never be sure if he’s joking or if he’s seriously angry. I suspect on
this occasion he’s seriously angry. Surreptitiously, so the ight
attendant can’t see, I type a reply under the blanket.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Joking?
Date: May 30 2011 22:30
To: Christian Grey
You see—I have no idea if you’re joking—and if you’re not, then I think I’ll stay in
Georgia. Crates are a hard limit for me. Sorry I made you mad. Tell me you forgive me.
A
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Joking
Date: May 30 2011 22:31
To: Anastasia Steele
How can you be e-mailing? Are you risking the life of everyone on board, including
yourself, by using your BlackBerry? I think that contravenes one of the rules.
Christian Grey
Two Palms Twitching CEO,
Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
Two palms! I put my BlackBerry away, sit back while the plane
taxis to the runway, and pull out my tattered copy of Tess—some
light reading for the journey. Once we’re airborne, I tip my seat
back, and soon I’m drifting o to sleep.
The ight attendant wakes me as we start our descent into
Atlanta. Local time is 5:45 a.m., but I’ve only had four hours’ sleep
or so … I feel groggy but grateful for the glass of orange juice she
hands me. I glance nervously at my BlackBerry. There are no
further e-mails from Christian. Well, it’s nearly three in the
morning in Seattle, and he probably wants to discourage me from
screwing up the avionics system or whatever prevents planes from
ying if mobile phones are switched on.
• • •
THE WAIT IN ATLANTA is only an hour. And again I’m luxuriating in the
connes of the rst class lounge. I am tempted to curl up and go to
sleep on one of the plush, inviting couches that sink softly under my
weight. But it will just not be long enough. To keep myself awake, I
start a long stream-of-consciousness e-mail to Christian on my
laptop.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Do you like to scare me?
Date: May 31 2011 06:52 EST
To: Christian Grey
You know how much I dislike you spending money on me. Yes, you’re very rich, but
still it makes me uncomfortable, like you’re paying me for sex. However, I like
traveling rst class, it’s so much more civilized than coach. So thank you. I mean it—
and I did enjoy the massage from Jean Paul. He was very gay. I omitted that bit in my
e-mail to you to wind you up, because I was annoyed with you, and I’m sorry about
that.
But as usual you overreact. You can’t write things like that to me—bound and gagged
in a crate. (Were you serious or was it a joke?) That scares me … you scare me … I am
completely caught up in your spell, considering a lifestyle with you that I didn’t even
know existed until last week, and then you write something like that and I want to run
screaming into the hills. I won’t, of course, because I’d miss you. Really miss you. I
want us to work, but I am terried of the depth of feeling I have for you and the dark
path you’re leading me down. What you are oering is erotic and sexy, and I’m
curious, but I’m also scared you’ll hurt me—physically and emotionally. After three
months you could say good-bye, and where will that leave me if you do? But then I
suppose that risk is there in any relationship. This just isn’t the sort of relationship I
ever envisaged having, especially as my rst. It’s a huge leap of faith for me.
You were right when you said I didn’t have a submissive bone in my body … and I
agree with you now. Having said that, I want to be with you, and if that’s what I have
to do, I would like to try, but I think I’ll suck at it and end up black and blue—and I
don’t relish that idea at all.
I am so happy that you have said that you will try more. I just need to think about
what “more” means to me, and that’s one of the reasons why I wanted some distance.
You dazzle me so much I nd it very dicult to think clearly when we’re together.
They are calling my ight. I have to go.
More later.
Your Ana
I press “send” and make my way sleepily to the departure gate to
board a dierent plane. This one has only six seats in rst class, and
once we are in the air, I curl up under my soft blanket and fall
asleep.
All too soon, I’m woken by the ight attendant oering me more
orange juice as we begin our approach to Savannah International. I
sip slowly, beyond fatigued, and I allow myself to feel a modicum
of excitement. I’m going to see my mother for the rst time in six
months. Sneaking another covert look at my BlackBerry, I
remember vaguely that I sent a long, rambling e-mail to Christian—
but there’s nothing in response. It’s ve in the morning in Seattle;
hopefully he’s still asleep and not up playing mournful laments on
his piano.
• • •
THE BEAUTY OF CARRY-ON rucksacks is that one can breeze out of the
airport and not wait endlessly for baggage at the carousels. The
beauty of traveling rst class is that they let you o the plane rst.
My mom is waiting with Bob, and it is so good to see them. I
don’t know if it’s because of exhaustion, the long journey, or the
whole Christian situation, but as soon as I’m in my mother’s arms, I
burst into tears.
“Oh, Ana, honey. You must be so tired.” She glances anxiously at
Bob.
“No, Mom, it’s just—I’m so pleased to see you.” I hug her tightly.
She feels so good and welcoming, like home. Reluctantly, I
relinquish her, and Bob gives me an awkward one-armed hug. He
seems unsteady on his feet, and I remember that he’s hurt his leg.
“Welcome back, Ana. Why you cryin’?” he asks.
“Aw, Bob, I’m just pleased to see you, too.” I stare up into his
handsome square-jawed face and his twinkling blue eyes that gaze
at me fondly. I like this husband, Mom. You can keep him. He takes
my backpack.
“Jeez, Ana, what have you got in here?”
That would be the Mac, and they both put their arms around me
as we head for the parking lot.
I always forget how unbearably hot it is in Savannah. Leaving the
cool air-conditioned connes of the arrival terminal, we step into
the Georgia heat like we’re wearing it. Whoa! It saps everything. I
have to struggle out of Mom and Bob’s embrace so I can remove my
hoodie. I am so glad I packed shorts. I miss the dry heat of Las
Vegas sometimes, where I lived with Mom and Bob when I was
seventeen, but this wet heat, even at 8:30 in the morning, takes
some getting used to. By the time I’m in the back of Bob’s
wonderfully air-conditioned Tahoe SUV, I feel limp, and my hair has
started a frizzy protest at the heat. In the back of the SUV, I quickly
text Ray, Kate, and Christian:
*Arrived safely in Savannah. A :)*
My thoughts stray briey to José as I press “send,” and through
the fog of my fatigue, I remember that his show is next week.
Should I invite Christian, knowing how he feels about José? Will
Christian still want to see me after that e-mail? I shudder at the
thought, and then put it out of my mind. I’ll deal with that later.
Right now I am going to enjoy my mom’s company.
“Honey, you must be tired. Would you like to sleep when we get
home?”
“No, Mom. I’d like to go to the beach.”
I AM IN MY blue halter-neck tankini, sipping a Diet Coke, on a sun bed
facing the Atlantic Ocean, and to think that only yesterday I was
staring out at the Sound toward the Pacic. My mother lounges
beside me in a ridiculously large oppy sun hat and Jackie O
shades, sipping a Coke of her own. We are on Tybee Island Beach,
just three blocks from home. She holds my hand. My fatigue has
waned, and as I soak up the sun, I feel comfortable, safe, and warm.
For the rst time in forever, I start to relax.
“So, Ana … tell me about this man who has you in such a spin.”
Spin! How can she tell? What to say? I can’t talk about Christian
in any great detail because of the NDA, but even then, would I
choose to talk to my mother about it? I blanch at the thought.
“Well?” she prompts, and squeezes my hand.
“His name’s Christian. He’s beyond handsome. He’s
wealthy … too wealthy. He’s very complicated and mercurial.”
Yes—I feel inordinately pleased with my concise, accurate
summary. I turn on my side to face her, just as she makes the same
move. She gazes at me with her crystal-clear blue eyes.
“Complicated and mercurial are the two pieces of information I
want to concentrate on, Ana.”
Oh no …
“Oh, Mom, his mood swings make me dizzy. He’s had a grim
upbringing, so he’s very closed, dicult to gauge.”
“Do you like him?”
“I more than like him.”
“Really?” She gapes at me.
“Yes, Mom.”
“Men aren’t really complicated, Ana, honey. They are very
simple, literal creatures. They usually mean what they say. And we
spend hours trying to analyze what they’ve said, when really it’s
obvious. If I were you, I’d take him literally. That might help.”
I gape at her. This sounds like good advice. Take Christian
literally. Immediately some of the things he’s said spring into my
mind.
I don’t want to lose you …
You’ve bewitched me …
You’ve completely beguiled me …
I’ll miss you, too … more than you know …
I gaze at my mom. She is on her fourth marriage. Maybe she does
know something about men after all.
“Most men are moody, darling, some more than others. Take
your father, for instance …” Her eyes soften and sadden whenever
she thinks of my dad. My real dad, this mythical man I never knew,
snatched so cruelly from us in a combat training accident when he
was a marine. Part of me thinks my mom has been looking for
someone like my dad all this time … maybe she’s nally found
what she’s looking for in Bob. Pity she couldn’t nd it with Ray.
“I used to think your father was moody. But now when I look
back, I just think he was too caught up in his job and trying to make
a life for us.” She sighs. “He was so young, we both were. Maybe
that was the issue.”
Hmm … Christian is not exactly old. I smile fondly at her. She
can become very soulful thinking about my father, but I’m sure he
had nothing on Christian’s moods.
“Bob wants to take us out tonight for dinner. To his golf club.”
“Oh no! Bob’s started playing golf?” I sco in disbelief.
“Tell me about it,” groans my mother, rolling her eyes.
AFTER A LIGHT LUNCH back at the house, I start to unpack. I am going
to treat myself to a siesta. My mother has disappeared to mold
some candles or whatever she does with them, and Bob is at work,
so I have time to catch up on some sleep. I open the Mac and re it
up. It’s two in the afternoon in Georgia, eleven in the morning in
Seattle. I wonder if I have a reply from Christian. Nervously, I open
up my e-mail.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Finally!
Date: May 31 2011 07:30
To: Anastasia Steele
Anastasia,
I am annoyed that as soon as you put some distance between us, you communicate
openly and honestly with me. Why can’t you do that when we’re together?
Yes, I’m rich. Get used to it. Why shouldn’t I spend money on you? We’ve told your
father I’m your boyfriend, for heaven’s sake. Isn’t that what boyfriends do? As your
Dom, I would expect you to accept whatever I spend on you with no argument.
Incidentally, tell your mother, too.
I don’t know how to answer your comment about feeling like a whore. I know that’s
not what you’ve written, but it’s what you imply. I don’t know what I can say or do to
eradicate these feelings. I’d like you to have the best of everything. I work
exceptionally hard so I can spend my money as I see t. I could buy you your heart’s
desire, Anastasia, and I want to. Call it redistribution of wealth, if you will. Or simply
know that I would not, could not ever think of you in the way you described, and I’m
angry that’s how you perceive yourself. For such a bright, witty, beautiful young
woman, you have some real self-esteem issues, and I have half a mind to make an
appointment for you with Dr. Flynn.
I apologize for frightening you. I nd the thought of instilling fear in you abhorrent.
Do you really think I’d let you travel in the hold? I oered you my private jet, for
heaven’s sake. Yes, it was a joke, a poor one obviously. However, the fact is the
thought of you bound and gagged turns me on (this is not a joke—it’s true). I can lose
the crate—crates do nothing for me. I know you have issues with gagging—we’ve
talked about that—and if/when I do gag you, we’ll discuss it. What I think you fail to
realize is that in Dom/sub relationships it is the sub who has all the power. That’s you.
I’ll repeat this—you are the one with all the power. Not I. In the boathouse you said no.
I can’t touch you if you say no—that’s why we have an agreement—what you will and
won’t do. If we try things and you don’t like them, we can revise the agreement. It’s up
to you—not me. And if you don’t want to be bound and gagged in a crate, then it
won’t happen.
I want to share my lifestyle with you. I have never wanted anything so much. Frankly,
I’m in awe of you, that one so innocent would be willing to try. That says more to me
than you could ever know. You fail to see I am caught in your spell, too, even though I
have told you this countless times. I don’t want to lose you. I am nervous that you’ve
own three thousand miles to get away from me for a few days, because you can’t
think clearly around me. It’s the same for me, Anastasia. My reason vanishes when
we’re together—that’s the depth of my feeling for you.
I understand your trepidation. I did try to stay away from you; I knew you were
inexperienced, though I would never have pursued you if I had known exactly how
innocent you were—and yet you still manage to disarm me completely in a way that
nobody has before. Your e-mail for example: I have read and reread it countless times
trying to understand your point of view. Three months is an arbitrary amount of time.
We could make it six months, a year? How long do you want it to be? What would
make you comfortable? Tell me.
I understand that this is a huge leap of faith for you. I have to earn your trust, but by
the same token, you have to communicate with me when I am failing to do this. You
seem so strong and self-contained, and then I read what you’ve written here, and I see
another side to you. We have to guide each other, Anastasia, and I can only take my
cues from you. You have to be honest with me, and we have to both nd a way to
make this arrangement work.
You worry about not being submissive. Well, maybe that’s true. Having said that, the
only time you do assume the correct demeanor for a sub is in the playroom. It seems
that’s the one place where you let me exercise proper control over you and the only
place you do as you’re told. “Exemplary” is the term that comes to mind. And I’d never
beat you black and blue. I aim for pink. Outside the playroom, I like that you challenge
me. It’s a very novel and refreshing experience, and I wouldn’t want to change that. So
yes, tell me what you want in terms of more. I will endeavor to keep an open mind, and
I shall try to give you the space you need and stay away from you while you are in
Georgia. I look forward to your next e-mail.
In the meantime, enjoy yourself. But not too much.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
Holy crap. He’s written an essay like we’re back at school—and
most of it’s good. My heart is in my mouth as I reread his epistle, and
I huddle on the spare bed practically hugging my Mac. Make our
agreement a year? I have the power! Jeez, I’m going to have to
think about that. Take him literally, that’s what my mother says. He
doesn’t want to lose me. He’s said that twice! He wants to make
this work, too. Oh, Christian, so do I! He’s going to try to stay away!
Does this mean he might fail to stay away? Suddenly, I hope so. I
want to see him. We’ve been apart less than twenty-four hours, and
knowing that I can’t see him for four days, I realize how much I
miss him. How much I love him.
“Ana, honey.” The voice is soft and warm, full of love and sweet
memories of times gone by.
A gentle hand brushes my face. My mom wakes me, and I’m
wrapped around my laptop, hugging it to me.
“Ana, sweetheart,” she continues in her soft, singsong voice while
I surface from sleep, blinking in the pale pink light of dusk.
“Hi, Mom.” I stretch out and smile.
“We’re going out for dinner in thirty minutes. You still want to
come?” she asks kindly.
“Oh yes, Mom, of course.” I try very hard but fail to stie my
yawn.
“Now that’s an impressive piece of technology.” She points to my
laptop.
Oh, crap.
“Oh … this?” I strive for casual, surprised nonchalance.
Will Mom notice? She seems to have grown more astute since I
acquired a “boyfriend.”
“Christian lent it to me. I think I could pilot the space shuttle with
it, but I just use it for e-mails and Internet access.”
Really, it’s nothing. Eyeing me suspiciously, she sits down on the
bed and tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
“Has he e-mailed you?”
Oh, double crap.
“Yeah.” My nonchalance is wearing thin, and I ush.
“Perhaps he’s missing you, huh?”
“I hope so, Mom.”
“What does he say?”
Oh, triple crap. I frantically try to think of something acceptable
from that e-mail I can tell my mother. I’m sure she doesn’t want to
hear about Doms and bondage and gagging, but then I can’t tell her
because there’s the NDA.
“He’s told me to enjoy myself but not too much.”
“Sounds reasonable. I’ll leave you to get ready, honey.” Leaning
over, she kisses my forehead. “I’m so glad you’re here, Ana. It’s
wonderful to see you.” And with that loving statement, she leaves.
Hmm, Christian and reasonable … two concepts that I thought
were mutually exclusive, but after his e-mail, maybe all things are
possible. I shake my head. I will need time to digest his words.
Probably after dinner—and I can reply to him then. I climb out of
bed and quickly slip out of my T-shirt and shorts and head to the
shower.
I have brought Kate’s gray halter-neck dress that I wore for my
graduation. It’s the only dressy item I have. One good thing about
the heat is that the creases have dropped out, so I think it will do
for the golf club. As I dress, I open up the laptop. There is nothing
new from Christian, and I feel a stab of disappointment. Very
quickly, I type him an e-mail.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Verbose?
Date: May 31 2011 19:08 EST
To: Christian Grey
Sir, you are quite the loquacious writer. I have to go to dinner at Bob’s golf club, and
just so you know, I am rolling my eyes at the thought. But you and your twitchy palm
are a long way from me so my behind is safe, for now. I loved your e-mail. Will respond
when I can. I miss you already.
Enjoy your afternoon.
Your Ana
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Your Behind
Date: May 31 2011 16:10
To: Anastasia Steele
Dear Miss Steele,
I am distracted by the title of this e-mail. Needless to say it is safe—for now.
Enjoy your dinner, and I miss you, too, especially your behind and your smart mouth.
My afternoon will be dull, brightened only by thoughts of you and your eye rolling. I
think it was you who so judiciously pointed out to me that I, too, suer from that nasty
habit.
Christian Grey
CEO & Eye Roller,
Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Eye Rolling
Date: May 31 2011 19:14 EST
To: Christian Grey
Dear Mr. Grey,
Stop e-mailing me. I am trying to get ready for dinner. You are very distracting, even
when you are on the other side of the continent. And yes—who spanks you when you
roll your eyes?
Your Ana
I press “send,” and immediately the image of that evil witch Mrs.
Robinson comes into my mind. I just can’t picture it. Christian being
beaten by someone as old as my mother, it’s just so wrong. Again I
wonder what damage she’s wrought. My mouth sets in a hard, grim
line. I need a doll to stick pins in, maybe that way I can vent some
of the anger I feel at this stranger.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Your Behind
Date: May 31 2011 16:18
To: Anastasia Steele
Dear Miss Steele,
I still prefer my title to yours, in so many dierent ways. It is lucky that I am master of
my own destiny and no one castigates me. Except my mother, occasionally, and Dr.
Flynn, of course. And you.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Chastising … Me?
Date: May 31 2011 19:22 EST
To: Christian Grey
Dear Sir,
When have I ever plucked up the nerve to chastise you, Mr. Grey? I think you are
mixing me up with someone else … which is very worrying. I really do have to get
ready.
Your Ana
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Your Behind
Date: May 31 2011 16:25
To: Anastasia Steele
Dear Miss Steele,
You do it all the time in print. Can I zip up your dress?
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
For some unknown reason, his words leap o the screen and
make me gasp. Oh … he wants to play games.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: NC-17
Date: May 31 2011 19:28 EST
To: Christian Grey
I would rather you unzipped it.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Careful what you wish for …
Date: May 31 2011 16:31
To: Anastasia Steele
SO WOULD I.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Panting
Date: May 31 2011 19:33 EST
To: Christian Grey
Slowly …
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Groaning
Date: May 31 2011 16:35
To: Anastasia Steele
Wish I were there.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Moaning
Date: May 31 2011 19:37 EST
To: Christian Grey
SO DO I.
“Ana!” My mother calls me, making me jump. Shit. Why do I feel
so guilty?
“Just coming, Mom.”
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Moaning
Date: May 31 2011 19:39 EST
To: Christian Grey
Gotta go.
Laters, baby.
I dash into the hall, where Bob and my mother are waiting. My
mother frowns.
“Darling—are you feeling okay? You look a bit ushed.”
“Mom, I’m ne.”
“You look lovely, dear.”
“Oh, this is Kate’s dress. You like it?”
Her frown deepens.
“Why are you wearing Kate’s dress?”
Oh … no.
“Well, I like this one and she doesn’t,” I improvise quickly.
She regards me shrewdly while Bob oozes impatience with his
hangdog, hungry look.
“I’ll take you shopping tomorrow,” she says.
“Oh, Mom, you don’t need to do that. I have plenty of clothes.”
“Can’t I do something for my own daughter? Come on, Bob’s
starving.”
“Too right,” moans Bob, rubbing his stomach and assuming a fake
pained expression.
I giggle as he rolls his eyes, and we head out the door.
Later when I’m in the shower, cooling under the lukewarm water, I
reect on how much my mother has changed. Seeing her at dinner,
she was in her element: funny and irty and among many friends at
the golf club. Bob was warm and attentive … they seem so good for
each other. I’m really pleased for her. It means I can stop worrying
about her and second-guessing her decisions and put the dark days
of Husband Number Three behind us both. Bob is a keeper. And
she’s giving me good advice. When did that start happening? Since I
met Christian. Why is that?
When I’m done, I dry myself quickly, keen to get back to
Christian. There’s an e-mail waiting for me, sent just after I left for
dinner a few hours ago.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Plagiarism
Date: May 31 2011 16:41
To: Anastasia Steele
You stole my line.
And left me hanging.
Enjoy your dinner.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Who are you to cry thief?
Date: May 31 2011 22:18 EST
To: Christian Grey
Sir, I think you’ll nd it was Elliot’s line originally.
Hanging how?
Your Ana
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Unnished Business
Date: May 31 2011 19:22
To: Anastasia Steele
Miss Steele,
You’re back. You left so suddenly—just when things were getting interesting.
Elliot’s not very original. He must have stolen that line from someone.
How was dinner?
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Unnished Business?
Date: May 31 2011 22:26 EST
To: Christian Grey
Dinner was lling—you’ll be very pleased to hear I ate far too much.
Getting interesting? How?
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Unnished Business—Denitely
Date: May 31 2011 19:30
To: Anastasia Steele
Are you being deliberately obtuse? I think you’d just asked me to unzip your dress.
And I was looking forward to doing just that. I am also glad to hear you are eating.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Well … There’s Always the Weekend
Date: May 31 2011 22:36 EST
To: Christian Grey
Of course I eat … It’s only the uncertainty I feel around you that puts me o my food.
And I would never be unwittingly obtuse, Mr. Grey.
Surely you’ve worked that out by now. ;)
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Can’t Wait
Date: May 31 2011 19:40
To: Anastasia Steele
I shall remember that, Miss Steele, and no doubt use the knowledge to my advantage.
I’m sorry to hear that I put you o your food. I thought I had a more concupiscent
eect on you. That has been my experience, and most pleasurable it has been, too.
I very much look forward to the next time.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Gymnastic Linguistics
Date: May 31 2011 22:36 EST
To: Christian Grey
Have you been playing with the thesaurus again?
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Rumbled
Date: May 31 2011 19:40
To: Anastasia Steele
You know me so well, Miss Steele.
I am having dinner with an old friend now so I will be driving.
Laters, baby©.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
Which old friend? I didn’t think Christian had any old friends,
except … her. I frown at the screen. Why does he have to still see
her? Searing, green, bilious jealousy courses through me
unexpectedly. I want to hit something, preferably Mrs. Robinson.
Switching the laptop o in a temper, I clamber into bed.
I should really respond to his long e-mail from this morning, but
I’m suddenly too angry. Why can’t he see her for what she is—a
child molester? I switch o the light, seething, staring into the
darkness. How dare she? How dare she pick on a vulnerable
adolescent? Is she still doing it? Why did they stop? Various
scenarios lter through my mind: If he had had enough, then why is
he still friends with her? Ditto her—is she married? Divorced? Jeez
—does she have children of her own? Does she have Christian’s
children? My subconscious rears her ugly head, leering, and I’m
shocked and nauseated at the thought. Does Dr. Flynn know about
her?
I struggle out of bed and re the mean machine up again. I am on
a mission. I drum my ngers impatiently waiting for the blue screen
to appear. I hit Google images and enter “Christian Grey” into the
search engine. The screen is suddenly littered with images of
Christian: in black tie, be-suited, jeez—José’s pictures from the
Heathman, in his white shirt and annel trousers. How did they get
on the Internet? Boy, he looks good.
I move quickly on: some with business associates, then picture
after glorious picture of the most photogenic man I know
intimately. Intimately? Do I know Christian intimately? I know him
sexually, and I gure there’s a lot more to discover there. I know
he’s moody, dicult, funny, cold, warm … jeez, the man is a
walking mass of contradictions. I click to the next page. He’s still on
his own in all these photographs, and I remember Kate mentioning
that she couldn’t nd any photographs of him with a date,
prompting her gay question. Then, on the third page, there’s a
picture of me, with him, at my graduation. His only picture with a
woman, and it’s me.
Holy cow! I’m on Google! I stare at us together. I look surprised by
the camera, nervous, o balance. This was just before I agreed to
try. For his part, Christian looks impossibly handsome, calm and
collected, and he’s wearing that tie. I gaze at him, such a beautiful
face, a beautiful face that could be staring at Mrs. Damned Robinson
right now. I save the picture in my favorites and click through all
eighteen pages of search results … nothing. I won’t nd Mrs.
Robinson on Google. But I have to know if he’s with her. I type a
quick e-mail to Christian.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Suitable Dinner Companions
Date: May 31 2011 23:58 EST
To: Christian Grey
I hope you and your friend had a very pleasant dinner.
Ana
P.S. Was it Mrs. Robinson?
I press “send” and climb despondently back into bed, resolving to
ask Christian about his relationship with that woman. Part of me is
desperate to know more, and another part wants to forget he ever
told me. And my period has started, so I must remember to take my
pill in the morning. I quickly program an alarm into the calendar on
my BlackBerry. Setting it aside on the bedside table, I lie down and
eventually drift into an uneasy sleep, wishing that we were in the
same city, not twenty-ve hundred miles apart.
After a morning of shopping and an afternoon back at the beach, my
mother has decreed we should spend the evening in a bar.
Abandoning Bob to the TV, we nd ourselves in the upscale bar of
Savannah’s most exclusive hotel. I am on my second Cosmopolitan.
My mother is on her third. She is oering more insights into the
fragile male ego. It’s very disconcerting.
“You see, Ana, men think that anything that comes out of a
woman’s mouth is a problem to be solved. Not some vague idea
that we’d like to kick around and talk about for a while and then
forget. Men prefer action.”
“Mom, why are you telling me this?” I ask, failing to hide my
exasperation. She’s been like this all day.
“Darling, you sound so lost. You’ve never brought a boy home.
You never even had a boyfriend when we were in Vegas. I thought
something might develop with that guy you met in college, José.”
“Mom, José’s just a friend.”
“I know, sweetheart. But something’s up, and I don’t think you’re
telling me everything.” She gazes at me, her face etched with
motherly concern.
“I just needed some distance from Christian to get my thoughts
straight … that’s all. He tends to overwhelm me.”
“Overwhelm?”
“Yeah. I miss him, though.” I frown.
I have not heard from Christian all day. No e-mails, nothing. I am
tempted to call him to see if he’s okay. My worst fear is that he’s
been in a car accident; my second worst fear is that Mrs. Robinson
has gotten her evil claws into him again. I know it’s irrational, but
where she’s concerned, I seem to have lost all sense of perspective.
“Darling, I have to visit the restroom.”
My mother’s brief absence allows me another chance to check my
BlackBerry. I have been trying surreptitiously to check my e-mail all
day. Finally—a response from Christian!
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Dinner Companions
Date: June 1 2011 21:40 EST
To: Anastasia Steele
Yes, I had dinner with Mrs. Robinson. She is just an old friend, Anastasia.
Looking forward to seeing you again. I miss you.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
He was having dinner with her. My scalp prickles as adrenaline
and fury lance through my body, all my worst fears realized. How
could he? I am away for two days, and he runs o to that evil bitch.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: OLD Dinner Companions
Date: June 1 2011 21:42 EST
To: Christian Grey
She’s not just an old friend.
Has she found another adolescent boy to sink her teeth into?
Did you get too old for her?
Is that the reason your relationship nished?
I press “send” as my mother returns.
“Ana, you’re so pale. What’s happened?”
I shake my head.
“Nothing. Let’s have another drink,” I mutter mulishly.
Her brow furrows, but she glances up and attracts the attention of
one of the waiters, pointing to our glasses. He nods. He understands
the universal language of “another round, please.” As she does, I
quickly glance at my BlackBerry.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Careful …
Date: June 1 2011 21:45 EST
To: Anastasia Steele
This is not something I wish to discuss via e-mail.
How many Cosmopolitans are you going to drink?
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
Holy fuck, he’s here.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I glance nervously around the bar but cannot see him.
“Ana, what is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“It’s Christian, he’s here.”
“What? Really?” She glances around the bar, too.
I have neglected to mention Christian’s stalker tendencies to my
mom.
I see him. My heart leaps, beginning a jittery thumping beat as he
makes his way toward us. He’s really here—for me. My inner goddess
leaps up cheering from her chaise longue. Moving smoothly through
the crowd, his hair glints burnished copper and red under the
recessed halogens. His bright gray eyes are shining with—anger?
Tension? His mouth is set in a grim line, jaw tense. Oh, holy
shit … no. I am so mad at him right now, and here he is. How can I
be angry with him in front of my mother?
He arrives at our table, gazing at me warily. He’s dressed in his
customary white linen shirt and jeans.
“Hi,” I squeak, unable to hide my shock and awe at seeing him
here in the esh.
“Hi,” he replies, and leaning down, he kisses my cheek, taking me
by surprise.
“Christian, this is my mother, Carla.” My ingrained manners take
over.
He turns to greet my mom. “Mrs. Adams, I am delighted to meet
you.”
How does he know her name? He gives her the heart-stopping,
Christian Grey–patented, full-blown, no-prisoners smile. She doesn’t
have a hope. My mother’s lower jaw practically hits the table. Jeez,
get a grip, Mom. She takes his proered hand, and they shake. My
mother hasn’t replied. Oh, complete dumbfounded speechlessness is
genetic—I had no idea.
“Christian,” she manages nally, breathlessly.
He smiles knowingly at her, his gray eyes twinkling. I narrow my
eyes at them both.
“What are you doing here?” My question sounds more brittle than
I mean, and his smile disappears, his expression now guarded. I am
thrilled to see him but completely thrown o balance, my anger
about Mrs. Robinson simmering through my veins. I don’t know if I
want to shout at him or throw myself into his arms—but I don’t
think he’d like either—and I want to know how long he has been
watching us. I’m also a little anxious about the e-mail I just sent
him.
“I came to see you, of course.” He gazes down at me impassively.
Oh, what is he thinking? “I’m staying in this hotel.”
“You’re staying here?” I sound like a sophomore on
amphetamines, too high pitched even for my own ears.
“Well, yesterday you said you wished I was here.” He pauses,
trying to gauge my reaction. “We aim to please, Miss Steele.” His
voice is quiet with no trace of humor.
Crap—is he mad? Maybe the Mrs. Robinson comments? Or the fact
that I am on my third, soon to be fourth, Cosmo? My mother is
glancing anxiously at the two of us.
“Won’t you join us for a drink, Christian?” She waves to the
waiter, who is at her side in a nanosecond.
“I’ll have a gin and tonic,” Christian says. “Hendricks if you have
it, or Bombay Sapphire. Cucumber with the Hendricks, lime with
the Bombay.”
Holy hell … only Christian could make a meal out of ordering a
drink.
“And two more Cosmos, please,” I add, looking anxiously at
Christian. I am drinking with my mother—no way can he be angry
about that.
“Please pull up a chair, Christian.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Adams.”
Christian pulls a nearby chair over and sits gracefully down
beside me.
“So you just happen to be staying in the hotel where we’re
drinking?” I ask, trying hard to keep my tone light.
“Or you just happen to be drinking in the hotel where I’m
staying,” Christian replies. “I just nished dinner, came in here, and
saw you. I was distracted, thinking about your most recent e-mail,
and I glance up and there you are. Quite a coincidence, eh?” He
cocks his head to one side, and I see a trace of a smile. Thank
heavens—we may be able to save the evening after all.
“My mother and I were shopping this morning and on the beach
this afternoon. We decided on a few cocktails this evening,” I
mutter, feeling that I owe him some sort of explanation.
“Did you buy that top?” He nods at my brand-new green silk
camisole. “The color suits you. And you’ve caught some sun. You
look lovely.”
I ush, speechless at his compliment.
“Well, I was going to pay you a visit tomorrow. But here you
are.”
He reaches over, takes my hand, and squeezes it gently, running
his thumb across my knuckles to and fro … and I feel the familiar
pull. The electric charge zapping beneath my skin under the gentle
pressure from his thumb, ring into my bloodstream and pulsing
around my body, heating everything in its path. It’s been more than
two days since I saw him. Oh my … I want him. My breath hitches.
I blink at him, smiling shyly, and see a smile play on his lips.
“I thought I’d surprise you. But as ever, Anastasia, you surprise
me by being here.”
I glance quickly at Mom, who is staring at Christian … yes
staring! Stop it, Mom. As if he’s some exotic creature, never seen
before. I mean, I know I’ve never had a boyfriend, and Christian
only qualies as such for ease of reference—but is it so unbelievable
that I could attract a man? This man? Yes, frankly—look at him! my
subconscious snaps. Oh, shut up! Who invited you to the party? I
scowl at my mom—but she doesn’t seem to notice.
“I don’t want to interrupt the time you have with your mother.
I’ll have a quick drink and then retire. I have work to do,” he states
earnestly.
“Christian, it’s lovely to meet you nally,” Mom interjects, nally
nding her voice. “Ana has spoken very fondly of you.”
He smiles at her. “Really?” He raises an eyebrow at me, an
amused expression on his face, and I ush again.
The waiter arrives with our drinks.
“Hendricks, sir,” he says with a triumphant ourish.
“Thank you,” Christian murmurs in acknowledgment.
I sip my latest Cosmo nervously.
“How long are you in Georgia, Christian?” Mom asks.
“Until Friday, Mrs. Adams.”
“Will you have dinner with us tomorrow evening? And please,
call me Carla.”
“I’d be delighted to, Carla.”
“Excellent. If you two will excuse me, I need to visit the
restroom.”
Mom … you’ve just been. I look at her desperately as she stands
and walks o, leaving us alone together.
“So, you’re mad at me for having dinner with an old friend.”
Christian turns his burning, wary gaze to me, lifting my hand to his
lips and kissing each knuckle gently.
Jeez, he wants to do this now?
“Yes,” I murmur as my heated blood courses through me.
“Our sexual relationship was over long ago, Anastasia,” he
whispers. “I don’t want anyone but you. Haven’t you worked that
out yet?”
I blink at him. “I think of her as a child molester, Christian.” I
hold my breath waiting for his reaction.
Christian blanches. “That’s very judgmental. It wasn’t like that,”
he whispers, shocked. He releases my hand.
Judgmental?
“Oh, how was it then?” I ask. The Cosmos are making me brave.
He frowns at me, bewildered. I continue. “She took advantage of
a vulnerable fteen-year-old boy. If you had been a fteen-year-old
girl and Mrs. Robinson was a Mr. Robinson, tempting you into a
BDSM lifestyle, that would have been okay? If it was Mia, say?”
He gasps and scowls at me. “Ana, it wasn’t like that.”
I glare at him.
“Okay, it didn’t feel like that to me,” he continues quietly. “She
was a force for good. What I needed.”
“I don’t understand.” It’s my turn to look bewildered.
“Anastasia, your mother will be back shortly. I’m not comfortable
talking about this now. Later, maybe. If you don’t want me here, I
have a plane on standby at Hilton Head. I can go.”
He’s angry with me … no.
“No—don’t go. Please. I’m thrilled you’re here. I’m just trying to
make you understand. I’m angry that as soon as I left, you had
dinner with her. Think about how you are when I get anywhere
near José. José is a good friend. I have never had a sexual
relationship with him. Whereas you and her …” I trail o, unwilling
to take that thought further.
“You’re jealous?” He stares at me, dumbfounded, and his eyes
soften slightly, warming.
“Yes, and angry about what she did to you.”
“Anastasia, she helped me. That’s all I’ll say about that. And as
for your jealousy, put yourself in my shoes. I haven’t had to justify
my actions to anyone in the last seven years. Not one person. I do
as I wish, Anastasia. I like my autonomy. I didn’t go and see Mrs.
Robinson to upset you. I went because every now and then we have
dinner. She’s a friend and a business partner.”
Business partner? Holy crap. This is news.
He gazes at me, assessing my expression. “Yes, we’re business
partners. The sex is over between us. It has been for years.”
“Why did your relationship end?”
His mouth narrows and his eyes gleam. “Her husband found out.”
Holy shit!
“Can we talk about this some other time—somewhere more
private?” he growls.
“I don’t think you’ll ever convince me that she’s not some kind of
pedophile.”
“I don’t think of her that way. I never have. Now that’s enough!”
he snaps.
“Did you love her?”
“How are you two getting on?” My mother has returned, unseen
by either of us.
I plaster a fake smile on my face as both Christian and I lean back
hastily … guiltily. She gazes at me.
“Fine, Mom.”
Christian sips his drink, watching me closely, his expression
guarded. What is he thinking? Did he love her? I think if he did, I
will lose it, big time.
“Well, ladies, I shall leave you to your evening.”
No … no … he can’t leave me hanging like this.
“Please, put these drinks on my tab, room number 612. I’ll call
you in the morning, Anastasia. Until tomorrow, Carla.”
“Oh, it’s so nice to hear someone use your full name.”
“Beautiful name for a beautiful girl,” Christian murmurs, shaking
her outstretched hand, and she actually simpers.
Oh, Mom—et tu, Brute? I stand, gazing up at him, imploring him
to answer my question, and he kisses my cheek chastely.
“Laters, baby,” he whispers in my ear. Then he’s gone.
Damned control freak bastard. My anger returns in full force. I
slump into my chair and turn to face my mother.
“Well, strike me down with a feather, Ana. He’s a catch. I don’t
know what’s going on between you two though. I think you need to
talk to each other. Phew—the UST in here, it’s unbearable.” She
fans herself theatrically.
“MOM!”
“Go talk to him.”
“I can’t. I came here to see you.”
“Ana, you came here because you’re confused about that boy. It’s
obvious you two are crazy about each other. You need to talk to
him. He’s just own three-thousand-odd miles to see you, for
heaven’s sake. And you know how awful it is to y.”
I ush. I haven’t told her about his private plane.
“What?” she snaps.
“He has his own plane,” I mumble, embarrassed, “and it’s only
two and a half thousand miles, Mom.”
Why am I embarrassed? Her eyebrows shoot up.
“Wow,” she mutters. “Ana, there’s something going on between
you two. I’ve been trying to fathom it since you arrived here. But
the only way you are going to sort the problem, whatever it is, is to
talk it through with him. You can do all the thinking you like—but
until you actually talk, you’re not going to get anywhere.”
I frown at my mother.
“Ana, honey, you’ve always had a tendency to overanalyze
everything. Go with your gut. What does that tell you, sweetheart?”
I stare at my ngers.
“I think I’m in love with him,” I mutter.
“I know darling. And he with you.”
“No!”
“Yes, Ana. Hell—what do you need? A neon sign ashing on his
forehead?”
I gape at her and tears prick the corner of my eyes.
“Ana, darling. Don’t cry.”
“I don’t think he loves me.”
“I don’t care how rich you are, you don’t drop everything and get
in your private plane to cross a whole continent just for afternoon
tea. Go to him! This is a beautiful location, very romantic. It’s also
neutral territory.”
I squirm under her gaze. I want to go and I don’t.
“Darling, don’t feel you have to come back with me. I want you
happy—and right now I think the key to your happiness is upstairs
in room 612. If you need to come home later, the key is under the
yucca plant on the front porch. If you stay—well … you’re a big
girl now. Just be safe.”
I ush Stars and Stripes red. Jeez, Mom.
“Let’s nish our Cosmos rst.”
“That’s my girl, Ana.” She grins.
I KNOCK TIMIDLY ON room 612 and wait. Christian opens the door. He’s
on his cell. He blinks at me in complete surprise, then holds the
door open wide and beckons me into his room.
“All the redundancy packages concluded? … And the cost? …”
Christian whistles between his teeth. “Sheesh … that was one
expensive mistake … And Lucas? …”
I glance around the room. He’s in a suite, like the one at the
Heathman. The furnishings here are ultramodern, very now. All
muted dark purples and golds with bronze starbursts on the walls.
Christian walks over to a dark wood unit and pulls open a door to
reveal a minibar. He indicates that I should help myself, then
wanders into the bedroom. I assume it’s so I can no longer hear his
conversation. I shrug. He didn’t stop his call when I entered his
study that time. I hear water running … he’s lling a bath. I help
myself to an orange juice. He ambles back into the room.
“Have Andrea send me the schematics. Barney said he’d cracked
the problem …” Christian laughs. “No, Friday … There’s a plot of
land here that I’m interested in … Yeah, get Bill to call … No,
tomorrow … I want to see what Georgia will oer if we move in.”
Christian doesn’t take his eyes o me. Handing me a glass, he
points to an ice bucket.
“If their incentives are attractive enough … I think we should
consider it, though I’m not sure about the damned heat here … I
agree, Detroit has its advantages, too, and it’s cooler …” His face
darkens momentarily. Why? “Get Bill to call. Tomorrow … Not too
early.” He hangs up and stares at me, his face unreadable, and the
silence stretches between us.
Okay … my turn to talk.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I murmur.
“No. I didn’t,” he says quietly, his gray eyes wide and cautious.
“No, you didn’t answer my question, or no, you didn’t love her?”
He folds his arms and leans against the wall, and a small smile
plays upon his lips.
“What are you doing here, Anastasia?”
“I’ve just told you.”
He takes a deep breath.
“No. I didn’t love her.” He frowns at me, amused yet puzzled.
I can’t believe I’m holding my breath. I sag like an old cloth sack
as I release it. Well, thank heavens for that. How would I feel if he
actually loved the witch?
“You’re quite the green-eyed goddess, Anastasia. Who would
have thought?”
“Are you making fun of me, Mr. Grey?”
“I wouldn’t dare.” He shakes his head solemnly, but he has a
wicked gleam in his eye.
“Oh, I think you would, and I think you do—often.”
He smirks as I give him back the words he’s said to me before.
His eyes darken.
“Please stop biting your lip. You’re in my room, I haven’t set
eyes on you for nearly three days, and I’ve own a long way to see
you.” His tone has changed to soft, sensual.
His BlackBerry buzzes, distracting us both, and he switches it o
without glancing to see who it is. My breath hitches. I know where
this is going … but we’re supposed to talk. He takes a step toward me
wearing his sexy predatory look.
“I want you, Anastasia. Now. And you want me. That’s why
you’re here.”
“I really did want to know,” I whisper as a defense.
“Well, now that you do, are you coming or going?”
I ush as he comes to a halt in front of me.
“Coming,” I murmur, staring anxiously up at him.
“Oh, I hope so.” He gazes down at me. “You were so mad at me,”
he breathes.
“Yes.”
“I don’t remember anyone but my family ever being mad at me. I
like it.”
He runs the tips of ngers down my cheek. Oh my, his proximity,
his delicious Christian smell. We’re supposed to be talking, but my
heart is pounding, my blood singing as it courses through my body,
desire pooling, unfurling … everywhere. Christian bends and runs
his nose along my shoulder and up to the base of my ear, his ngers
slipping into my hair.
“We should talk,” I whisper.
“Later.”
“There’s so much I want to say.”
“Me, too.”
He plants a soft kiss under my earlobe while his ngers tighten in
my hair. Pulling my head back, he exposes my throat to his lips. His
teeth skim my chin, and he kisses my throat.
“I want you,” he breathes.
I moan and reach up and grasp his arms.
“Are you bleeding?” He continues to kiss me.
Holy fuck. Does nothing slip by him?
“Yes,” I whisper, embarrassed.
“Do you have cramps?”
“No.” I ush. Jeez …
He stops and looks down at me.
“Did you take your pill?”
“Yes.” How mortifying is this?
“Let’s go have a bath.”
Oh?
He takes my hand and leads me into the bedroom. It’s dominated
by a super-king-sized bed with elaborate drapes. But we don’t stop
there. He takes me into the bathroom, which is two rooms, all
aquamarines and white limestone. It’s huge. In the second room a
sunken bath, big enough for four people with stone steps that lead
into it, is slowly lling with water. Steam rises gently above the
foam, and I notice a stone bench that runs all the way around the
bath. Candles icker to the side. Wow … he’s done all this while on
the phone.
“Do you have a hair tie?”
I blink at him, sh into my jeans pocket, and pull out a hair
elastic.
“Put your hair up,” he orders softly. I do as he asks.
It’s warm and sultry beside the bath, and my camisole starts to
stick. He leans over and shuts o the faucet. Leading me back into
the rst part of the bathroom, he stands behind me as we face the
wall-sized mirror above the two glass sinks.
“Take your sandals o,” he murmurs and I oblige quickly
dropping them to the sandstone oor.
“Lift up your arms,” he breathes. I do as I’m told, and he lifts my
camisole over my head so that I’m topless standing in front of him.
Not taking his eyes o mine, he reaches around and undoes the top
button on my jeans and the zipper.
“I’m going to have you in the bathroom, Anastasia.”
Leaning down, he kisses my neck. I move my head to one side to
give him easier access. Hooking his thumbs into my jeans, he slowly
slides them down my legs, sinking down behind me as he pulls them
and my panties to the oor.
“Step out of your jeans.”
Grasping the edge of the sink, I do just that. I am now naked,
staring at myself, and he’s kneeling behind me. He kisses and then
softly bites my behind, making me gasp. He stands and stares at me
once more in the mirror. I try hard to stay still, ignoring my natural
inclination to cover myself. He splays his hand across my belly, the
span of his hand almost reaching from hip to hip.
“Look at you. You are so beautiful,” he murmurs. “See how you
feel.” He clasps both my hands in his, his palms against the backs of
my hands, his ngers in between mine so that my ngers are
splayed. He places my hands on my belly. “Feel how soft your skin
is.” His voice is soft and low. He moves my hands in a slow circle,
then upward toward my breasts. “Feel how full your breasts are.”
He holds my hands so that they cup my breasts. He gently strokes
my nipples with his thumbs over and over.
I moan between parted lips and arch my back so my breasts ll
my palms. He squeezes my nipples between our thumbs, pulling
gently so that they elongate further. I watch in fascination at the
wanton creature writhing in front of me. Oh, this feels good. I groan
and close my eyes, no longer wanting to see that libidinous woman
in the mirror falling apart under her own hands … his
hands … feeling my skin as he would, experiencing how arousing it
is—just his touch and his calm, soft commands. “That’s right, baby,”
he murmurs.
He guides my hands down the sides of my body, past my waist to
my hips, and across to my pubic hair. He slides his leg in between
mine, pushing my feet farther apart, widening my stance, and runs
my hands over my sex, one hand at a time in turn, setting up a
rhythm. It is so erotic. Truly I am a marionette and he is the master
puppeteer.
“Look at you glow, Anastasia,” he whispers as he trails kisses and
soft bites along my shoulder. I groan. Suddenly he lets go.
“Carry on,” he orders, and stands back watching me.
I rub myself. No. I want him to do it. It doesn’t feel the same. I’m
lost without him. He pulls his shirt over his head and quickly takes
o his jeans.
“You’d rather I do this?” His gray gaze scorches mine in the
mirror.
“Oh yes … please,” I breathe.
He wraps his arms around me again and takes my hands once
more, continuing the sensual caress across my sex, over my clitoris.
His chest hair scrapes against me, his erection presses against me.
Oh, soon … please. He bites the nape of my neck, and I close my
eyes, enjoying the myriad sensations: my neck, my groin … the feel
of him behind me. He stops abruptly and spins me around, circling
my wrists with one hand, imprisoning my hands behind me, and
pulling at my ponytail with the other. I am ush against him, and
he kisses me wildly, ravaging my mouth with his. Holding me in
place.
His breathing is ragged, matching mine.
“When did you start your period, Anastasia?” he asks out of the
blue, gazing down at me.
“Er … yesterday,” I mumble in my highly aroused state.
“Good.” He releases me and turns me around.
“Hold on to the sink,” he orders, and drags my hips back again,
like he did in the playroom, so I’m bending down.
He reaches between my legs and pulls on the blue string—what?!
—and gently takes my tampon out and tosses it into the nearby
toilet. Holy fuck. Sweet mother of all … Jeez. And then he’s inside
me … ah! Skin against skin … moving slowly at rst … easily,
testing me, pushing me … oh my. I grip on to the sink, panting,
forcing myself back on him, feeling him inside me. Oh, the sweet
agony … his hands clasp my hips. He sets a punishing rhythm—in,
out, and he reaches around and nds my clitoris, massaging
me … oh jeez. I can feel myself quicken.
“That’s right, baby,” he rasps as he grinds into me, angling his
hips, and it’s enough to send me ying, ying high.
Whoa … and I come, loudly, gripping for dear life onto the sink
as I spiral down through my orgasm, everything spinning and
clenching at once. He follows, clasping me tightly, his front on my
back as he climaxes and calls my name like it’s a litany or a prayer.
“Oh, Ana!” His breathing is ragged in my ear, in perfect synergy
with mine. “Oh, baby, will I ever get enough of you?” he whispers.
We sink slowly to the oor, and he wraps his arms around me,
imprisoning me. Will it always be like this? So overwhelming, so
all-consuming, so bewildering and beguiling. I wanted to talk, but
now I’m spent and dazed from his lovemaking and wondering if I
will ever get enough of him?
I am curled on his lap, my head against his chest, as we both
calm. Very subtly, I inhale his sweet, intoxicating Christian scent. I
must not nuzzle. I must not nuzzle. I repeat the mantra in my head—
though I am so tempted to do so. I want to lift my hand and draw
patterns in his chest hair with my ngertips … but I resist, knowing
that he’ll hate it if I do. We are both quiet, lost in our thoughts. I
am lost in him … lost to him.
I remember that I have my period.
“I’m bleeding,” I murmur.
“Doesn’t bother me,” he breathes.
“I noticed.” I can’t keep the dryness out of my voice.
He tenses. “Does it bother you?” he asks softly.
Does it bother me? Maybe it should … should it? No, it doesn’t. I
lean back and look up at him, and he gazes down at me, his eyes a
soft cloudy gray.
“No, not at all.”
He smirks. “Good. Let’s have a bath.”
He uncurls from around me, placing me on the oor as he makes
to stand. As he does, I notice again the small, round white scars on
his chest. They are not chicken pox, I muse absentmindedly. Grace
said he was hardly aected. Holy shit … they must be burns. Burns
from what? I blanch at the realization, shock and revulsion coursing
through me. From cigarettes? Mrs. Robinson, his birth mother,
who? Who did this to him? Maybe there’s a reasonable explanation,
and I’m overreacting—wild hope blossoms in my chest, hope that I
am wrong.
“What is it?” Christian’s face is wide-eyed with alarm.
“Your scars,” I whisper. “They’re not from chicken pox.”
I watch as in a split second he closes down, his stance changing
from relaxed, calm, and at ease to defensive—angry even. He
frowns, his face darkening, and his mouth presses into a thin, hard
line.
“No, they’re not,” he snaps, but he does not elaborate further. He
stands, holds his hand out for me, and hauls me to my feet.
“Don’t look at me like that.” His voice is colder and scolding as
he lets go of my hand.
I ush, chastened, and stare down at my ngers, and I know, I
know that someone stubbed cigarettes out on Christian. I feel sick.
“Did she do that?” I whisper before I can stop myself.
He says nothing, so I’m forced to look at him. He’s glaring at me.
“She? Mrs. Robinson? She’s not an animal, Anastasia. Of course
she didn’t. I don’t understand why you feel you have to demonize
her.”
He’s standing there, naked, gloriously naked, with my blood on
him … and we’re nally having this conversation. And I’m naked,
too—neither of us has anywhere to hide, except perhaps the bath. I
take a deep breath, move past him, and step down into the water. It
is deliciously warm, soothing, and deep. I melt into the fragrant
foam and stare up at him, hiding among the bubbles.
“I just wonder what you would be like if you hadn’t met her. If
she hadn’t introduced you to your … um, lifestyle.”
He sighs and steps down into the bath opposite me, his jaw
clenched with tension, his eyes frosty. As he gracefully submerges
his body beneath the water, he’s careful not to touch me. Jeez—have
I made him that mad?
He stares impassively at me, his face unreadable, saying nothing.
Again the silence stretches between us, but I hold my counsel. It’s
your turn, Grey—I am not caving this time. My subconscious is
nervous, anxiously biting her nails—this could go either way.
Christian and I stare at each other, but I am not backing down.
Eventually, after what seems like a millennium, he shakes his head,
and he smirks.
“I would probably have gone the way of my birth mother, had it
not been for Mrs. Robinson.”
Oh! I blink at him. Crack addict or whore? Possibly both?
“She loved me in a way I found … acceptable,” he adds with a
shrug.
What the hell does that mean?
“Acceptable?” I whisper.
“Yes.” He stares intently at me. “She distracted me from the
destructive path I found myself following. It’s very hard to grow up
in a perfect family when you’re not perfect.”
Oh no. My mouth dries as I digest his words. He gazes at me, his
expression unfathomable. He’s not going to tell me any more. How
frustrating. Inside, I’m reeling—he sounds so full of self-loathing.
And Mrs. Robinson loved him. Holy shit … does she still? I feel
like I’ve been kicked in the stomach.
“Does she still love you?”
“I don’t think so, not like that.” He frowns as if he hasn’t thought
about the idea. “I keep telling you it was a long time ago. It’s in the
past. I couldn’t change it even if I wanted to, which I don’t. She
saved me from myself.” He’s exasperated and runs a wet hand
through his hair. “I’ve never discussed this with anyone.” He
pauses. “Except Dr. Flynn, of course. And the only reason I’m
talking about this now, to you, is because I want you to trust me.”
“I do trust you, but I do want to know you better, and whenever I
try to talk to you, you distract me. There’s so much I want to
know.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, Anastasia. What do you want to know? What
do I have to do?” His eyes blaze, and though he doesn’t raise his
voice, I know he’s trying to rein in his temper.
I glance down at my hands, clear beneath the water as the
bubbles have started to disperse.
“I’m just trying to understand; you’re such an enigma. Unlike
anyone I’ve met before. I’m glad you’re telling me what I want to
know.”
Jeez—maybe it’s the Cosmopolitans making me brave, but
suddenly I cannot bear the distance between us. I move through the
water to his side and lean against him so we’re touching, skin to
skin. He tenses and eyes me warily, as if I might bite. Well, that’s a
turnaround. My inner goddess gazes at him in quiet, surprised
speculation.
“Please don’t be angry with me,” I whisper.
“I am not angry with you, Anastasia. I’m just not used to this kind
of talking—this probing. I only have this with Dr. Flynn and with
—” He stops and frowns.
“With her. Mrs. Robinson. You talk to her?” I prompt, trying to
rein in my own temper.
“Yes, I do.”
“What about?”
He shifts in the bath so that he’s facing me, causing the water to
lap over the sides onto the oor. He places his arm around my
shoulders, resting on the ledge of the bath.
“Persistent aren’t you?” he murmurs, a trace of irritation in his
voice. “Life, the universe—business. Anastasia, Mrs. R and I go way
back. We can discuss anything.”
“Me?” I whisper.
“Yes.” Gray eyes watch me carefully.
I bite my bottom lip, trying to curb the sudden rush of anger that
surfaces.
“Why do you talk about me?” I endeavor not to sound whiney
and petulant, but I don’t succeed. I know I should stop. I am
pushing him too hard. My subconscious has her Munch’s Scream
face on again.
“I’ve never met anyone like you, Anastasia.”
“What does that mean? Anyone who just didn’t automatically sign
your paperwork, no questions asked?”
He shakes his head. “I need advice.”
“And you take advice from Mrs. Pedo?” I snap. The hold on my
temper is more tentative than I thought.
“Anastasia—enough,” he snaps back sternly, his eyes narrowing.
I’m skating on thin ice, and I’m heading into danger. “Or I’ll put
you across my knee. I have no sexual or romantic interest in her
whatsoever. She’s a dear, valued friend and a business partner.
That’s all. We have a past, a shared history, which was
monumentally benecial for me, though it fucked up her marriage
—but that side of our relationship is over.”
Jeez—another part I just can’t understand. She was married as
well. How did they get away with it for so long?
“And your parents never found out?”
“No,” he growls. “I’ve told you this.”
And I know that’s it. I cannot ask him any further questions about
her because he will lose it with me.
“Are you done?” he snaps.
“For now.”
He takes a deep breath and visibly relaxes in front of me, like a
great weight has been lifted from his shoulders or something.
“Right—my turn,” he mutters, and his glare turns steely,
speculative. “You haven’t responded to my e-mail.”
I ush. Oh, I hate the spotlight on me, and it seems he’s going to
get angry every time we have a discussion. I shake my head.
Perhaps that’s how he feels about my questions; he’s not used to
being challenged. The thought is revelatory, distracting, and
unnerving.
“I was going to respond. But now you’re here.”
“You’d rather I wasn’t?” he breathes, his expression impassive
again.
“No, I’m pleased,” I murmur.
“Good.” He gives me a genuine, relieved smile. “I’m pleased I’m
here, too—in spite of your interrogation. So, while it’s acceptable to
grill me, you think you can claim some kind of diplomatic immunity
just because I’ve own all this way to see you? I’m not buying it,
Miss Steele. I want to know how you feel.”
Oh no …
“I told you. I am pleased you’re here. Thank you for coming all
this way,” I say feebly.
“It’s my pleasure.” His eyes shine as he leans down and kisses me
gently. I feel myself responding automatically. The water is still
warm, the bathroom still steamy. He stops and pulls back, gazing
down at me.
“No. I think I want some answers rst before we do any more.”
More? There’s that word again. And he wants answers … answers
to what? I don’t have a secret past—I don’t have a harrowing
childhood. What could he possibly want to know about me that he
doesn’t already know?
I sigh, resigned. “What do you want to know?”
“Well, how you feel about our would-be arrangement, for
starters.”
I blink at him. Truth or dare time—my subconscious and inner
goddess glance nervously at each other. Hell, let’s go for truth.
“I don’t think I can do it for an extended period of time. A whole
weekend being someone I’m not.” I ush and stare at my hands.
He tips my chin up, and he’s smirking at me, amused.
“No, I don’t think you could, either.”
And part of me feels slightly aronted and challenged. “Are you
laughing at me?”
“Yes, but in a good way,” he says with a small smile.
He leans down and kisses me softly, briey.
“You’re not a great submissive,” he breathes as he holds my chin,
his eyes dancing with humor.
I stare at him, shocked, then I burst out laughing—and he joins
me.
“Maybe I don’t have a good teacher.”
He snorts. “Maybe. Perhaps I should be stricter with you.” He
cocks his head to one side and gives me an artful smile.
I swallow. Jeez, no. But at the same time, my muscles clench
deliciously deep inside. It is his way of showing that he cares.
Perhaps the only way he can show he cares—I realize that. He’s
staring at me, gauging my reaction.
“Was it that bad when I spanked you the rst time?”
I gaze back at him, blinking. Was it that bad? I remember feeling
confused by my reaction. It hurt, but not that much in retrospect.
He’s said over and over again it’s more in my head. And the second
time … Well, that was good … hot.
“No, not really,” I whisper.
“It’s more the idea of it?” he prompts.
“I suppose. Feeling pleasure, when one isn’t supposed to.”
“I remember feeling the same. Takes a while to get your head
around it.”
Holy hell. This was when he was a kid.
“You can always use the safeword, Anastasia. Don’t forget that.
And, as long as you follow the rules, which fulll a deep need in me
for control and to keep you safe, then perhaps we can nd a way
forward.”
“Why do you need to control me?”
“Because it satises a need in me that wasn’t met in my formative
years.”
“So it’s a form of therapy?”
“I’ve not thought of it like that, but yes, I suppose it is.”
This I can understand. This will help.
“But, here’s the thing—one moment you say ‘don’t defy me,’ the
next you say you like to be challenged. That’s a very ne line to
tread successfully.”
He gazes at me for a moment, then frowns.
“I can see that. But you seem to be doing ne so far.”
“But at what personal cost? I’m tied up in knots here.”
“I like you tied up in knots.” He smirks.
“That’s not what I meant!” I splash him in exasperation.
He gazes down at me, arching an eyebrow.
“Did you just splash me?”
“Yes.” Holy shit … that look.
“Oh, Miss Steele.” He grabs me and pulls me onto his lap,
sloshing water all over the oor. “I think we’ve done enough
talking for now.”
He clasps his hands on either side of my head and kisses me.
Deeply. Possessing my mouth. Angling my head … controlling me. I
moan against his lips. This is what he likes. This is what he’s so
good at. Everything ignites inside me and my ngers are in his hair,
holding him to me, and I’m kissing him back and saying I want you,
too, the only way I know how. He groans, shifting me so I’m
astride him, kneeling over him, his erection beneath me. He pulls
back and looks at me, his eyes hooded, glowing and lustful. I drop
my hands to grab on to the edge of the bath, but he grips both my
wrists and pulls my hands behind my back, holding them together
in one hand.
“I’m going to have you now,” he whispers, and lifts me so that
I’m hovering over him. “Ready?” he breathes.
“Yes,” I whisper, and he eases me on to him, slowly, exquisitely
slowly … lling me … watching me as he takes me.
I groan, closing my eyes, and I revel in the sensation, the
stretching fullness. He exes his hips, and I gasp, leaning forward,
resting my forehead against his.
“Please, let my hands go,” I whisper.
“Don’t touch me,” he pleads, and releasing my wrists, he grabs
my hips.
Clasping the bath ledge, I move up and then down slowly,
opening my eyes to gaze at him. He’s watching me, his mouth open,
his breathing halted, stilted—his tongue between his teeth. He looks
so … hot. We’re wet and slippery and moving against each other. I
lean down and kiss him. He closes his eyes. Tentatively, I bring my
hands up to his head and run my ngers through his hair, not taking
my lips from his mouth. This is allowed. He likes this. I like this.
And we move together. I tug his hair, tipping his head back and
deepening the kiss, riding him—faster, picking up the rhythm. I
moan against his mouth. He starts to lift me faster, faster … holding
my hips. Kissing me back. We are wet mouths and tongues, tangled
hair, and moving hips. All sensation … all consuming again. I am
close … I am starting to recognize this delicious
tightening … quickening. And the water … it’s swirling around us,
our own whirlpool, a stirring vortex as our movements become
more frantic … sloshing everywhere, mirroring what’s happening
inside me … and I just don’t care.
I love this man. I love his passion, the eect I have on him. I love
that he’s own so far to see me. I love that he cares about me … he
cares. It’s so unexpected, so fullling. He is mine, and I am his.
“That’s right, baby,” he breathes.
And I come, my orgasm ripping through me, a turbulent,
passionate apogee that devours me whole. And suddenly Christian
crushes me to him … his arms wrapped around my back as he nds
his release.
“Ana, baby!” he cries, and it’s a wild invocation, stirring and
touching the depths of my soul.
• • •
WE LIE STARING AT each other, gray eyes into blue, face-to-face, in the
super king bed, both hugging our pillows on our fronts. Naked. Not
touching. Just looking and admiring, covered by the sheet.
“Do you want to sleep?” Christian asks, his voice soft and full of
concern.
“No. I’m not tired.” I feel strangely energized. It’s been so good
to talk—I don’t want to stop.
“What do you want to do?” he asks.
“Talk.”
He smiles. “About what?”
“Stu.”
“What stu?”
“You.”
“What about me?”
“What’s your favorite lm?”
He grins. “Today, it’s The Piano.”
His grin is infectious.
“Of course. Silly me. Such a sad, exciting score, which no doubt
you can play? So many accomplishments, Mr. Grey.”
“And the greatest one is you, Miss Steele.”
“So I am number seventeen.”
He frowns at me not comprehending.
“Seventeen?”
“Number of women you’ve, um … had sex with.”
His lips quirk up, his eyes shining with incredulity.
“Not exactly.”
“You said fteen.” My confusion is obvious.
“I was referring to the number of women in my playroom. I
thought that’s what you meant. You didn’t ask me how many
women I’d had sex with.”
“Oh.” Holy shit … there’s more … How many? I gape at him.
“Vanilla?”
“No. You are my one vanilla conquest.” He shakes his head, still
grinning at me.
Why does he nd this funny? And why am I grinning back at him
like an idiot?
“I can’t give you a number. I didn’t put notches in the bedpost or
anything.”
“What are we talking—tens, hundreds … thousands?” My eyes
grow wilder as the numbers get larger.
“Tens. We’re in the tens, for pity’s sake.”
“All submissives?”
“Yes.”
“Stop grinning at me,” I scold him mildly, trying and failing to
keep a straight face.
“I can’t. You’re funny.”
“Funny peculiar or funny ha-ha?”
“A bit of both I think.” His words mirror mine.
“That’s damned cheeky, coming from you.”
He leans across and kisses the tip of my nose. “This will shock
you, Anastasia. Ready?”
I nod, wide-eyed, still with the stupid grin on my face.
“All submissives in training, when I was training. There are places
in and around Seattle that one can go and practice. Learn to do what
I do,” he says.
What?
“Oh.” I blink at him.
“Yep, I’ve paid for sex, Anastasia.”
“That’s nothing to be proud of,” I mutter haughtily. “And you’re
right … I am deeply shocked. And cross that I can’t shock you.”
“You wore my underwear.”
“Did that shock you?”
“Yes.”
My inner goddess pole-vaults over the fteen-foot bar.
“You didn’t wear your panties to meet my parents.”
“Did that shock you?”
“Yes.”
Jeez, the bar’s moved to sixteen feet.
“It seems I can only shock you in the underwear department.”
“You told me you were a virgin. That’s the biggest shock I’ve
ever had.”
“Yes, your face was a picture, a Kodak moment.” I giggle.
“You let me work you over with a riding crop.”
“Did that shock you?”
“Yep.”
I grin. “Well, I may let you do it again.”
“Oh, I do hope so, Miss Steele. This weekend?”
“Okay,” I agree shyly.
“Okay?”
“Yes. I’ll go to the Red Room of Pain again.”
“You say my name.”
“That shocks you?”
“The fact that I like it shocks me.”
“Christian.”
He grins. “I want to do something tomorrow.” His eyes glow with
excitement.
“What?”
“A surprise. For you.” His voice is low and soft.
I raise an eyebrow and stie a yawn at the same time.
“Am I boring you, Miss Steele?” His tone is sardonic.
“Never.”
He leans across and kisses me gently on my lips.
“Sleep,” he commands, then switches o the light.
And in this quiet moment as I close my eyes, spent and sated, I
think I’m in the eye of the storm. And in spite of all he’s said, and
what he hasn’t said, I don’t think I have ever been so happy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Christian stands in a steel-barred cage. Wearing his soft, ripped
jeans, his chest and feet are mouthwateringly naked, and he’s
staring at me. His private-joke smile is etched on his beautiful face
and his eyes a molten gray. In his hands he holds a bowl of
strawberries. He ambles with athletic grace to the front of the cage,
gazing intently at me. Holding up a plump ripe strawberry, he
extends his hand through the bars.
“Eat,” he says, his tongue caressing the front of his palate as he
enunciates the t.
I try to move toward him, but I’m tethered, held back by some
unseen force around my wrist, holding me. Let me go.
“Come, eat,” he says, smiling his delicious crooked smile.
I pull and pull … let me go! I want to scream and shout, but no
sound emerges. I am mute. He stretches a little farther, and the
strawberry is at my lips.
“Eat, Anastasia.” His mouth forms my name, lingering sensually
on each syllable.
I open my mouth and bite, the cage disappears, and my hands are
free. I reach up to touch him, graze my ngers through his chest
hair.
“Anastasia.”
No. I moan.
“Come on, baby.”
No. I want to touch you.
“Wake up.”
No. Please. My eyes icker unwillingly open for a split second.
I’m in bed and someone is nuzzling my ear.
“Wake up, baby,” he whispers, and the eect of his sweet voice
spreads like warm melted caramel through my veins.
It’s Christian. Jeez, it’s still dark, and the images of him from my
dream persist, disconcerting and tantalizing in my head.
“Oh … no,” I groan. I want back at his chest, back to my dream.
Why is he waking me? It’s the middle of the night, or so it feels.
Holy shit. Does he want sex—now?
“Time to get up, baby. I’m going to switch on the sidelight.” His
voice is quiet.
“No,” I groan.
“I want to chase the dawn with you,” he says, kissing my face,
my eyelids, the tip of my nose, my mouth, and I open my eyes. The
sidelight is on. “Good morning, beautiful,” he murmurs.
I groan, and he smiles. “You are not a morning person,” he
murmurs.
Through the haze of light, I squint and see Christian leaning over
me, smiling. Amused. Amused at me. Dressed! In black.
“I thought you wanted sex,” I grumble.
“Anastasia, I always want sex with you. It’s heartwarming to
know that you feel the same,” he says dryly.
I gaze at him as my eyes adjust to the light, but he still looks
amused … thank heavens.
“Of course I do, just not when it’s so late.”
“It’s not late, it’s early. Come on—up you go. We’re going out.
I’ll take a rain check on the sex.”
“I was having such a nice dream,” I whine.
“Dream about what?” he asks patiently.
“You.” I blush.
“What was I doing this time?”
“Trying to feed me strawberries.”
His lips twitch with a trace of a smile. “Dr. Flynn could have a
eld day with that. Up—get dressed. Don’t bother to shower, we
can do that later.”
We!
I sit up, and the sheet pools at my waist, revealing my body. He
stands to give me room, his eyes dark.
“What time is it?”
“Five thirty in the morning.”
“Feels like three a.m.”
“We don’t have much time. I let you sleep as long as possible.
Come.”
“Can’t I have a shower?”
He sighs.
“If you have a shower, I’ll want one with you, and you and I
know what will happen then—the day will just go. Come.”
He’s excited. Like a small boy, he’s iridescent with anticipation
and excitement. It makes me smile.
“What are we doing?’
“It’s a surprise. I told you.”
I can’t help but grin up at him. “Okay.” I clamber o the bed and
search for my clothes. Of course they are neatly folded on the chair
beside my bed. He’s laid out a pair of his jersey boxer briefs, too—
Ralph Lauren, no less. I slip them on, and he grins at me. Hmm,
another piece of Christian Grey’s underwear—a trophy to add to my
collection—along with the car, the BlackBerry, the Mac, his black
jacket, and a set of valuable old rst editions. I shake my head at
his largesse, and I frown as a scene from Tess crosses my mind: the
strawberry scene. It evokes my dream. To hell with Dr. Flynn—
Freud would have a eld day—and then he’d probably die trying to
deal with Fifty Shades.
“I’ll give you some room now that you’re up.” Christian exits
toward the living area, and I wander into the bathroom. I have
needs to attend to, and I want a quick wash. Seven minutes later, I
am in the living area, scrubbed, brushed, and dressed in jeans, my
camisole, and Christian Grey’s underwear. Christian glances up
from the small dining table where he’s eating breakfast. Breakfast!
Jeez, at this time.
“Eat,” he says.
Holy crap … my dream. I gape at him, thinking about his tongue
on his palate. Hmm, his expert tongue.
“Anastasia,” he says sternly, pulling me out of my reverie.
It really is too early for me. How to handle this?
“I’ll have some tea. Can I take a croissant for later?”
He eyes me suspiciously, and I smile very sweetly.
“Don’t rain on my parade, Anastasia,” he warns softly.
“I will eat later when my stomach’s woken up. About seven thirty
a.m.… okay?”
“Okay.” He peers down at me.
Honestly. I have to concentrate hard on not making a face at him.
“I want to roll my eyes at you.”
“By all means, do, and you will make my day,” he says sternly.
I gaze up at the ceiling.
“Well, a spanking would wake me up, I suppose.” I purse my lips
in quiet contemplation.
Christian’s mouth drops open.
“On the other hand, I don’t want you to be all hot and bothered;
the climate here is warm enough.” I shrug nonchalantly.
Christian closes his mouth and tries very hard to look displeased,
but fails hopelessly. I can see the humor lurking in the back of his
eyes.
“You are, as ever, challenging, Miss Steele. Drink your tea.”
I notice the Twinings label, and inside, my heart sings. See, he
does care, my subconscious mouths at me. I sit and face him,
drinking in his beauty. Will I ever get enough of this man?
AS WE LEAVE THE room, Christian throws a sweatshirt at me.
“You’ll need this.”
I look at him, puzzled.
“Trust me.” He grins, leans over, and kisses me quickly on the
lips, then grabs my hand and we head out.
Outside, in the relative cool of the half light of predawn, the valet
hands Christian a set of keys to a ashy sports car with a soft top. I
raise an eyebrow at Christian, who smirks back at me.
“You know, sometimes it’s great being me,” he says with a
conspiratorial but smug grin that I simply can’t help emulating.
He’s so lovable when he’s playful and carefree. He opens my car
door with an exaggerated bow, and in I climb. He is in such a good
mood.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” He grins as he slips the car into drive, and we head
out on Savannah Parkway. He programs the GPS and presses a
switch on the steering wheel, and a classical orchestral piece lls
the car.
“What’s this?” I ask as the sweet, sweet sound of a hundred violin
strings assails us.
“It’s from La Traviata. An opera by Verdi.”
Oh, my … it’s lovely.
“La Traviata? I’ve heard of that. I can’t think where. What does it
mean?”
Christian glances at me and smirks.
“Well, literally, ‘the woman led astray.’ It’s based on Alexandre
Dumas’s book, La Dame aux Camélias.”
“Ah. I’ve read it.”
“I thought you might’ve.”
“The doomed courtesan.” I squirm uncomfortably in the plush
leather seat. Is he trying to tell me something? “Hmm, it’s a depressing
story,” I mutter.
“Too depressing? Do you want to choose some music? This is on
my iPod.” Christian has that secret smile again.
I can’t see his iPod anywhere. He taps the screen on the console
between us, and behold—there is a playlist.
“You choose.” His lips twitch up into a smile, and I know it’s a
challenge.
Christian Grey’s iPod, this should be interesting. I scroll through
the touch screen and nd the perfect song. I press “play.” I wouldn’t
have gured him for a Britney fan. The club-mix, techno beat
assaults us both, and Christian turns the volume down. Maybe it’s
too early for this: Britney’s at her most sultry.
“ ‘Toxic,’ eh?” Christian grins.
“I don’t know what you mean.” I feign innocence.
He turns the music down a little more, and inside I am hugging
myself. My inner goddess is standing on the podium awaiting her
gold medal. He turned the music down. Victory!
“I didn’t put that song on my iPod,” he says casually, and puts his
foot down so that I am thrown back into my seat as the car
accelerates along the freeway.
What? He knows what he’s doing, the bastard. Who did? And I
have to listen to Britney going on and on. Who … who?
The song ends and the iPod shues to Damien Rice being
mournful. Who? Who? I stare out the window, my stomach
churning. Who?
“It was Leila,” he answers my unspoken thoughts. How does he do
that?
“Leila?”
“An ex, who put the song on my iPod.”
Damien warbles away in the background as I sit stunned. An
ex … ex-submissive? An ex—
“One of the fteen?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“What happened to her?”
“We nished.”
“Why?”
Oh jeez. It’s too early for this kind of conversation. But he looks
relaxed, happy even, and, what’s more, talkative.
“She wanted more.” His voice is low, introspective even, and he
leaves the sentence hanging between us, ending it with that
powerful little word again.
“And you didn’t?” I ask before I can employ my brain-to-mouth
lter. Shit, do I want to know?
He shakes his head. “I’ve never wanted more, until I met you.”
I gasp, reeling. Isn’t this what I want? He wants more. He wants
it, too! My inner goddess has backipped o the podium and is
doing cartwheels around the stadium. It’s not just me.
“What happened to the other fourteen?” I ask.
Jeez, he’s talking—take advantage.
“You want a list? Divorced, beheaded, died?”
“You’re not Henry VIII.”
“Okay. In no particular order, I’ve only had long-term
relationships with four women, apart from Elena.”
“Elena?”
“Mrs. Robinson to you.” He half smiles his secret-private-joke
smile.
Elena! Holy fuck. The evil one has a name and it’s all foreign
sounding. A vision of a glorious, pale-skinned vamp with raven hair
and ruby-red lips comes to mind, and I know that she’s beautiful. I
must not dwell. I must not dwell.
“What happened to the four?” I ask to distract myself.
“So inquisitive, so eager for information, Miss Steele,” he scolds
playfully.
“Oh, Mr. When Is Your Period Due?”
“Anastasia—a man needs to know these things.”
“Does he?”
“I do.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want you to get pregnant.”
“Neither do I! Well, not for a few years yet.”
Christian blinks, startled, then visibly relaxes. Okay. Christian
doesn’t want children. Now or never? I am reeling from his sudden,
unprecedented attack of candor. Perhaps it’s the early morning?
Something in the Georgia water? The Georgia air? What else do I
want to know? Carpe diem.
“So the other four, what happened?” I ask.
“One met someone else. The other three wanted—more. I wasn’t
in the market for more then.”
“And the others?” I press.
He glances at me briey and just shakes his head.
“Just didn’t work out.”
Whoa, a bucketload of information to process. I glance in the side
mirror of the car, and I notice the soft swell of pink and aquamarine
in the sky behind the car. Dawn is following us.
“Where are we headed?” I ask, perplexed, gazing out at Interstate
95. We’re heading south, that’s all I know.
“An aireld.”
“We’re not going back to Seattle, are we?” I gasp, alarmed. I
haven’t said good-bye to my mom. Jeez, she’s expecting us for
dinner.
He laughs. “No, Anastasia, we’re going to indulge in my second
favorite pastime.”
“Second?” I frown at him.
“Yep. I told you my favorite this morning.”
I glance at his glorious prole, frowning, racking my brain.
“Indulging in you, Miss Steele. That’s got to be top of my list.
Any way I can get you.”
Oh.
“Well, that’s quite high up on my list of diverting, kinky
priorities, too,” I mutter, blushing.
“I’m pleased to hear it,” he mutters dryly.
“So, aireld?”
He grins at me. “Soaring.”
The term rings a vague bell. He’s mentioned it before.
“We’re going to chase the dawn, Anastasia.” He turns and grins at
me as the GPS urges him to turn right into what looks like an
industrial complex. He pulls up outside a large white building with
a sign reading BRUNSWICK SOARING ASSOCIATION.
Gliding! We’re going gliding?
He switches o the engine.
“You up for this?” he asks.
“You’re ying?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, please!” I don’t hesitate. He grins and leans forward and
kisses me.
“Another rst, Miss Steele,” he says as he climbs out of the car.
First? What sort of rst? First time ying a glider … shit! No—he
said that he’s done it before. I relax. He walks around and opens my
door. The sky has turned to a subtle opal, shimmering and glowing
softly behind the sporadic childlike clouds. Dawn is upon us.
Taking my hand, Christian leads me around the building to a
large stretch of tarmac where several planes are parked. Waiting
beside them is a man with a shaved head and a wild look in his eye,
accompanied by Taylor.
Taylor! Does Christian go anywhere without that man? I beam at
him, and he smiles kindly back at me.
“Mr. Grey, this is your tow pilot, Mr. Mark Benson,” says Taylor.
Christian and Benson shake hands and strike up a conversation that
sounds very technical about wind speed, directions, and the like.
“Hello, Taylor,” I murmur shyly.
“Miss Steele.” He nods a greeting at me, and I frown. “Ana,” he
corrects himself. “He’s been hell on wheels the last few days. Glad
we’re here,” he says conspiratorially.
Oh, this is news. Why? Surely not because of me! Revelation
Thursday! Must be something in the Savannah water that makes
these men loosen up a bit.
“Anastasia,” Christian summons me. “Come.” He holds out his
hand.
“See you later.” I smile at Taylor, and giving me a quick salute,
he heads back to the parking lot.
“Mr. Benson, this is my girlfriend, Anastasia Steele.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I murmur as we shake hands.
Benson gives me a dazzling smile.
“Likewise,” he says, and I can tell from his accent that he’s
British.
As I take Christian’s hand, there’s a mounting excitement in my
belly. Wow … gliding! We follow Mark Benson out across the tarmac
toward the runway. He and Christian keep up a running
conversation. I catch the gist. We will be in a Blanik L-23, which is
apparently better than the L-13, although this is open to debate.
Benson will be ying a Piper Pawnee. He’s been ying tail draggers
for about ve years now. It all means nothing to me, but glancing
up at Christian, he is so animated, so in his element, it’s a pleasure
to watch him.
The plane itself is long, sleek, and white with orange stripes. It
has a small cockpit with two seats, one in front of the other. It’s
attached by a long white cable to a small, conventional
singlepropeller plane. Benson opens the large, clear Perspex dome
that frames the cockpit, allowing us to climb in.
“First we need to strap on your parachute.”
Parachute!
“I’ll do that,” Christian interrupts him and takes the harness from
Benson, who smiles amenably at him.
“I’ll fetch some ballast,” Benson says, and heads toward the
plane.
“You like strapping me into things,” I observe dryly.
“Miss Steele, you have no idea. Here, step into the straps.”
I do as I’m told, placing my arm on his shoulder. Christian stiens
slightly but doesn’t move. Once my feet are in the loops, he pulls
the parachute up, and I place my arms through the shoulder straps.
Deftly he fastens the harness and tightens all the straps.
“There, you’ll do,” he says mildly, but his eyes are gleaming. “Do
you have your hair tie from yesterday?”
I nod.
“You want me to put my hair up?”
“Yes.”
I quickly do as I’m asked.
“In you go,” Christian commands. He’s still so bossy. I go to
climb into the back.
“No, front. The pilot sits in the back.”
“But won’t you be able to see?”
“I’ll see plenty.” He grins.
I don’t think I have ever seen him so happy—bossy, but happy. I
clamber in, settling down into the leather seat. It is surprisingly
comfortable. Christian leans over, pulls the harness over my
shoulders, reaches between my legs for the lower belt, and slots it
into the fastener that rests against my belly. He tightens all the
restraining straps.
“Hmm, twice in one morning, I am a lucky man,” he whispers,
and kisses me quickly. “This won’t take long—twenty, thirty
minutes at most. Thermals aren’t great this time of the morning,
but it’s so breathtaking up there at this hour. I hope you’re not
nervous.”
“Excited.” I beam.
Where did this ridiculous grin come from? Actually, part of me is
terried. My inner goddess—she’s under a blanket behind the sofa.
“Good.” He grins back, stroking my face, then disappears from
view.
I hear and feel his movements as he climbs in behind me. Of
course he’s strapped me in so tightly I can’t move around to see
him … typical! We are very low on the ground. In front of me is a
panel of dials and levers and a big stick thing. I leave everything
alone.
Mark Benson appears with a cheerful grin as he checks my straps
and leans in and checks the cockpit oor. I think it’s the ballast.
“Yep, that’s secure. First time?” he asks me.
“Yes.”
“You’ll love it.”
“Thanks, Mr. Benson.”
“Call me Mark.” He turns to Christian. “Okay?”
“Yep. Let’s go.”
I am so glad I haven’t eaten anything. I am beyond excited, and I
don’t think my stomach would be game for food, excitement, and
leaving the ground. Once again, I am putting myself into this
beautiful man’s skilled hands. Mark shuts the cockpit lid, strolls
over to the plane in front, and climbs in.
The Piper’s single propeller starts, and my nervous stomach
relocates itself to my throat. Jeez … I’m really doing this. Mark taxis
slowly down the runway, and as the cable takes the strain, we
suddenly jolt forward. We’re o. I hear chatter over the radio set
behind me. I think it’s Mark talking to the tower—but I can’t make
out what he’s saying. As the Piper picks up speed, so do we. It’s
very bumpy, and in front of us the single prop plane is still on the
ground. Jeez, will we ever get up? And suddenly, my stomach
disappears from my throat and free-falls through my body to the
ground—we’re airborne.
“Here we go, baby!” Christian shouts from behind me. And we
are in our own bubble, just us two. All I hear is the sound of the
wind ripping past and the distant hum of the Piper’s engine.
I’m gripping the edge of my seat with both hands, so tightly my
knuckles are white. We head west, inland, away from the rising sun,
gaining height, crossing over elds and woods and homes and
Interstate 95.
Oh my. This is amazing, above us only sky. The light is
extraordinary, diuse and warm in hue, and I remember José
rambling on about “magic hour,” a time of day that photographers
adore—this is it … just after dawn, and I’m in it, with Christian.
Abruptly, I’m reminded of José’s show. Hmm. I need to tell
Christian. I wonder briey how he’ll react. But I won’t worry about
that, not now—I’m enjoying the ride. My ears pop as we gain
height, and the ground slips farther and farther away. It is so
peaceful. I completely get why he likes to be up here. Away from
his BlackBerry and all the pressures of his job.
The radio crackles into life, and Mark mentions three thousand
feet. Jeez, that sounds high. I check the ground, and I can no longer
clearly distinguish anything down there.
“Release,” Christian says into the radio, and suddenly the Piper
disappears and the pulling sensation provided by the small plane
ceases. We’re oating, oating over Georgia.
Holy fuck—it’s exciting. The plane banks and turns as the wing
dips, and we spiral toward the sun. Icarus. This is it. I am ying close
to the sun, but he’s with me, leading me. I gasp at the realization.
We spiral and spiral, and the view in this morning light is
spectacular.
“Hold on tight!” he shouts, and we dip again—only this time he
doesn’t stop. Suddenly, I am upside down, looking at the ground
through the top of the cockpit canopy.
I squeal loudly, my arms automatically lashing out, my hands
splayed on the Perspex to stop me from falling. I can hear him
laughing. Bastard! But his joy is infectious, and I am laughing, too,
as he rights the plane.
“I’m glad I didn’t have breakfast!” I shout at him.
“Yes, in hindsight, it’s good you didn’t, because I’m going to do
that again.”
He dips the plane once more until we are upside down. This time,
because I’m prepared, I hang on to the harness, but it makes me
grin and giggle like a fool. He levels the plane once more.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he calls.
“Yes.”
We y, swooping majestically through the air, listening to the
wind and the silence, in the early morning light. Who could ask for
more?
“See the joystick in front of you?” he shouts again.
I look at the stick that is jerking between my legs. Oh no, where’s
he going with this?
“Grab hold.”
Oh, shit. He’s going to make me y the plane. No!
“Go on, Anastasia. Grab it,” he urges more vehemently.
Tentatively, I grasp it and feel the pitch and yaw of what I
assume are rudders and paddles or whatever keeps this thing in the
air.
“Hold tight … keep it steady. See the middle dial in front? Keep
the needle dead center.”
My heart is in my mouth. Holy shit. I am ying a glider … I’m
soaring.
“Good girl.” Christian sounds delighted.
“I am amazed you let me take control,” I shout.
“You’d be amazed what I’d let you do, Miss Steele. Back to me
now.”
I feel the joystick move suddenly, and I let go as we spiral down
several feet, my ears starting to pop again. The ground is getting
closer, and it feels like we could be hitting it shortly. Jeez, that’s
scary.
“BMA, this is BG N Papa Three Alpha, entering left downwind
runway seven to the grass, BMA.” Christian sounds his usual
authoritative self. The tower squawks back at him over the radio,
but I don’t understand what they say. We sail around again in a
wide circle, sinking slowly to the ground. I can see the airport, the
landing strips, and we’re ying back over Interstate 95.
“Hang on, baby. This can get bumpy.”
After another circle we dip, and suddenly we are on the ground
with a brief thump, racing along the grass—holy shit. My teeth
chatter as we bump at an alarming speed along the ground, until we
nally come to a stop. The plane sways then dips to the right. I take
a deep lungful of air while Christian leans over and opens the
cockpit lid, clambering out and stretching.
“How was that?” he asks, and his eyes are a shining, dazzling
silver gray. He leans down to unbuckle me.
“That was extraordinary. Thank you,” I whisper.
“Was it more?” he asks, his voice tinged with hope.
“Much more,” I breathe, and he grins.
“Come.” He holds out his hand for me, and I clamber out of the
cockpit.
As soon as I’m out, he grabs me and holds me ush against his
body. Suddenly his hand is in my hair, tugging it so my head tips
back, and his other hand travels down to the base of my spine. He
kisses me, long, hard, and passionately, his tongue in my mouth.
His breathing is mounting, his ardor … Holy cow—his
erection … we’re in a eld. But I don’t care. My hands twist in his
hair, anchoring him to me. I want him, here, now, on the ground.
He breaks away and gazes down at me, his eyes now dark and
luminous in the early morning light, full of raw, arrogant
sensuality. Wow. He takes my breath away.
“Breakfast,” he whispers, making it sound deliciously erotic.
How can he make bacon and eggs sound like forbidden fruit? It’s
an extraordinary skill. He turns, clasping my hand, and we head
back toward the car.
“What about the glider?”
“Someone will take care of that,” he says dismissively. “We’ll eat
now.” His tone is unequivocal.
Food! He’s talking food, when really all I want is him.
“Come.” He smiles.
I have never seen him like this, and it’s a joy to behold. I nd
myself walking beside him, hand in hand, with a stupid, goofy grin
plastered on my face. It reminds me of when I was ten and spent
the day at Disneyland with Ray. It was a perfect day, and this is
sure shaping out to be the same.
BACK IN THE CAR, as we head back along Interstate 95 toward
Savannah, my phone alarm goes o. Oh yes … my pill.
“What’s that?” Christian asks, curious, glancing at me.
I fumble in my purse for the packet.
“Alarm for my pill,” I mutter as my cheeks ush.
His lips quirk up.
“Good, well done. I hate condoms.”
I ush some more. He’s as patronizing as ever.
“I like that you introduced me to Mark as your girlfriend,” I
murmur.
“Isn’t that what you are?” He raises an eyebrow.
“Am I? I thought you wanted a submissive.”
“So did I, Anastasia, and I do. But I’ve told you, I want more,
too.”
Oh my. He’s coming around, and hope surges through me, leaving
me breathless.
“I’m very happy that you want more,” I whisper.
“We aim to please, Miss Steele.” He smirks as we pull into the
International House of Pancakes.
“IHOP.” I grin back at him. I don’t believe it. Who would have
thought …? Christian Grey at IHOP.
IT’S 8:30 A.M. BUT quiet in the restaurant. It smells of sweet batter,
fried food, and disinfectant. Hmm … not such an enticing aroma.
Christian leads me to a booth.
“I would never have pictured you here,” I say as we slide into a
booth.
“My dad used to bring us to one of these whenever my mom went
away to a medical conference. It was our secret.” He smiles at me,
eyes dancing, then picks up a menu, running a hand through his
wayward hair.
Oh, I want to run my hands through that hair. I pick up a menu and
examine it. I realize I’m starving.
“I know what I want,” he breathes, his voice low and husky.
I glance up at him, and he’s staring at me in that way that
tightens all the muscles in my belly and takes my breath away, his
eyes dark and smoldering. Holy shit. I gaze at him, my blood singing
in my veins, answering his call.
“I want what you want,” I whisper.
He inhales sharply.
“Here?” he asks suggestively, raising an eyebrow at me, smiling
wickedly, his teeth trapping the tip of his tongue.
Oh my … sex in IHOP. His expression changes, growing darker.
“Don’t bite your lip,” he orders. “Not here, not now.” His eyes
harden momentarily, and for a moment, he looks so deliciously
dangerous. “If I can’t have you here, don’t tempt me.”
“Hi, my name’s Leandra. What can I get for you … er … folks …
er … today, this mornin’ …?” Her voice trails o, stumbling over
her words as she gets an eyeful of Mr. Beautiful opposite me. She
ushes scarlet, and a small ounce of sympathy for her bubbles
unwelcome into my consciousness because he still does that to me.
Her presence allows me to escape briey from his sensual glare.
“Anastasia?” he prompts me, ignoring her, and I don’t think
anyone could squeeze as much carnality into my name as he does at
that moment.
I swallow, praying that I don’t turn the same color as poor
Leandra.
“I told you, I want what you want.” I keep my voice soft, low,
and he looks at me hungrily. Jeez, my inner goddess swoons. Am I
up to this game?
Leandra looks from me to him and back again. She’s practically
the same color as her shiny red hair.
“Shall I give you folks another minute to decide?”
“No. We know what we want.” Christian’s mouth twitches with a
small, sexy smile.
“We’ll have two portions of the original buttermilk pancakes with
maple syrup and bacon on the side, two glasses of orange juice, one
black coee with skim milk, and one English breakfast tea, if you
have it,” says Christian, not taking his eyes o me.
“Thank you, sir. Will that be all?” Leandra whispers, looking
anywhere but at the two of us. We both turn to stare at her, and she
ushes crimson again and scuttles away.
“You know, it’s really not fair.” I glance down at the Formica
tabletop, tracing a pattern on it with my index nger, trying to
sound nonchalant.
“What’s not fair?”
“How you disarm people. Women. Me.”
“Do I disarm you?”
I snort. “All the time.”
“It’s just looks, Anastasia,” he says mildly.
“No, Christian, it’s much more than that.”
His brow creases. “You disarm me totally, Miss Steele. Your
innocence. It cuts through all the crap.”
“Is that why you’ve changed your mind?”
“Changed my mind?”
“Yes—about … er … us?”
He strokes his chin thoughtfully with his long, skilled ngers. “I
don’t think I’ve changed my mind per se. We just need to redene
our parameters, redraw our battle lines, if you will. We can make
this work, I’m sure. I want you submissive in my playroom. I will
punish you if you digress from the rules. Other than that … well, I
think it’s all up for discussion. Those are my requirements, Miss
Steele. What say you to that?”
“So I get to sleep with you? In your bed?”
“Is that what you want?”
“Yes.”
“I agree then. Besides, I sleep very well when you’re in my bed. I
had no idea.” His brow creases as his voice fades.
“I was frightened you’d leave me if I didn’t agree to all of it,” I
whisper.
“I’m not going anywhere, Anastasia. Besides …” He trails o, and
after some thought, he adds, “We’re following your advice, your
denition: compromise. You e-mailed it to me. And so far, it’s
working for me.”
“I love that you want more,” I murmur shyly.
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
“Trust me. I just do.” He smirks at me. He’s hiding something.
What?
At that moment, Leandra arrives with breakfast and our
conversation ceases. My stomach rumbles, reminding me how
ravenous I am. Christian watches with annoying approval as I
devour everything on my plate.
“Can I treat you?” I ask Christian.
“Treat me how?”
“Pay for this meal.”
Christian snorts.
“I don’t think so,” he scos.
“Please. I want to.”
He frowns at me.
“Are you trying to completely emasculate me?”
“This is probably the only place that I’ll be able to aord to pay.”
“Anastasia, I appreciate the thought. I do. But no.”
I purse my lips.
“Don’t scowl,” he threatens, his eyes glinting ominously.
OF COURSE HE DOESN’T ask me for my mother’s address. He knows it
already, stalker that he is. When he pulls up outside the house, I
don’t comment. What’s the point?
“Do you want to come in?” I ask shyly.
“I need to work, Anastasia, but I’ll be back this evening. What
time?”
I ignore the unwelcome stab of disappointment. Why do I want to
spend every single minute with this controlling sex god? Oh yes,
I’ve fallen in love with him, and he can y.
“Thank you … for the more.”
“My pleasure, Anastasia.” He kisses me, and I inhale his sexy
Christian smell.
“I’ll see you later.”
“Try to stop me,” he whispers.
I wave good-bye as he drives o into the Georgia sunshine. I’m
still wearing his sweatshirt and his underwear, and I’m too warm.
In the kitchen, my mom is in a complete ap. It’s not every day
she has to entertain a multi-zillionaire, and it’s stressing her out.
“How are you, darling?” she asks, and I ush because she must
know what I was doing last night.
“I’m good. Christian took me gliding this morning.” I hope the
new information will distract her.
“Gliding? As in a small plane with no engine? That sort of
gliding?”
I nod.
“Wow.”
She’s speechless—a novel concept for my mother. She gapes at
me, but eventually recovers herself and resumes her original line of
questioning.
“How was last night? Did you talk?”
Jeez. I ush bright scarlet.
“We talked—last night and today. It’s getting better.”
“Good.” She turns her attention back to the four cookbooks she
has open on the kitchen table.
“Mom … if you like, I’ll cook this evening.”
“Oh, honey, that’s kind of you, but I want to do it.”
“Okay.” I grimace, knowing full well that my mother’s cooking is
pretty hit or miss. Perhaps she’s improved since she moved to
Savannah with Bob. There was a time I wouldn’t subject anyone to
her cooking … even—who do I hate? Oh yes—Mrs. Robinson—
Elena. Well, maybe her. Will I ever meet this damned woman?
I decide to send a quick thank-you to Christian.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Soaring as Opposed to Sore-ing
Date: June 2 2011 10:20 EST
To: Christian Grey
Sometimes, you really know how to show a girl a good time.
Thank you
Ana x
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Soaring vs Sore-ing
Date: June 2 2011 10:24 EST
To: Anastasia Steele
I’ll take either of those over your snoring. I had a good time, too.
But I always do when I’m with you.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: SNORING
Date: June 2 2011 10:26 EST
To: Christian Grey
I DO NOT SNORE. And if I do, it’s very ungallant of you to point it out.
You are no gentleman, Mr. Grey! And you are in the Deep South, too!
Ana
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Somniloquy
Date: June 2 2011 10:28 EST
To: Anastasia Steele
I have never claimed to be a gentleman, Anastasia, and I think I have demonstrated
that point to you on numerous occasions. I am not intimidated by your SHOUTY
capitals. But I will confess to a small white lie: no—you don’t snore, but you do talk.
And it’s fascinating.
What happened to my kiss?
Christian Grey
Cad & CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
Holy shit. I know I talk in my sleep. Kate has told me enough
times. What the hell have I said? Oh no.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Spill the Beans
Date: June 2 2011 10:32 EST
To: Christian Grey
You are a cad and a scoundrel—denitely no gentleman.
So, what did I say? No kisses for you until you talk!
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Sleeping Talking Beauty
Date: June 2 2011 10:35 EST
To: Anastasia Steele
It would be most ungallant of me to say, and I have already been chastised for that.
But if you behave yourself, I may tell you this evening. I do have to go into a meeting
now.
Laters, baby.
Christian Grey
CEO, Cad & Scoundrel, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
Right! I shall maintain radio silence until this evening. I fume.
Jeez. Suppose I’ve said I hate him, or worse still, that I love him, in
my sleep. Oh, I hope not. I am not ready to tell him that, and I’m
sure he’s not ready to hear it, if he ever wants to hear it. I scowl at
my computer and decide that whatever Mom cooks, I will make
bread to vent my frustrations while kneading the dough.
MY MOM HAS DECIDED on gazpacho soup and a barbecue with steaks
marinated in olive oil, garlic, and lemon. Christian likes meat, and
it’s simple to do. Bob has volunteered to man the BBQ grill. What is
it about men and re? I ponder as I trail after my mother through
the supermarket with the shopping cart.
As we browse the raw meat cabinet, my phone rings. I scramble
for it, thinking it may be Christian. I don’t recognize the number.
“Hello?” I answer breathlessly.
“Anastasia Steele?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Elizabeth Morgan from SIP.”
“Oh—hi.”
“I’m calling to oer you the job of assistant to Mr. Jack Hyde.
We’d like you to start on Monday.”
“Wow. That’s great. Thank you!”
“You know the salary details?”
“Yes. Yes … that’s—I mean, I accept your oer. I’d love to come
and work for you.”
“Excellent. We’ll see you Monday at 8:30 a.m.?”
“See you then. Good-bye. And thank you.”
I beam at my mom.
“You have a job?”
I nod gleefully, and she squeals and hugs me in the middle of
Publix supermarket.
“Congratulations, darling! We have to buy some champagne!”
She’s clapping her hands and jumping up and down. Is she forty-two
or twelve?
I glance down at my phone and frown; there’s a missed call from
Christian. He never phones me. I call him straight back.
“Anastasia,” he answers immediately.
“Hi,” I murmur shyly.
“I have to return to Seattle. Something’s come up. I am on my
way to Hilton Head now. Please apologize to your mother—I can’t
make dinner.” He sounds very businesslike.
“Nothing serious, I hope?”
“I have a situation that I have to deal with. I’ll see you tomorrow.
I’ll send Taylor to collect you from the airport if I can’t come
myself.” He sounds cold. Angry even. But for the rst time, I don’t
immediately think it’s me.
“Okay. I hope you sort out your situation. Have a safe ight.”
“You too, baby,” he breathes, and with those words, my Christian
is back. Then he hangs up.
Oh no. The last “situation” he had was my virginity. Jeez, I hope
it’s nothing like that. I gaze at my mom. Her earlier jubilation has
metamorphosed into concern.
“It’s Christian. He’s had to go back to Seattle. He apologizes.”
“Oh! That’s a shame, darling. We can still have our barbecue, and
now we have something to celebrate—your new job! You have to
tell me all about it.”
IT’S LATE AFTERNOON, AND Mom and I are lying beside the pool. My
mother has relaxed to the point where she is literally horizontal
now that Mr. Megabucks is not coming to dinner. As I lie in the sun,
endeavoring to lose the pale, I think about yesterday evening and
breakfast today. I think about Christian, and my ridiculous grin
refuses to subside. It keeps creeping across my face, unbidden and
disconcerting, as I recall our various conversations and what we
did … what he did.
There seems to be a tidal shift in Christian’s attitude. He denies
it, but he admits he’s trying for more. What could have changed?
What has altered since he sent his long e-mail and when I saw him
yesterday? What has he done? I sit up suddenly, almost spilling my
soda. He had dinner with … her. Elena.
Holy fuck!
My scalp prickles at the realization. Did she say something to
him? Oh … to have been a y on the wall during their dinner. I
could have landed in her soup or on her wine glass and choked her.
“What is it, Ana, honey?” Mom asks, startled from her torpor.
“I’m just having a moment, Mom. What time is it?”
“About six thirty p.m., darling.”
Hmm … he wouldn’t have landed yet. Can I ask him? Should I
ask him? Or perhaps she has nothing to do with it. I fervently hope
so. What did I say in my sleep? Crap … some unguarded remark
while dreaming about him, I bet. Whatever it is, or was, I hope the
sea change is coming from within him and not because of her.
I am sweltering in this damned heat. I need another dip in the
pool.
AS I GET READY for bed, I switch on my computer. I have heard
nothing from Christian. Not even a word that he’s arrived safely.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Safe Arrival?
Date: June 2 2011 22:32 EST
To: Christian Grey
Dear Sir,
Please let me know that you have arrived safely. I am starting to worry. Thinking of
you.
Your Ana x
Three minutes later, I hear the ping from my e-mail inbox.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Sorry
Date: June 2 2011 19:36
To: Anastasia Steele
Dear Miss Steele,
I have arrived safely, and please accept my apologies for not letting you know. I don’t
want to cause you any worry. It’s heartwarming to know that you care for me. I am
thinking of you, too, and as ever looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
I sigh. Christian is back to formality.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: The Situation
Date: June 2 2011 22:40 EST
To: Christian Grey
Dear Mr. Grey,
I think it is very evident that I care for you deeply. How could you doubt that?
I hope your “situation” is under control.
Your Ana x
P.S.: Are you going to tell me what I said in my sleep?
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Pleading the Fifth
Date: June 2 2011 19:45
To: Anastasia Steele
Dear Miss Steele,
I like very much that you care for me. The “situation” here is not yet resolved.
With regard to your P.S., the answer is no.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Pleading Insanity
Date: June 2 2011 22:48 EST
To: Christian Grey
I hope it was amusing. But you should know I cannot accept any responsibility for
what comes out of my mouth when I am unconscious. In fact—you probably misheard
me.
A man of your advanced years is surely a little deaf.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Pleading Guilty
Date: June 2 2011 19:52
To: Anastasia Steele
Dear Miss Steele,
Sorry, could you speak up? I can’t hear you.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Pleading Insanity Again
Date: June 2 2011 22:54 EST
To: Christian Grey
You are driving me crazy.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: I Hope So …
Date: June 2 2011 19:59
To: Anastasia Steele
Dear Miss Steele,
I intend to do exactly that on Friday evening. Looking forward to it.
;)
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Grrrrrr
Date: June 2 2011 23:02 EST
To: Christian Grey
I am ocially pissed at you.
Good night.
Miss A. R. Steele
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Wild Cat
Date: June 2 2011 20:05
To: Anastasia Steele
Are you growling at me, Miss Steele?
I possess a cat of my own for growlers.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
Cat of his own? I’ve never seen a cat in his apartment. No, I am
not going to answer him. Oh, he can be so exasperating sometimes.
Fifty shades of exasperating. I clamber into bed and lie glaring at
the ceiling as my eyes adjust to the dark. I hear another ping from
my computer. I am not going to look. No, denitely not. No, I am
not going to look. Gah! Like the fool I am, I cannot resist the lure of
Christian Grey’s words.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: What You Said in Your Sleep
Date: June 2 2011 20:20
To: Anastasia Steele
Anastasia,
I’d rather hear you say the words that you uttered in your sleep when you’re
conscious, that’s why I won’t tell you. Go to sleep. You’ll need to be rested with what I
have in mind for you tomorrow.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
Oh no … What have I said? It’s as bad as I think, I’m sure.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
My mother hugs me tightly.
“Follow your heart, darling, and please, please—try not to
overthink things. Relax and enjoy yourself. You are so young,
sweetheart. You have so much of life to experience yet, just let it
happen. You deserve the best of everything.” She whispers in my
ear, her heartfelt words comforting. She kisses my hair.
“Oh, Mom.” Hot, unwelcome tears prick my eyes as I cling to her.
“Darling, you know what they say. You have to kiss a lot of frogs
before you nd your prince.”
I give her a lopsided, bittersweet smile.
“I think I’ve kissed a prince, Mom. I hope he doesn’t turn into a
frog.”
She gives me her most endearing, motherly, absolute-
unconditional-love smile, and I marvel at the love I feel for this
woman as we hug again.
“Ana—they’re calling your ight,” Bob’s voice is anxious.
“Will you visit, Mom?”
“Of course, darling—soon. Love you.”
“Me, too.”
Her eyes are red with unshed tears as she releases me. I hate
leaving her. I hug Bob and, turning, head to the gate—I do not have
time for the rst class lounge today. I will myself not to glance
back. But I do … and Bob is holding my mom, and tears are
streaming down her face. I can no longer hold mine back. I put my
head down and proceed to the gate, keeping my eyes on the shiny
white oor, blurred through my watery tears.
Once on board, in the luxury of rst class, I curl up in my seat
and try to compose myself. It is always painful to wrench myself
away from Mom … she is scatty, disorganized, but newly insightful,
and she loves me. Unconditional love—what every child deserves
from its parents. I frown at my wayward thoughts and, pulling out
my BlackBerry, stare at it despondently.
What does Christian know of love? Seems he didn’t get the
unconditional love he was entitled to during his very early years.
My heart twists, and my mother’s words waft like a zephyr through
my mind: Yes, Ana. Hell, what do you need? A neon sign ashing on
his forehead? She thinks Christian loves me, but then she’s my
mother, of course she’d think that. She thinks I deserve the best of
everything. I frown. It’s true, and in a moment of startling clarity, I
see it. It’s very simple: I want his love. I need Christian Grey to love
me. This is why I am so reticent about our relationship—because on
some basic, fundamental level, I recognize within me a deep-seated
compulsion to be loved and cherished.
And because of his fty shades, I am holding myself back. The
BDSM is a distraction from the real issue. The sex is amazing, he’s
wealthy, he’s beautiful, but this is all meaningless without his love,
and the real heart-fail is that I don’t know if he’s capable of love.
He doesn’t even love himself. I recall his self-loathing, her love
being the only form he found acceptable. Punished—whipped,
beaten, whatever their relationship entailed—he feels undeserving
of love. Why does he feel like that? How can he feel like that? His
words haunt me: It’s very hard to grow up in a perfect family when
you’re not perfect.
I close my eyes, imagining his pain, and I can’t begin to
comprehend it. I shudder as I remember that I may have divulged
too much. What have I confessed to Christian in my sleep? What
secrets have I revealed?
I stare at the BlackBerry in the vague hope that it will give me
some answers. Rather unsurprisingly, it is not very forthcoming. As
we haven’t taken o yet, I decide to e-mail my Fifty Shades.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Homeward Bound
Date: June 3 2011 12:53 EST
To: Christian Grey
Dear Mr. Grey,
I am once again ensconced in rst class, for which I thank you. I am counting the
minutes until I see you this evening and perhaps torturing the truth out of you about
my nocturnal admissions.
Your Ana x
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Homeward Bound
Date: June 3 2011 09:58
To: Anastasia Steele
Anastasia, I look forward to seeing you.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
His response makes me frown. It sounds clipped and formal, not
his usual witty, pithy style.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Homeward Bound
Date: June 3 2011 13:01 EST
To: Christian Grey
Dearest Mr. Grey,
I hope everything is okay re “the situation.” The tone of your e-mail is worrying.
Ana x
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Homeward Bound
Date: June 3 2011 10:04
To: Anastasia Steele
Anastasia,
The situation could be better. Have you taken o yet? If so you should not be e-
mailing. You are putting yourself at risk, in direct contravention of the rule regarding
your personal safety. I meant what I said about punishments.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
Crap. Okay. Jeez. What is eating him? Perhaps “the situation”?
Maybe Taylor’s gone AWOL, maybe he’s dropped a few million on
the stock market—whatever the reason.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Overreaction
Date: June 3 2011 13:06 EST
To: Christian Grey
Dear Mr. Grumpy,
The aircraft doors are still open. We are delayed but only by ten minutes. My welfare
and that of the passengers around me is vouchsafed. You may stow your twitchy palm
for now.
Miss Steele
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Apologies—Twitchy Palm Stowed
Date: June 3 2011 10:08
To: Anastasia Steele
I miss you and your smart mouth, Miss Steele.
I want you safely home.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Apology Accepted
Date: June 3 2011 13:10 EST
To: Christian Grey
They are shutting the doors. You won’t hear another peep from me, especially given
your deafness.
Laters.
Ana x
I switch o the BlackBerry, unable to shake my anxiety.
Something is up with Christian. Perhaps “the situation” is out of
hand. I sit back, glancing up at the overhead bin where my bags are
stowed. I managed this morning, with my mother’s help, to buy
Christian a small gift to say thank you for rst class and for the
gliding. I smile at the memory of the soaring—that was something
else. I don’t know yet if I’ll give my silly gift to him. He might
think it’s childish—and if he’s in a strange mood, maybe not. I am
both eager to return and apprehensive of what awaits me at my
journey’s end. As I mentally ick through all the scenarios that
could be “the situation,” I become aware that once again the only
empty seat is beside me. I shake my head as the thought crosses my
mind that Christian might have purchased the adjacent seat so that I
couldn’t talk to anyone. I dismiss the idea as ridiculous—no one
could be that controlling, that jealous, surely. I close my eyes as the
plane taxis toward the runway.
I EMERGE INTO THE Sea-Tac arrivals terminal eight hours later to nd
Taylor waiting and holding up a sign that reads MISS A. STEELE.
Honestly! But it’s good to see him.
“Hello, Taylor.”
“Miss Steele,” he greets me formally, but I see a hint of a smile in
his sharp brown eyes. He looks his usual immaculate self—smart
charcoal suit, white shirt, and charcoal tie.
“I do know what you look like, Taylor, you don’t need a sign, and
I do wish you’d call me Ana.”
“Ana. Can I take your bags, please?”
“No, I can manage. Thank you.”
His lips tighten perceptibly.
“B-but, if you’d be more comfortable taking them,” I stammer.
“Thank you.” He grabs my backpack and my newly acquired
wheelie case for the clothes my mother has bought me. “This way,
ma’am.”
I sigh. He’s so polite. I remember, though I would like to erase it
from my memory, that this man has bought me underwear. In fact
—and the thought unsettles me—he’s the only man who’s ever
bought me underwear. Even Ray’s never had to endure that
hardship. We walk in silence to the black Audi SUV outside in the
airport parking lot, and he holds the door open for me. I clamber in,
wondering if wearing such a short skirt for the return to Seattle was
a good idea. It was cool and welcome in Georgia. Here I feel
exposed. Once Taylor has stowed my bags in the trunk, we set o
for Escala.
The journey is slow, caught up in rush-hour trac. Taylor keeps
his eyes on the road ahead. Taciturn does not begin to describe him.
I can bear the silence no longer.
“How’s Christian, Taylor?”
“Mr. Grey is preoccupied, Miss Steele.”
Oh, this must be “the situation.” I am mining a seam of gold.
“Preoccupied?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I frown at Taylor, and he glances at me in the rearview mirror,
our eyes meeting. He’s saying no more. Jeez, he can be as tight
lipped as the control freak himself.
“Is he okay?”
“I believe so, ma’am.”
“Are you more comfortable calling me Miss Steele?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh, okay.”
Well, that curtails our conversation, and we continue in silence. I
begin to think that Taylor’s recent slip, when he told me that
Christian had been hell on wheels, was an anomaly. Perhaps he’s
embarrassed about it, worried that he’s been disloyal. The silence is
suocating.
“Could you put some music on, please?”
“Certainly, ma’am. What would you like to hear?”
“Something soothing.”
I see a smile play on Taylor’s lips as our eyes meet briey again
in the mirror.
“Yes, ma’am.”
He pushes a few buttons on the steering wheel, and the gentle
strains of Pachelbel’s Canon lls the space between us. Oh
yes … this is what I need.
“Thank you.” I sit back as we drive slowly but steadily along
Interstate 5 into Seattle.
TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER HE drops me outside the impressive façade
that is the entrance to Escala.
“In you go, ma’am,” he says, holding the door open for me. “I’ll
bring up your luggage.” His expression is soft, warm, avuncular
even.
Jeez … Uncle Taylor, what a thought.
“Thank you for meeting me.”
“It’s a pleasure, Miss Steele.” He smiles, and I head into the
building. The doorman nods and waves.
As I ride up to the thirtieth oor, a thousand butteries stretch
their wings and utter erratically in my stomach. Why am I so
nervous? And I know it’s because I have no idea what kind of mood
Christian’s going to be in when I arrive. My inner goddess is
hopeful for one type of mood; my subconscious, like me, is fraught
with nerves.
The elevator doors open, and I’m in the foyer. It is so strange not
to be met by Taylor. Of course, he’s parking the car. In the great
room, Christian is on his BlackBerry, talking quietly as he stares
through the glass doors at the early evening Seattle skyline. He’s
wearing a gray suit with the jacket undone, and he’s running his
hand through his hair. He’s agitated, tense even. Oh no—what’s
wrong? Agitated or not, he’s still a ne sight. How can he look
so … arresting?
“No trace … Okay … Yes.” He turns and sees me, and his whole
demeanor changes. From tension to relief to something else: a look
that calls directly to my inner goddess, a look of sensual carnality,
his eyes scorching.
My mouth goes dry and desire blooms in my body … whoa.
“Keep me informed,” he snaps, and shuts o his phone as he
strides purposefully toward me. I stand paralyzed as he closes the
distance between us, devouring me with his eyes. Holy
shit … something’s amiss—the strain in his jaw, the anxiety around
his eyes. He shrugs out of his jacket, undoes his dark tie, and slings
them both onto the couch en route to me. Then his arms are
wrapped around me, and he’s pulling me to him, hard, fast,
gripping my ponytail to tilt my head up, kissing me like his life
depends on it. What the hell? He drags the hair tie painfully out of
my hair, but I don’t care. There’s a desperate, primal quality to his
kiss. He needs me, for whatever reason, at this point in time, and I
have never felt so desired and coveted. It’s dark and sensual and
alarming all at the same time. I kiss him back with equal fervor, my
ngers twisting and sting in his hair. Our tongues entwine, our
passion and ardor erupting between us. He tastes divine, hot, sexy,
and his scent—all body wash and Christian—is arousing. He drags
his mouth away from mine, and he’s staring down at me, gripped
by some unnamed emotion. “What’s wrong?” I breathe.
“I’m so glad you’re back. Shower with me—now.”
I can’t decide if it’s a request or a command.
“Yes,” I whisper, and he grabs my hand, leading me out of the big
room into his bedroom to his bathroom.
Once there, he releases me and turns the water on in the far-too-
spacious shower. Spinning around slowly, he gazes at me, eyes
hooded.
“I like your skirt. It’s very short,” he says, his voice low. “You
have great legs.”
He steps out of his shoes and reaches down to take o each of his
socks, never taking his eyes o me. I am rendered speechless by the
look of hunger in his eyes. Wow … to be this wanted by this Greek
god. I mirror his actions and step out of my black ats. Suddenly, he
reaches for me, backing me up against the wall. Kissing me, my
face, my throat, my lips … running his hands through my hair. I
feel the cool, smooth tiled wall at my back as he pushes himself
against me, so that I’m attened between his heat and the chill of
the ceramic. Tentatively, I place my arms on his upper arms, and he
groans as I squeeze tightly.
“I want you now. Here … fast, hard,” he breathes, and his hands
are on my thighs, pushing up my skirt. “Are you still bleeding?”
“No.” I ush.
“Good.”
His thumbs hook over my white cotton panties, and abruptly he
drops to his knees as he tugs them o. My skirt is now rucked up so
that I’m naked from the waist down and panting, wanting. He grabs
my hips, pushing me against the wall again, and kisses me at the
apex of my thighs. Grabbing my upper thighs, he forces my legs
apart. I groan loudly, feeling his tongue circling my clitoris. Oh my.
Tipping my head back involuntarily, I moan as my ngers nd their
way into his hair.
His tongue is relentless, strong and insistent, washing over me—
swirling around and around, again and again—nonstop. It’s
exquisite, the intensity of feeling—it’s almost painful. My body
starts to quicken, and he releases me. What? No! My breathing is
ragged as I pant, gazing at him with delicious anticipation. He grabs
my face with both hands, holding me rmly, and he kisses me hard,
thrusting his tongue into my mouth so I can taste my arousal.
Unzipping his y, he frees himself, grabs the backs of my thighs,
and lifts me.
“Wrap your legs around me, baby,” he commands, his voice
urgent, strained.
I do as I’m told and wrap my arms around his neck, and he moves
quickly and sharply, lling me. Ah! He gasps, and I groan. Holding
my behind, his ngers digging into my soft esh, he begins to
move, slowly at rst—a steady even tempo … but as his control
unravels, he speeds up … faster and faster. Ahhh! I tip my head back
and concentrate on the invading, punishing, heavenly
sensation … pushing me, pushing me … onward, higher, up … and
when I can take no more, I explode around him, spiraling into an
intense, all-consuming orgasm. He lets go with a deep growl, and he
buries his head in my neck as he buries himself inside me, groaning
loudly and incoherently as he nds his release.
His breathing is erratic, but he kisses me tenderly, not moving,
still inside me, and I blink, unseeing, into his eyes. As he comes into
focus, he gently pulls out of me, holding me steady while I place my
feet on the oor. The bathroom is now cloudy with steam … and
hot. I feel overdressed.
“You seem pleased to see me,” I murmur with a shy smile.
His lips quirk up. “Yes, Miss Steele, I think my pleasure is pretty
self-evident. Come—let me get you in the shower.”
He undoes the next three buttons of his shirt, removes the cu
links, tugs it over his head, and discards it on the oor. Taking o
his suit pants and boxer briefs, he kicks them to one side. He begins
to undo the buttons on my blouse while I watch him, yearning to
reach out and stroke his chest, but I contain myself.
“How was your journey?” he asks mildly. He seems so much
calmer now, his apprehension gone, dissolved by sexual congress.
“Fine, thank you,” I murmur, still breathless. “Thanks once again
for rst class. It really is a much nicer way to travel.” I smile shyly
at him. “I have some news,” I add nervously.
“Oh?” He looks down at me as he undoes the last button, slips my
blouse down my arms, and throws it on top of his discarded clothes.
“I have a job.”
He stills, then smiles at me, his eyes warm and soft.
“Congratulations, Miss Steele. Now will you tell me where?” he
teases.
“You don’t know?”
He shakes his head, frowning. “Why would I know?”
“With your stalking capabilities, I thought you might have …” I
trail o as his face falls.
“Anastasia, I wouldn’t dream of interfering in your career, unless
you ask me to, of course.” He looks wounded.
“So you have no idea which company?”
“No. I know there are four publishing companies in Seattle—so I
am assuming it’s one of them.”
“SIP.”
“Oh, the small one, good. Well done.” He leans forward and
kisses my forehead. “Clever girl. When do you start?”
“Monday.”
“That soon, eh? I’d better take advantage of you while I still can.
Turn around.”
I am thrown by his casual command but do as I’m bid, and he
undoes my bra and unzips my skirt. He pushes my skirt down,
cupping my behind as he does and kissing my shoulder. He leans
against me and his nose nuzzles my hair, inhaling deeply. He
squeezes my buttocks.
“You intoxicate me, Miss Steele, and you calm me. Such a heady
combination.” He kisses my hair. Grabbing my hand, he tugs me
into the shower.
“Ow,” I squeal. The water is practically scalding. Christian grins
down at me as the water cascades over him.
“It’s only a little hot water.”
And actually he’s right. It feels heavenly, washing o the sticky
Georgia morning and the stickiness from our lovemaking.
“Turn around,” he orders, and I comply, turning to face the wall.
“I want to wash you,” he murmurs, and reaches for the body wash.
He squirts a little into his hand.
“I have something else to tell you,” I murmur as his hands start
on my shoulders.
“Oh yes?” he asks mildly.
I steel myself with a deep breath. “My friend José’s photography
show is opening Thursday in Portland.”
He stills, his hands hovering over my breasts. I have emphasized
the word “friend.”
“Yes, what about it?” he asks sternly.
“I said I would go. Do you want to come with me?”
After what feels like a monumental amount of time, he slowly
starts washing me again.
“What time?”
“The opening is at seven thirty p.m.”
He kisses my ear.
“Okay.”
Inside my subconscious relaxes and then collapses, slumped into
an old battered armchair.
“Were you nervous about asking me?”
“Yes. How can you tell?”
“Anastasia, your whole body’s just relaxed,” he says dryly.
“Well, you just seem to be, um … on the jealous side.”
“Yes, I am,” he says darkly. “And you’d do well to remember
that. But thank you for asking. We’ll take Charlie Tango.”
Oh, the helicopter of course, silly me. More ying … cool! I grin.
“Can I wash you?” I ask.
“I don’t think so,” he murmurs, and he kisses me gently on my
neck to take the sting out of his refusal. I pout at the wall as he
caresses my back with soap.
“Will you ever let me touch you?” I ask boldly.
He stills again, his hand on my behind.
“Put your hands on the wall, Anastasia. I’m going to take you
again,” he murmurs in my ear as he grabs my hips, and I know that
the discussion is over.
LATER, WE ARE SEATED at the breakfast bar, dressed in bathrobes,
having consumed Mrs. Jones’s rather excellent pasta alle vongole.
“More wine?” Christian asks, gray eyes glowing.
“A small glass, please.” The Sancerre is crisp and delicious.
Christian pours one for me and one for himself.
“How’s the, um … situation that brought you to Seattle?” I ask
tentatively.
He frowns. “Out of hand,” he murmurs bitterly. “But nothing for
you to worry about, Anastasia. I have plans for you this evening.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I want you ready and waiting in my playroom in fteen
minutes.” He stands and gazes down at me.
“You can get ready in your room. Incidentally, the walk-in closet
is now full of clothes for you. I don’t want any arguments about
them.” He narrows his eyes, daring me to say something. When I
don’t, he stalks o to his study.
Me! Argue? With you, Fifty Shades? It’s more than my backside’s
worth. I sit on the barstool, momentarily stupeed, trying to
assimilate this morsel of information. He’s bought me clothes. I roll
my eyes in an exaggerated fashion, knowing full well he can’t see
me. Car, phone, computer … clothes, it’ll be a damn condo next,
and then I really will be his mistress.
Ho! My subconscious has her snarky face on. I ignore her and
make my way upstairs toward my room. So, it is still mine … why?
I thought he’d agreed to let me sleep with him. I suppose he’s not
used to sharing his personal space, but then, neither am I. I console
myself with the thought that at least I have somewhere to escape
from him.
Examining the door, I nd that it has a lock but no key. I wonder
briey if Mrs. Jones has a spare. I’ll ask her. I open the closet door
and close it again quickly. Holy crap—he’s spent a fortune. It
resembles Kate’s—so many clothes hanging neatly on the rail. Deep
down, I know that they’ll all t. But I have no time to think about
that—I have to get kneeling in the Red Room of … Pain … or
Pleasure, hopefully—this evening.
KNEELING BY THE DOOR, I am naked except for my panties. My heart is
in my mouth. Jeez, I thought after the bathroom he would have had
enough. The man is insatiable, or maybe all men are like him. I
have no idea, no one to compare him to. Closing my eyes, I try to
calm myself down, to connect with my inner sub. She’s there
somewhere, hiding behind my inner goddess.
Anticipation runs bubbling like soda through my veins. What will
he do? I take a deep, steadying breath, but I cannot deny it, I’m
excited, aroused, wet already. This is so … I want to think wrong,
but somehow it’s not. It’s right for Christian. It’s what he wants—
and after the last few days … after all he’s done, I have to man up
and take whatever he decides he wants, whatever he thinks he
needs.
The memory of his look when I came in this evening, the longing
in his face, his determined stride toward me like I was an oasis in
the desert. I’d do almost anything to see that look again. I press my
thighs together at the delicious memory, and it reminds me that I
need to spread my knees. I shue them apart. How long will he
make me wait? The wait is crippling me, crippling me with a dark
and tantalizing desire. I glance quickly around the subtly lit room:
the cross, the table, the couch, the bench … that bed. It looms so
large, and it’s made up with red satin sheets. Which piece of
apparatus will he use?
The door opens and Christian breezes in, ignoring me completely.
I glance down quickly, staring at my hands, positioned with care on
my spread thighs. Placing something on the large chest beside the
door, he strolls casually toward the bed. I indulge myself in a quick
glimpse at him, and my heart almost lurches to a stop. He’s naked
except for those soft ripped jeans, top button casually undone. Jeez,
he looks so freaking hot. My subconscious is frantically fanning
herself, and my inner goddess is swaying and writhing to some
primal carnal rhythm. She’s so ready. I lick my lips instinctively.
My blood pounds through my body, thick and heavy with salacious
hunger. What is he going to do to me?
Turning, he nonchalantly walks back to the chest of drawers.
Opening one, he begins to remove items and place them on the top.
My curiosity burns, blazes even, but I resist the overwhelming
temptation to sneak a quick peek. When he nishes what he’s
doing, he comes to stand in front of me. I can see his naked feet,
and I want to kiss every inch of them … run my tongue over his
instep, suck each of his toes. Holy shit.
“You look lovely,” he breathes.
I keep my head down, conscious that he’s staring at me while I
am practically naked. I feel the ush as it slowly spreads over my
face. He bends down and cups my chin, forcing my face up to meet
his gaze.
“You are one beautiful woman, Anastasia. And you’re all mine,”
he murmurs. “Stand up.” His command is soft, full of sensual
promise.
Shakily, I get to my feet.
“Look at me,” he breathes, and I stare up into his smoldering
gaze. It is his Dom gaze—cold, hard, and sexy as hell, seven shades
of sin in one enticing look. My mouth dries, and I know I will do
anything he asks. An almost cruel smile plays across his lips.
“We don’t have a signed contract, Anastasia. But we’ve discussed
limits. And I want to reiterate we have safewords, okay?”
Holy fuck … what has he got planned that I need safewords?
“What are they?” he asks authoritatively.
I frown slightly at his question, and his face hardens perceptibly.
“What are the safewords, Anastasia?” he says slowly and
deliberately.
“ ‘Yellow,’ ” I mumble.
“And?” he prompts, his mouth setting in a hard line.
“ ‘Red,’ ” I breathe.
“Remember those.”
And I can’t help it … I raise my eyebrow at him and am about to
remind him of my GPA, but the sudden frosty glint in his icy gray
eyes stops me in my tracks.
“Don’t start with your smart mouth in here, Miss Steele. Or I will
fuck it with you on your knees. Do you understand?”
I swallow instinctively. Okay. I blink rapidly, chastened. Actually,
it’s his tone of voice, rather than the threat, that intimidates me.
“Well?”
“Yes, Sir,” I mumble hastily.
“Good girl,” he pauses as he stares at me. “My intention is not
that you should use the safeword because you’re in pain. What I
intend to do to you will be intense. Very intense, and you have to
guide me. Do you understand?”
Not really. Intense? Wow.
“This is about touch, Anastasia. You will not be able to see me or
hear me. But you’ll be able to feel me.”
I frown—not hear him? How is that going to work? He turns, and
I hadn’t noticed that above the chest is a sleek, at, matte black
box. As he waves his hand in front, the box splits in half: two doors
slide open revealing a CD player and a host of buttons. Christian
presses several of these buttons in sequence. Nothing happens, but
he seems satised. I am mystied. When he turns to face me again,
he wears his small I-have-a-secret smile.
“I am going to tie you to that bed, Anastasia. But I’m going to
blindfold you rst and,” he reveals his iPod in his hand, “you will
not be able to hear me. All you will hear is the music I am going to
play for you.”
Okay. A musical interlude. Not what I was expecting. Does he
ever do what I expect? Jeez, I hope it’s not rap.
“Come.” Taking my hand, he leads me over to the antique four-
poster bed. There are shackles attached at each corner, ne metal
chains with leather cus, glinting against the red satin.
Oh boy, I think my heart is going to jump out of my chest, and
I’m melting from the inside out, desire coursing through me. Could
I be any more excited?
“Stand here.”
I am facing the bed. He leans down and whispers in my ear.
“Wait here. Keep your eyes on the bed. Picture yourself lying
here bound and totally at my mercy.”
Oh my.
He moves away for a moment, and I can hear him near the door
fetching something. All my senses are hyperalert, my hearing more
acute. He’s picked up something from the rack of whips and paddles
by the door. Holy cow. What is he going to do?
I feel him behind me. He takes my hair, pulls it into a ponytail
behind me, and starts to braid it.
“While I like your pigtails, Anastasia, I am impatient to have you
right now. So one will have to do.” His voice is low, soft.
His deft ngers skim my back occasionally as they work down my
hair, and each casual touch is like a sweet, electric shock against my
skin. He fastens the end with a hair tie, then gently tugs the braid
so that I’m forced to step back ush against him. He pulls again to
the side so that I angle my head, giving him easier access to my
neck. Leaning down, he nuzzles my neck, tracing his teeth and
tongue from the base of my ear to my shoulder. He hums softly as
he does, and the sound resonates through me. Right down … right
down there, inside me. Unbidden, I groan quietly.
“Hush now,” he breathes against my skin. He holds up his hands
in front of me, his arms touching mine. In his right hand is a
ogger. I remember the name from my rst introduction to this
room.
“Touch it,” he whispers, and he sounds like the devil himself. My
body ames in response. Tentatively, I reach out and brush the long
strands. It has many long fronds, all soft suede with small beads at
the end.
“I will use this. It will not hurt, but it will bring your blood to the
surface of your skin and make you very sensitive.”
Oh, he says it won’t hurt.
“What are the safewords, Anastasia?”
“Um … ‘yellow’ and ‘red,’ Sir,” I whisper.
“Good girl. Remember, most of your fear is in your mind.”
He drops the ogger on the bed, and his hands move to my waist.
“You won’t be needing these,” he murmurs, and hooks his ngers
into my panties and sweeps them down my legs. I step unsteadily
out of them, supporting myself on the ornate post of the bed.
“Stand still,” he orders, and he kisses my behind and then gently
nips me twice, making me tense. “Now lie down. Face up,” he adds
as he smacks me hard on the behind, making me jump.
Hastily, I crawl onto the bed’s hard, unyielding mattress and lie
down, looking up at him. The satin of the sheet beneath me is soft
and cool against my skin. His face is impassive, except for his eyes,
which glow with a barely leashed excitement.
“Hands above your head,” he orders, and I do as I’m bid.
Jeez, my body hungers for him. I want him already.
He turns, and out of the corner of my eyes, I watch him saunter
back over to the chest of drawers, returning with the iPod and what
looks like an eye mask, similar to the one I used on my ight to
Atlanta. The thought makes me want to smile, but I can’t quite
make my lips cooperate. I am too consumed with anticipation. I just
know my face is completely immobile, my eyes huge, as I gaze at
him.
Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he shows me the iPod. It has
a strange antenna device as well as headphones. How odd. I frown
as I try to gure this out.
“This transmits what’s playing on the iPod to the system in the
room,” Christian answers my unspoken query as he taps the small
antenna. “I can hear what you’re hearing, and I have a remote
control unit for it.” He smirks his private-joke smile and holds up a
small, at device that looks like a very hip calculator. He leans
across me, inserting the earbuds gently into my ears, and puts the
iPod down somewhere on the bed above my head.
“Lift your head,” he commands, and I do so immediately.
Slowly, he slides the mask on, pulling the elastic over the back of
my head, and I’m blind. The elastic on the mask holds the earbuds
in place. I can still hear him, though the sound is mued as he rises
from the bed. I’m deafened by my own breathing—it’s shallow and
erratic, reecting my excitement. Christian takes my left arm,
stretches it gently to the left-hand corner, and attaches the leather
cu around my wrist. His long ngers stroke the length of my arm
once he’s nished. Oh! His touch elicits a delicious, tickly shiver. I
hear him move slowly around to the other side, where he takes my
right arm and cus it. Again, his long ngers linger along my arm.
Oh my … I am t to burst already. Why is this so erotic?
He moves to the bottom of the bed and grabs both of my ankles.
“Lift your head again,” he orders.
I comply, and he drags me down the bed so that my arms are
stretched out and almost straining at the cus. Holy cow, I cannot
move my arms. A frisson of trepidation mixed with tantalizing
exhilaration sweeps through my body, making me wetter. I groan.
Parting my legs, he cus rst my right ankle and then my left so I
am staked out, spread-eagled, and totally vulnerable to him. It’s so
unnerving that I can’t see him. I listen hard … what’s he doing?
And I hear nothing, just my breathing and the pounding thud of my
heart as blood pulses furiously against my eardrums.
Abruptly, the soft silent hiss and pop of the iPod springs into life.
From inside my head, a lone angelic voice sings unaccompanied a
long sweet note, and it’s joined almost immediately by another
voice, and then more voices—holy cow, a celestial choir—singing a
capella in my head, an ancient, ancient hymnal. What in heaven’s
name is this? I have never heard anything like it. Something almost
unbearably soft brushes against my neck, running languidly down
my throat, slowly across my chest, over my breasts, caressing
me … pulling at my nipples, it’s so soft, skimming underneath. It’s
so unexpected. It’s fur! A fur glove?
Christian trails his hand, unhurried and deliberate, down to my
belly, circling my navel, then carefully from hip to hip, and I’m
trying to anticipate where he’s going next … but the music … it’s in
my head … transporting me … the fur across the line of my pubic
hair … between my legs, along my thighs, down one leg … up the
other … it almost tickles … but not quite … more voices join … the
heavenly choir all singing dierent parts, their voices blending
blissfully and sweetly together in a melodic harmony that is beyond
anything I’ve ever heard. I catch one word—“deus”—and I realize
they are singing in Latin. And still, the fur is moving down my arms
and around my waist … back up across my breasts. My nipples
harden beneath the soft touch … and I’m panting … wondering
where his hand will go next. Suddenly, the fur is gone, and I can
feel the fronds of the ogger owing over my skin, following the
same path as the fur, and it’s so hard to concentrate with the music
in my head—it sounds like a hundred voices singing, weaving an
ethereal tapestry of ne, silken gold and silver through my head,
mixed with the feel of the soft suede against my skin … trailing
over me … oh my … abruptly, it disappears. Then suddenly,
sharply, it bites down on my belly.
“Aagghh!” I cry out. It takes me by surprise, but it doesn’t exactly
hurt and tingles all over, and he hits me again. Harder.
“Aaah!”
I want to move, to writhe … to escape, or to welcome, each
blow … I don’t know—it’s so overwhelming … I can’t pull my
arms … my legs are stuck … I am held very rmly in place … and
again he strikes across my breasts—I cry out. And it’s a sweet
agony—bearable, just … pleasant—no, not immediately, but as my
skin sings with each blow in perfect counterpoint to the music in my
head, I am dragged into a dark, dark part of my psyche that
surrenders to this most erotic sensation. Yes—I get this. He hits me
across my hip, then moves in swift blows over my pubic hair, on my
thighs, and down my inner thighs … and back up my body … across
my hips. He keeps going as the music reaches a climax, and then
suddenly the music stops. And so does he. Then the singing starts
again … building and building, and he rains down blows on
me … and I groan and writhe. Once again, it ceases and all is
quiet … except my wild breathing … and wild yearning.
For … oh … what’s happening? What’s he going to do now? The
excitement is almost unbearable. I’ve entered a very dark, carnal
place.
The bed moves and shifts as I feel him clamber over me, and the
song starts again. He’s got it on repeat … this time it’s his nose and
lips that take the place of the fur … running down my neck and
throat, kissing, sucking … trailing down to my breasts … Ah!
Taunting each of my nipples in turn … his tongue swirling around
one while his ngers relentlessly tease the other … I groan, loudly I
think, though I can’t hear. I am lost. Lost in him … lost in the
astral, seraphic voices … lost to all the sensations I cannot
escape … I am completely at the mercy of his expert touch.
He moves down to my belly—his tongue circling my navel—
following the path of the ogger and the fur … I moan. He’s kissing
and sucking and nibbling … moving south … and then his tongue is
there. At the junction of my thighs. I throw my head back and cry
out as I almost detonate into orgasm … I’m on the brink, and he
stops.
No! The bed shifts, and he kneels between my legs. He leans
toward the bedpost, and the cu on my ankle is suddenly gone. I
pull my leg to the middle of the bed … resting it against him. He
leans over to the opposite post and frees my other leg. His hands
travel quickly down both my legs, squeezing and kneading, bringing
life back into them. Then, grasping my hips, he lifts me so that my
back is no longer on the bed. I am arched, resting on my shoulders.
What? He’s kneeling up between my legs … and in one swift,
slamming move he’s inside me … oh, fuck … and I cry out again.
The quiver of my impending orgasm begins, and he stills. The
quiver dies … oh no … he’s going to torture me further.
“Please!” I wail.
He grips me harder … in warning? I don’t know, his ngers
digging into the esh of my behind as I lay panting … so I
purposefully still. Very slowly, he starts to move again … out and
then in … agonizingly slowly. Holy fuck—please! I’m screaming
inside … And as the number of voices in the choral piece increases,
so does his pace, innitesimally, he’s so controlled … so in time
with the music. And I can no longer bear it.
“Please,” I beg, and in one swift move, he lowers me back onto
the bed, and he’s lying on top of me, his hands on the bed beside
my breasts as he supports his weight, and he thrusts into me. As the
music reaches its climax, I fall … free-fall … into the most intense,
agonizing orgasm I have ever had, and Christian follows
me … thrusting hard into me three more times … nally stilling,
then collapsing on top of me.
As my consciousness returns from wherever it’s been, Christian
pulls out of me. The music has stopped, and I can feel him stretch
across my body as he undoes the cu on my right wrist. I groan as
my hand is freed. He quickly frees my other hand, gently pulls the
mask from my eyes, and removes the earbuds. I blink in the dim
soft light and stare up into his intense gray gaze.
“Hi,” he murmurs.
“Hi, yourself,” I breathe shyly back at him. His lips quirk up into
a smile, and he leans down and kisses me softly.
“Well done, you,” he whispers. “Turn over.”
Holy fuck—what’s he going to do now? His eyes soften.
“I’m just going to rub your shoulders.”
“Oh … okay.”
I roll stiy onto my front. I am so tired. Christian sits astride me
and starts to massage my shoulders. I groan loudly—he has such
strong, knowing ngers. Leaning down, he kisses my head.
“What was that music?” I mumble almost inarticulately.
“It’s called Spem in Alium, a forty-part motet by Thomas Tallis.”
“It was … overwhelming.”
“I’ve always wanted to fuck to it.”
“Not another rst, Mr. Grey?”
“Indeed, Miss Steele.”
I groan again as his ngers work their magic on my shoulders.
“Well, it’s the rst time I’ve fucked to it, too,” I murmur sleepily.
“Hmm … you and I, we’re giving each other many rsts.” His
voice is matter-of-fact.
“What did I say to you in my sleep, Chris—er, Sir?”
His hands pause their ministrations for a moment.
“You said lots of things, Anastasia. You talked about cages and
strawberries … that you wanted more … and that you missed me.”
Oh, thank heavens for that.
“Is that all?” The relief in my voice is evident.
Christian stops his heavenly massage and shifts so that he’s lying
beside me, his head propped up on his elbow. He’s frowning.
“What did you think you’d said?”
Oh crap.
“That I thought you were ugly, conceited, and that you were
hopeless in bed.”
The crease on his brow deepens.
“Well, naturally I am all those things, and now you’ve got me
really intrigued. What are you hiding from me, Miss Steele?”
I blink at him innocently. “I’m not hiding anything.”
“Anastasia, you are a hopeless liar.”
“I thought you were going to make me giggle after sex; this isn’t
doing it for me.”
His lips quirk up. “I can’t tell jokes.”
“Mr. Grey! Something you can’t do?” I grin at him, and he grins
back.
“No, hopeless joke teller.” He looks so proud of himself that I
start to giggle.
“I’m a hopeless joke teller, too.”
“That is such a lovely sound,” he murmurs, and he leans forward
and kisses me.
“And you are hiding something, Anastasia. I may have to torture
it out of you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I wake with a jolt. I think I’ve just fallen down some stairs in a
dream, and I bolt upright, momentarily disoriented. It is dark, and
I’m in Christian’s bed alone. Something has woken me, some
nagging thought. I glance over at the alarm clock on his bedside. It
is ve in the morning, but I feel rested. Why is that? Oh—it’s the
time dierence—it would be eight a.m. in Georgia. Holy crap … I
need to take my pill. I clamber out of bed, grateful for whatever it is
that has woken me. I can hear faint notes from the piano. Christian
is playing. This I must see. I love watching him play. Naked, I grab
my bathrobe from the chair and wander quietly down the corridor,
slipping on my robe and listening to the magical sound of the
melodic lament that’s coming from the great room.
Shrouded in darkness, Christian sits in a bubble of light as he
plays, and his hair glints with burnished copper highlights. He looks
naked, though I know he’s wearing his PJ bottoms. He’s
concentrating, playing beautifully, lost in the melancholy of the
music. I hesitate, watching from the shadows, not wanting to
interrupt him. I want to hold him. He looks lost, sad even, and
achingly lonely—or maybe it’s just the music that’s so full of
poignant sorrow. He nishes the piece, pauses for a split second,
then starts to play it again. I move cautiously toward him, drawn as
the moth to the ame … the idea makes me smile. He glances up at
me and frowns before his gaze returns to his hands.
Oh, crap, is he pissed o that I am disturbing him?
“You should be asleep,” he scolds mildly.
I can tell he’s preoccupied with something.
“So should you,” I retort not quite as mildly.
He glances up again, his lips twitching with a trace of a smile.
“Are you scolding me, Miss Steele?”
“Yes, Mr. Grey, I am.”
“Well, I can’t sleep.” He frowns once more as a trace of irritation
or anger ashes across his face. With me? Surely not.
I ignore his facial expression and very bravely sit down beside
him on the piano stool, placing my head on his bare shoulder to
watch his deft, agile ngers caress the keys. He pauses fractionally,
and then continues to the end of the piece.
“What was that?” I ask softly.
“Chopin. Prelude opus twenty-eight, number four. In E minor, if
you’re interested,” he murmurs.
“I’m always interested in what you do.”
He turns and softly presses his lips against my hair.
“I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t. Play the other one.”
“Other one?”
“The Bach piece that you played the rst night I stayed.”
“Oh, the Marcello.”
He starts to play slowly and deliberately. I feel the movement of
his hands in his shoulders as I lean against him and close my eyes.
The sad, soulful notes swirl slowly and mournfully around us,
echoing o the walls. It is a hauntingly beautiful piece, sadder even
than the Chopin, and I lose myself to the beauty of the lament. To a
certain extent, it reects how I feel. The deep poignant longing I
have to know this extraordinary man better, to try to understand his
sadness. All too soon, the piece is at an end.
“Why do you only play such sad music?”
I sit upright and gaze up at him as he shrugs in answer to my
question, his expression wary.
“So you were just six when you started to play?” I prompt.
He nods, his wary look intensifying. After a moment he
volunteers. “I threw myself into learning the piano to please my
new mother.”
“To t into the perfect family?”
“Yes, so to speak,” he says evasively. “Why are you awake? Don’t
you need to recover from yesterday’s exertions?”
“It’s eight in the morning for me. And I need to take my pill.”
He raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Well remembered,” he
murmurs, and I can tell he’s impressed. “Only you would start a
course of time-specic birth control pills in a dierent time zone.
Perhaps you should wait half an hour and then another half hour
tomorrow morning. So eventually you can take them at a
reasonable time.”
“Good plan,” I breathe. “So what shall we do for half an hour?” I
blink innocently at him.
“I can think of a few things.” He grins salaciously. I gaze back
impassively as my insides clench and melt under his knowing look.
“On the other hand, we could talk,” I suggest quietly.
His brow creases.
“I prefer what I have in mind.” He scoops me onto his lap.
“You’d always rather have sex than talk.” I laugh, steadying
myself by holding on to his upper arms.
“True. Especially with you.” He nuzzles my hair and starts a
steady trail of kisses from below my ear to my throat. “Maybe on
my piano,” he whispers.
Oh my. My whole body tightens at the thought. Piano. Wow.
“I want to get something straight,” I whisper as my pulse starts to
accelerate, and my inner goddess closes her eyes, reveling in the
feel of his lips on me.
He pauses momentarily before continuing his sensual assault.
“Always so eager for information, Miss Steele. What needs
straightening out?” he breathes against my skin at the base of my
neck, continuing his soft gentle kisses.
“Us,” I whisper as I close my eyes.
“Hmm. What about us?” He pauses his trail of kisses along my
shoulder.
“The contract.”
He lifts his head to gaze down at me, a hint of amusement in his
eyes, and sighs. He strokes his ngertips down my cheek.
“Well, I think the contract is moot, don’t you?” His voice is low
and husky, his eyes soft.
“Moot?”
“Moot.” He smiles. I gape at him quizzically.
“But you were so keen.”
“Well, that was before. Anyway, the Rules aren’t moot, they still
stand.” His expression hardens slightly.
“Before? Before what?”
“Before …” He pauses, and the wary expression is back. “More.”
He shrugs.
“Oh.”
“Besides, we’ve been in the playroom twice now, and you haven’t
run screaming for the hills.”
“Do you expect me to?”
“Nothing you do is expected, Anastasia,” he says dryly.
“So, let me be clear. You just want me to follow the Rules
element of the contract all the time but not the rest of the
contract?”
“Except in the playroom. I want you to follow the spirit of the
contract in the playroom, and yes, I want you to follow the Rules—
all the time. Then I know you’ll be safe, and I’ll be able to have you
anytime I wish.”
“And if I break one of the Rules?”
“Then I’ll punish you.”
“But won’t you need my permission?”
“Yes, I will.”
“And if I say no?”
He gazes at me for a moment, with a confused expression.
“If you say no, you’ll say no. I’ll have to nd a way to persuade
you.”
I pull away from him and stand. I need some distance. He frowns
as I stare down at him. He looks puzzled and wary again.
“So the punishment aspect remains.”
“Yes, but only if you break the Rules.”
“I’ll need to reread them,” I say, trying to recall the detail.
“I’ll fetch them for you.” His tone is suddenly businesslike.
Whoa. This has gotten serious so quickly. He rises from the piano
and walks lithely to his study. My scalp prickles. Jeez, I need some
tea. The future of our so-called relationship is being discussed at
5:45 in the morning when he’s preoccupied with something else—is
this wise? I head into the kitchen, which is still shrouded in
darkness. Where are the light switches? I nd them, ick them on,
and pour water into the kettle. My pill! I rummage in my purse,
which I left on the breakfast bar, and nd them quickly. One
swallow and I’m done. By the time I nish, Christian is back, sitting
on one of the barstools, watching me intently.
“Here you go.” He pushes a typed piece of paper toward me, and
I notice that he’s crossed some things out.
RULES
Obedience:
The Submissive will obey any instructions given by the Dominant immediately
without hesitation or reservation and in an expeditious manner. The Submissive will
agree to any sexual activity deemed t and pleasurable by the Dominant excepting
those activities that are outlined in hard limits (Appendix 2). She will do so eagerly
and without hesitation.
Sleep:
The Submissive will ensure she achieves a minimum of eight seven hours’ sleep a
night when she is not with the Dominant.
Food:
The Submissive will eat regularly to maintain her health and wellbeing from a
prescribed list of foods (Appendix 4). The Submissive will not snack between meals,
with the exception of fruit.
Clothes:
While with the Dominant, the Submissive will wear clothing only approved by the
Dominant. The Dominant will provide a clothing budget for the Submissive, which the
Submissive shall utilize. The Dominant shall accompany the Submissive to purchase
clothing on an ad hoc basis.
Exercise:
The Dominant shall provide the Submissive with a personal trainer four three times a
week in hour-long sessions at times to be mutually agreed upon by the personal trainer
and the Submissive. The personal trainer will report to the Dominant on the
Submissive’s progress.
Personal Hygiene/Beauty:
The Submissive will keep herself clean and shaved and/or waxed at all times. The
Submissive will visit a beauty salon of the Dominant’s choosing at times to be decided
by the Dominant and undergo whatever treatments the Dominant sees t.
Personal Safety:
The Submissive will not drink to excess, smoke, take recreational drugs or put herself
in any unnecessary danger.
Personal Qualities:
The Submissive will not enter into any sexual relations with anyone other than the
Dominant. The Submissive will conduct herself in a respectful and modest manner at
all times. She must recognize that her behavior is a direct reection on the Dominant.
She shall be held accountable for any misdeeds, wrongdoings and misbehavior
committed when not in the presence of the Dominant.
Failure to comply with any of the above will result in immediate punishment, the
nature of which shall be determined by the Dominant.
“So the obedience thing still stands?”
“Oh yes.” He grins.
I shake my head amused, and before I realize it, I roll my eyes at
him.
“Did you just roll your eyes at me, Anastasia?” he breathes.
Oh, fuck.
“Possibly, depends what your reaction is.”
“Same as always,” he says, shaking his head, his eyes alight with
excitement.
I swallow instinctively and a frisson of exhilaration runs through
me.
“So …” Holy shit. What am I going to do?
“Yes?” He licks his lower lip.
“You want to spank me now.”
“Yes. And I will.”
“Oh, really, Mr. Grey?” I challenge, grinning back at him. Two
can play this game.
“Are you going to stop me?”
“You’re going to have to catch me rst.”
His eyes widen a fraction, and he grins, slowly getting to his feet.
“Oh, really, Miss Steele?”
The breakfast bar is between us. I have never been more grateful
for its existence than in this moment.
“And you’re biting your lip,” he breathes, moving slowly to his
left as I move to mine.
“You wouldn’t,” I tease. “After all, you roll your eyes.” I try
reasoning with him. He continues to move toward his left, as do I.
“Yes, but you’ve just raised the bar on the excitement stakes with
this game.” His eyes blaze, and wild anticipation emanates from
him.
“I’m quite fast, you know.” I try for nonchalance.
“So am I.”
He’s stalking me in his own kitchen.
“Are you going to come quietly?” he asks.
“Do I ever?”
“Miss Steele, what do you mean?” He smirks. “It’ll be worse for
you if I have to come and get you.”
“That’s only if you catch me, Christian. And right now, I have no
intention of letting you catch me.”
“Anastasia, you may fall and hurt yourself. Which will put you in
direct contravention of rule number seven, now six.”
“I have been in danger since I met you, Mr. Grey, rules or no
rules.”
“Yes, you have.” He pauses, and his brow furrows.
Suddenly, he lunges for me, making me squeal and run for the
dining room table. I manage to escape, putting the table between
us. My heart is pounding and adrenaline has spiked through my
body … boy … this is thrilling. I’m a child again, though that’s not
right. I watch him carefully as he paces deliberately toward me. I
inch away.
“You certainly know how to distract a man, Anastasia.”
“We aim to please, Mr. Grey. Distract you from what?”
“Life. The universe.” He waves one of his hands vaguely.
“You did seem very preoccupied as you were playing.”
He stops and folds his arms, his expression amused.
“We can do this all day, baby, but I will get you, and it will just
be worse for you when I do.”
“No, you won’t.” I must not be overcondent. I repeat this as a
mantra. My subconscious has found her Nikes, and she’s on the
starting blocks.
“Anyone would think you didn’t want me to catch you.”
“I don’t. That’s the point. I feel about punishment the way you
feel about my touching you.”
His entire demeanor changes in a nanosecond. Gone is playful
Christian, and he stands staring at me as if I’ve slapped him. He’s
ashen.
“That’s how you feel?” he whispers.
Those four words, and the way he utters them, speak volumes. Oh
no. They tell me so much more about him and how he feels. They
tell me about his fear and loathing. I frown. No, I don’t feel that
bad. No way. Do I?
“No. It doesn’t aect me quite as much as that, but it gives you
an idea,” I murmur, staring anxiously at him.
“Oh,” he says.
Crap. He looks completely and utterly lost, like I’ve pulled the
rug from under his feet.
Taking a deep breath, I move around the table until I am standing
in front of him, gazing into his apprehensive eyes.
“You hate it that much?” he breathes, his eyes lled with horror.
“Well … no,” I reassure him. Jeez—that’s how he feels about people
touching him? “No. I feel ambivalent about it. I don’t like it, but I
don’t hate it.”
“But last night, in the playroom, you …”
“I do it for you, Christian, because you need it. I don’t. You
didn’t hurt me last night. That was in a dierent context, and I can
rationalize that internally, and I trust you. But when you want to
punish me, I worry that you’ll hurt me.”
His eyes darken like a turbulent storm. Time moves and expands
and slips away before he answers softly.
“I want to hurt you. But not beyond anything that you couldn’t
take.”
Fuck!
“Why?”
He runs his hand through his hair, and he shrugs.
“I just need it.” He pauses, gazing at me with anguish, and he
closes his eyes and shakes his head. “I can’t tell you,” he whispers.
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Won’t.”
“So you know why.”
“Yes.”
“But you won’t tell me.”
“If I do, you will run screaming from this room, and you’ll never
want to return.” He stares at me warily. “I can’t risk that,
Anastasia.”
“You want me to stay.”
“More than you know. I couldn’t bear to lose you.”
Oh my.
He gazes down at me, and suddenly, he pulls me into his arms
and he’s kissing me, kissing me passionately. It takes me completely
by surprise, and I sense his panic and desperate need in his kiss.
“Don’t leave me. You said you wouldn’t leave me, and you
begged me not to leave you, in your sleep,” he murmurs against my
lips.
Oh … my nocturnal confessions.
“I don’t want to go.” And my heart clenches, turning itself inside
out.
This is a man in need. His fear is naked and obvious, but he’s
lost … somewhere in his darkness. His eyes are wide and bleak and
tortured. I can soothe him, join him briey in the darkness and
bring him into the light.
“Show me,” I whisper.
“Show you?”
“Show me how much it can hurt.”
“What?”
“Punish me. I want to know how bad it can get.”
Christian steps back away from me, completely confused.
“You would try?”
“Yes. I said I would.” But I have an ulterior motive. If I do this
for him, maybe he will let me touch him.
He blinks. “Ana, you’re so confusing.”
“I’m confused, too. I’m trying to work this out. And you and I
will know, once and for all, if I can do this. If I can handle this, then
maybe you—” My words fail me, and his eyes widen again. He
knows I am referring to the touch thing. For a moment, he looks
torn, but then a steely resolve settles on his features, and he
narrows his eyes, gazing at me speculatively as if weighing up
alternatives.
Abruptly, he clasps my arm in a rm grip and turns, leading me
out of the great room, up the stairs, and to the playroom. Pleasure
and pain, reward and punishment—his words from so long ago echo
through my mind.
“I’ll show you how bad it can be, and you can make your own
mind up.” He pauses by the door. “Are you ready for this?”
I nod, my mind made up, and I’m vaguely lightheaded, faint as
all the blood leaves my face.
He opens the door and, still grasping my arm, grabs what looks
like a belt from the rack beside the door, then leads me over to the
red leather bench in the far corner of the room.
“Bend over the bench,” he murmurs softly.
Okay. I can do this. I bend over the smooth soft leather. He’s left
my bathrobe on. In a quiet part of my brain, I’m vaguely surprised
that he hasn’t made me take it o. Holy fuck, this is going to hurt … I
know.
“We’re here because you said yes, Anastasia. And you ran from
me. I am going to hit you six times, and you will count with me.”
Why the hell doesn’t he just get on with it? He always makes
such a meal of punishing me. I roll my eyes, knowing full well he
can’t see me.
He lifts the hem of my bathrobe, and for some reason, this feels
more intimate than being naked. He gently caresses my behind,
running his warm hand all over both cheeks and down to the tops of
my thighs.
“I am doing this so that you remember not to run from me, and as
exciting as it is, I never want you to run from me,” he whispers.
And the irony is not lost on me. I was running to avoid this. If
he’d opened his arms, I’d run to him, not away from him.
“And you rolled your eyes at me. You know how I feel about
that.” Suddenly, it’s gone—that nervous edgy fear in his voice. He’s
back from wherever he’s been. I hear it in his tone, in the way he
places his ngers on my back, holding me—and the atmosphere in
the room changes.
I close my eyes, bracing myself for the blow. It comes hard,
snapping across my backside, and the bite of the belt is everything I
feared. I cry out involuntarily and take a huge gulp of air.
“Count, Anastasia!” he commands.
“One!” I shout at him, and it sounds like an expletive.
He hits me again, and the pain pulses and echoes along the line of
the belt. Holy shit … that smarts.
“Two!” I scream. It feels so good to scream.
His breathing is ragged and harsh, whereas mine is almost
nonexistent as I desperately scrabble around my psyche looking for
some internal strength. The belt cuts into my esh again.
“Three!” Tears spring unwelcome into my eyes. Jeez—this is
harder than I thought—so much harder than the spanking. He’s not
holding anything back.
“Four!” I yell as the belt bites me again, and now the tears are
streaming down my face. I don’t want to cry. It angers me that I am
crying. He hits me again.
“Five.” My voice is more a choked, strangled sob, and in this
moment I think I hate him. One more, I can do one more. My
backside feels as if it’s on re.
“Six,” I whisper as the blistering pain cuts across me again, and I
hear him drop the belt behind me, and he’s pulling me into his
arms, all breathless and compassionate … and I want none of him.
“Let go … no …” And I nd myself struggling out of his grasp,
pushing him away. Fighting him.
“Don’t touch me!” I hiss. I straighten and stare at him, and he’s
watching me as if I might bolt, eyes wide, bemused. I dash the tears
angrily out of my eyes with the backs of my hands, glaring at him.
“This is what you really like? Me, like this?” I use the sleeve of
the bathrobe to wipe my nose.
He gazes at me warily.
“Well, you are one fucked-up son of a bitch.”
“Ana,” he pleads, shocked.
“Don’t you dare ‘Ana’ me! You need to sort your shit out, Grey!”
And with that, I turn stiy, and I walk out of the playroom, closing
the door quietly behind me.
I clasp the door handle behind me and briey lean back against
the door. Where to go? Do I run? Do I stay? I am so mad, scalding
tears spill down my cheeks, and I brush them furiously aside. I just
want to curl up. Curl up and recuperate in some way. Heal my
shattered faith. How could I have been so stupid? Of course it hurts.
Tentatively, I rub my backside. Aah! It’s sore. Where to go? Not
his room. My room, or the room that will be mine, no, is
mine … was mine. This is why he wanted me to keep it. He knew I
would need distance from him.
I launch myself stiy in that direction, conscious that Christian
may follow me. It is still dark in the bedroom, dawn only a whisper
in the skyline. I climb awkwardly into bed, careful not to sit on my
aching and tender backside. I keep the bathrobe on, wrapping it
around me, and curl up and really let go—sobbing hard into my
pillow.
What was I thinking? Why did I let him do that to me? I wanted
the dark, to explore how bad it could be—but it’s too dark for me. I
cannot do this. Yet, this is what he does; this is how he gets his
kicks.
What a monumental wake-up call. And to be fair to him, he
warned me and warned me, time and again. He’s not normal. He
has needs that I cannot fulll. I realize that now. I don’t want him
to hit me like that again, ever. I think of the couple of times he has
hit me, and how easy he was on me by comparison. Is that enough
for him? I sob harder into the pillow. I am going to lose him. He
won’t want to be with me if I can’t give him this. Why, why, why
have I fallen in love with Fifty Shades? Why? Why can’t I love José,
or Paul Clayton, or someone like me?
Oh, his distraught look as I left. I was so cruel, shocked by the
savagery … will he forgive me … will I forgive him? My thoughts
are all haywire and jumbled, echoing and bouncing o the inside of
my skull. My subconscious is shaking her head sadly, and my inner
goddess is nowhere to be seen. Oh, this is a dark morning of the
soul for me. I’m so alone. I want my mom. I remember her parting
words at the airport:
Follow your heart, darling, and please, please—try not to overthink
things. Relax and enjoy. You are so young, sweetheart, you have so
much to experience, just let it happen. You deserve the best of
everything.
I did follow my heart, and I have a sore ass and an anguished,
broken spirit to show for it. I have to go. That’s it … I have to
leave. He’s no good for me, and I am no good for him. How can we
possibly make this work? And the thought of not seeing him again
practically chokes me … my Fifty Shades.
I hear the door click open. Oh no—he’s here. He puts something
down on the bedside table, and the bed shifts under his weight as he
climbs in behind me.
“Hush,” he breathes, and I want to pull away from him, move to
the other side of the bed, but I’m paralyzed. I cannot move and lie
stiy, not yielding at all. “Don’t ght me, Ana, please,” he
whispers. Gently, he pulls me into his arms, burying his nose in my
hair, kissing my neck.
“Don’t hate me,” he breathes softly against my skin, his voice
achingly sad. My heart clenches anew and releases a fresh wave of
silent sobbing. He continues to kiss me softly, tenderly, but I remain
aloof and wary.
We lie together like this, neither saying anything for ages. He just
holds me, and very gradually, I relax and stop crying. Dawn comes
and goes, and the soft light gets brighter as morning moves on, and
still we lie quietly.
“I brought you some Advil and some arnica cream,” he says after
a long while.
I turn very slowly in his arms so I can face him. I am resting my
head on his arm. His eyes are inty gray and guarded.
I gaze at his beautiful face. He’s giving nothing away, but he
keeps his eyes on mine, hardly blinking. Oh, he is so breathtakingly
good-looking. In such a short time, he’s become so, so dear to me.
Reaching up, I caress his cheek and run the tips of my ngers
through his stubble. He closes his eyes and exhales.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
He opens his eyes and looks at me puzzled.
“What for?”
“What I said.”
“You didn’t tell me anything I didn’t know.” And his eyes soften
with relief. “I am sorry I hurt you.”
I shrug. “I asked for it.” And now I know. I swallow. Here goes. I
need to say my piece. “I don’t think I can be everything you want
me to be,” I whisper. His eyes widen, and he blinks, his fearful
expression returning.
“You are everything I want you to be.”
What?
“I don’t understand. I’m not obedient, and you can be as sure as
hell I’m not going to let you do that to me again. And that’s what
you need, you said so.”
He closes his eyes again, and I can see myriad emotions cross his
face. When he reopens them, his expression is bleak. Oh no.
“You’re right. I should let you go. I am no good for you.”
My scalp prickles as every single hair follicle on my body stands
to attention, and the world falls away from me, leaving a wide,
yawning abyss for me to fall into. Oh no.
“I don’t want to go,” I whisper. Fuck—this is it. Pay or play.
Tears swim in my eyes once more.
“I don’t want you to go, either,” he whispers, his voice raw. He
reaches up and gently strokes my cheek and wipes away a falling
tear with his thumb. “I’ve come alive since I met you.” His thumb
traces the contours of my lower lip.
“Me, too,” I whisper. “I’ve fallen in love with you, Christian.”
His eyes widen again, but this time with pure, undiluted fear.
“No,” he breathes as if I’ve knocked the wind out of him.
Oh no.
“You can’t love me, Ana. No … that’s wrong.” He’s horried.
“Wrong? Why’s it wrong?”
“Well, look at you. I can’t make you happy.” His voice is
anguished.
“But you do make me happy.” I frown.
“Not at the moment, not doing what I want to do.”
Holy fuck. This really is it. This is what it boils down to—
incompatibility—and all those poor subs come to mind.
“We’ll never get past that, will we?” I whisper, my scalp
prickling in fear.
He shakes his head bleakly. I close my eyes. I cannot bear to look
at him.
“Well … I’d better go, then,” I murmur, wincing as I sit up.
“No, don’t go.” He sounds panicked.
“There’s no point in me staying.” Suddenly, I feel tired, really
dog-tired, and I want to go now. I climb out of bed, and Christian
follows.
“I’m going to get dressed. I’d like some privacy,” I say, my voice
at and empty as I leave him standing in the bedroom.
Heading downstairs, I glance at the great room, thinking how
only hours before I had rested my head on his shoulder as he played
the piano. So much has happened since then. I have had my eyes
opened and glimpsed the extent of his depravity, and I now know
he’s not capable of love—of giving or receiving love. My worst
fears have been realized. And strangely, it’s liberating.
The pain is such that I refuse to acknowledge it. I feel numb. I
have somehow escaped from my body and am now a casual
observer to this unfolding tragedy. I shower quickly and
methodically, thinking only of each second in front of me. Now
squeeze body wash bottle. Put body wash bottle back in rack. Rub
cloth on face, on shoulders … on and on, all simple, mechanical
actions, requiring simple, mechanical thoughts.
I nish my shower—and as I haven’t washed my hair, I can dry
myself quickly. I dress in the bathroom, taking my jeans and T-shirt
out of my small suitcase. My jeans chafe against my backside, but
quite frankly, it’s a pain I welcome as it distracts my mind from
what’s happening to my splintering, shattered heart.
I stoop to shut my suitcase and the bag holding Christian’s gift
catches my eye, a model kit for a Blanik L23 glider, something for
him to build. Tears threaten. Oh no … happier times, when there
was hope of more. I take it out of the case, knowing that I need to
give it to him. Quickly, I rip a small piece of paper from my
notebook, hastily scribble a note for him, and leave it on top of the
box.
This reminded me of a happy time.
Thank you.
Ana
I gaze at myself in the mirror. A pale and haunted ghost stares
back at me. I scoop my hair into a bun and ignore how swollen my
eyelids are from the crying. My subconscious nods with approval.
Even she knows not to be snarky right now. I cannot believe that
my world is crumbling around me into a sterile pile of ashes, all my
hopes and dreams cruelly dashed. No, no, don’t think about it. Not
now, not yet. Taking a deep breath, I pick up my case, and after
placing the glider kit and my note on his pillow, I head for the great
room.
Christian is on the phone. He’s dressed in black jeans and a T-
shirt. His feet are bare.
“He said what?” he shouts, making me jump. “Well, he could
have told us the fucking truth. What’s his number? I need to call
him … Welch, this is a real fuckup.” He glances up and doesn’t take
his dark and brooding eyes o me. “Find her,” he snaps and presses
the o switch.
I walk over to the couch and collect my backpack, doing my best
to ignore him. I take the Mac out of it and walk back toward the
kitchen, placing it carefully on the breakfast bar, along with the
BlackBerry and the car key. When I turn to face him, he’s staring at
me, stupeed with horror.
“I need the money that Taylor got for my Beetle.” My voice is
clear and calm, devoid of emotion … extraordinary.
“Ana, I don’t want those things, they’re yours,” he says in
disbelief. “Take them.”
“No, Christian. I only accepted them under suerance—and I
don’t want them anymore.”
“Ana, be reasonable,” he scolds me, even now.
“I don’t want anything that will remind me of you. I just need the
money that Taylor got for my car.” My voice is quite monotone.
He gasps. “Are you really trying to wound me?”
“No.” I frown, staring at him. Of course not … I love you. “I’m
not. I’m trying to protect myself,” I whisper. Because you don’t
want me the way I want you.
“Please, Ana, take that stu.”
“Christian, I don’t want to ght—I just need the money.”
He narrows his eyes, but I’m no longer intimidated by him. Well,
only a little. I gaze impassively back, not blinking or backing down.
“Will you take a check?” he says acidly.
“Yes. I think you’re good for it.”
He doesn’t smile; he just turns on his heel and stalks into his
study. I take a last, lingering look around his apartment—at the art
on the walls—all abstracts, serene, cool … cold, even. Fitting, I think
absently. My eyes stray to the piano. Jeez—if I’d kept my mouth
shut, we’d have made love on the piano. No, fucked, we would
have fucked on the piano. Well, I would have made love. The
thought lies heavy and sad in my mind and what’s left of my heart.
He has never made love to me, has he? It’s always been fucking to
him.
Christian returns and hands me an envelope.
“Taylor got a good price. It’s a classic car. You can ask him. He’ll
take you home.” He nods in the direction over my shoulder. I turn,
and Taylor is standing in the doorway, wearing his suit, as
impeccable as ever.
“That’s ne. I can get myself home, thank you.”
I turn to stare at Christian, and I see the barely contained fury in
his eyes.
“Are you going to defy me at every turn?”
“Why change a habit of a lifetime?” I give him a small, apologetic
shrug.
He closes his eyes in frustration and runs his hand through his
hair.
“Please, Ana, let Taylor take you home.”
“I’ll get the car, Miss Steele,” Taylor announces authoritatively.
Christian nods at him, and when I glance around, Taylor has gone.
I turn back to face Christian. We are four feet apart. He steps
forward, and instinctively I step back. He stops, and the anguish in
his expression is palpable, his gray eyes burning.
“I don’t want you to go,” he murmurs, his voice full of longing.
“I can’t stay. I know what I want and you can’t give it to me, and
I can’t give you what you need.”
He takes another step forward, and I hold up my hands.
“Don’t, please.” I recoil from him. There’s no way I can tolerate
his touch now, it will slay me. “I can’t do this.”
Grabbing my suitcase and my backpack, I head for the foyer. He
follows me, keeping a careful distance. He presses the elevator
button, and the doors open. I climb in.
“Good-bye, Christian,” I murmur.
“Ana, good-bye,” he says softly, and he looks utterly, utterly
broken, a man in agonizing pain, reecting how I feel inside. I tear
my gaze away from him before I change my mind and try to
comfort him.
The elevator doors close and it whisks me down to the bowels of
the basement and to my own personal hell.
TAYLOR HOLDS THE DOOR open for me, and I climb into the back of the
car. I avoid eye contact. Embarrassment and shame wash over me.
I’m a complete failure. I had hoped to drag my Fifty Shades into the
light, but it’s proved a task beyond my meager abilities.
Desperately, I try to keep my emotions banked and at bay. As we
head out onto Fourth Avenue, I stare blankly out the window, and
the enormity of what I’ve done slowly washes over me. Shit—I’ve
left him. The only man I’ve ever loved. The only man I’ve ever slept
with. I gasp, as crippling pain slices through me, and the levees
burst. Tears course unbidden and unwelcome down my cheeks, and
I wipe them away hurriedly with my ngers, scrambling in my bag
for my sunglasses. As we pause at some trac light, Taylor holds
out a linen handkerchief for me. He says nothing and doesn’t look
in my direction, and I take it with gratitude.
“Thank you,” I mutter, and this small discreet act of kindness is
my undoing. I sit back in the luxurious leather seat and weep.
THE APARTMENT IS ACHINGLY empty and unfamiliar. I have not lived
here long enough for it to feel like home. I head straight to my
room, and there, hanging limply at the end of my bed, is a very sad,
deated helicopter balloon. Charlie Tango, looking and feeling
exactly like me. I grab it angrily o my bedrail, snapping the tie,
and hug it to me. Oh—what have I done?
I fall onto my bed, shoes and all, and howl. The pain is
indescribable … physical, mental … metaphysical … it is
everywhere, seeping into the marrow of my bones. Grief. This is
grief—and I’ve brought it on myself. Deep down, a nasty, unbidden
thought comes from my inner goddess, her lips contorted in a
snarl … the physical pain from the bite of a belt is nothing, nothing
compared to this devastation. I curl up, desperately clutching the
at foil balloon and Taylor’s handkerchief, and surrender myself to
my grief.