by E. L. James
“You were adopted. How far do you think that’s shaped the way you are?”
What the fuck does this have to do with the price of oil? I scowl at her. What a ridiculous question. If I’d stayed with the crack whore, I’d probably be dead. I blow her off with a non-answer, trying to keep my voice level, but she pushes me, demanding to know my how old I was when I was adopted. Shut her down, Grey!
“That’s a matter of public record, Miss Steele.” My voice is arctic. She should know this shit. Now she looks contrite. Good.
“You’ve had to sacrifice a family life for your work.”
“That’s not a question,” I snap.
She blushes again and bites down on that damned lip. But she has the grace to apologize.
“Have you had to sacrifice a family life for your work?”
What do I want with a fucking family?
“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?”
What the fuck! I cannot believe she’s said that out loud! The unspoken question that my own family dares not ask, much to my amusement. How dare she! I have to fight down the urge to drag her out of her seat, bend her across my knee, and spank the living shit out of her, then fuck her over my desk with her hands tied tightly behind her back. That would answer her question. How frustrating is this female? I take a deep calming breath. To my vindictive delight, she appears to be acutely embarrassed by her own question.
“No, Anastasia, I’m not.” I raise my eyebrows, but keep my expression impassive. Anastasia. It is a lovely name. I like the way my tongue rolls around it.
“I apologize. It’s um . . . written here.” Nervously, she tucks her hair behind her ear.
She doesn’t know her own questions? Perhaps they’re not hers. I ask her, and she pales. Fuck, she really is very attractive, in an understated sort of way. I would even go so far as to say she is beautiful.
“Er . . . no. Kate—Miss Kavanagh—she compiled the questions.”
“Are you colleagues on the student paper?”
“No, she’s my roommate.”
No wonder she is all over the place. I scratch my chin, debating whether to give her a really, really hard time.
“Did you volunteer to do this interview?” I ask, and I’m rewarded with her submissive look: eyes large, nervous about my reaction. I like the effect I have on her.
“I was drafted. She’s not well,” she says softly.
“That explains a great deal.”
There’s a knock at the door, and Andrea appears. “Mr. Grey, forgive me for interrupting, but your next meeting is in two minutes.”
“We’re not finished here, Andrea. Please cancel my next meeting.”
Andrea hesitates, gaping at me. I stare at her. Out! Now! I’m busy with Little Miss Steele here. Andrea blushes scarlet, but recovers quickly.
“Very well, Mr. Grey,” she says, and turning on her heel, she leaves us.
I turn my attention back to the intriguing, frustrating creature on my couch. “Where were we, Miss Steele?”
“Please don’t let me keep you from anything.”
Oh no, baby. It’s my turn now. I want to know if there are any secrets to uncover behind those beautiful eyes.
“I want to know about you. I think that’s only fair.” As I lean back and press my fingers to my lips, her eyes flick to my mouth and she swallows. Oh, yes—the usual effect. And it is gratifying to know she isn’t completely oblivious to my charms.
“There’s not much to know,” she says, her blush returning. I’m intimidating her. Good.
“What are your plans after you graduate?”
She shrugs. “I haven’t made any plans, Mr. Grey. I just need to get through my final exams.”
“We run an excellent internship program here.” Fuck. What possessed me to say that? I’m breaking a golden rule—never, ever fuck the staff. But Grey, you’re not fucking this girl. She looks surprised, and her teeth sink into that lip again. Why is that so arousing?
“Oh. I’ll bear that in mind,” she mumbles. Then as an afterthought she says, “Though I’m not sure I’d fit in here.”
Why the hell not? What’s wrong with my company?
“Why do you say that?” I ask.
“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“Not to me.” I’m confounded by her response.
She’s flustered again as she reaches for the mini-disc recorder. Shit, she’s going. Mentally I run through my schedule for that afternoon—there is nothing that won’t keep.
“Would you like me to show you around?”
“I’m sure you’re far too busy, Mr. Grey, and I do have a long drive.”“You’re driving back to WSU in Vancouver?” I glance out the window. It’s one hell of a drive, and it’s raining. Shit. She shouldn’t be driving in this weather, but I can’t forbid her. The thought irritates me. “Well, you’d better drive carefully.” My voice is sterner than I intend.
She fumbles with the mini-disc. She wants out of my office, and for some reason I can’t explain, I don’t want her to go.
“Did you get everything you need?” I add in a transparent effort to prolong her stay.
“Yes, sir,” she says quietly.
Her response floors me—the way those words sound, coming out of that smart mouth—and briefly I imagine that mouth at my beck and call.
“Thank you for the interview, Mr. Grey.”
“The pleasure’s been all mine,” I respond–truthfully, because I haven’t been this fascinated by anyone in a long while. The thought is unsettling.
She stands and I extend my hand, eager to touch her.
“Until we meet again, Miss Steele.” My voice is low as she places her small hand in mine. Yes, I want to flog and fuck this girl in my playroom. Have her bound and wanting . . . needing me, trusting me. I swallow. It ain’t going to happen, Grey.
“Mr. Grey.” She nods and withdraws her hand quickly . . . too quickly.
Shit, I can’t let her go like this. It’s obvious she is desperate to leave. Irritation and inspiration hit me simultaneously as I see her out.
“Just ensuring you make it through the door, Miss Steele.”
She blushes on cue, her delicious shade of pink.
“That’s very considerate, Mr. Grey,” she snaps.
Miss Steele has teeth! I grin behind her as she exits, and I follow in her wake. Both Andrea and Olivia look up in shock. Yeah, yeah. I’m just seeing the girl out.
“Did you have a coat?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I scowl at simpering Olivia, who immediately leaps up to retrieve a navy coat. Taking it, I glare at her to sit down. Christ, Olivia is annoying—mooning over me all the time.
Hmm. The coat is from Walmart. Miss Anastasia Steele should be better dressed. I hold it up for her, and as I pull it over her slim shoulders, I touch the skin at the base of her neck. She stills at the contact and pales. Yes! She is affected by me. The knowledge is immensely pleasing. Strolling over to the elevator, I press the call button while she stands fidgeting beside me.
Oh, I could so stop your fidgeting, baby.
The doors open and she scurries in then turns to face me.
“Anastasia,” I murmur, saying good-bye.
“Christian,” she whispers. And the elevator doors close, leaving my name hanging in the air, sounding odd, unfamiliar, but sexy as hell.
Well, fuck me. What was that?
I need to know more about this girl. “Andrea,” I snap as I stalk back into my office. “Get me Welch on the line, now.”
As I sit at my desk and wait for the call, I look at the paintings on the wall of my office, and Miss Steele’s words drift back to me. “Raising the ordinary to extraordinary.” She could so easily have been describing herself.
My phone buzzes.
“I have Mr. Welch on the line for you.”
“Put him thr
ough.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Welch, I need a background check.”
Saturday, May 14, 2011
I pore over the executive summary for the hundredth time since I received it two days ago, looking for some insight into the enigmatic Miss Anastasia Rose Steele. I cannot get the damned woman out of my mind, and it’s seriously beginning to piss me off. This past week, during particularly dull meetings, I’ve found myself replaying the interview in my head. Her fumbling fingers on the recorder, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the lip biting. Yes. The fucking lip biting gets me every time.
And now, here I am, parked outside Clayton’s, the modest hardware store on the outskirts of Portland where she works.
You’re a fool, Grey. Why are you here?
I knew it would lead to this. All week . . . I knew I’d have to see her again. I’d known it since she uttered my name in the elevator and disappeared into the depths of my building. I’d tried to resist. I’d waited five days, five fucking days to see if I’d forget about her. And I don’t do waiting. I hate waiting . . . for anything. I’ve never actively pursued a woman before. The women I’ve had understood what I expected of them. My fear now is that Miss Steele is just too young and that she won’t be interested in what I have to offer . . . will she? Will she even make a good submissive? I shake my head. There’s only one way to find out . . . so here I am, a fucking ass, sitting in a suburban parking lot in a dreary part of Portland.
Her background check has produced nothing remarkable—except the last fact, which has been at the forefront of my mind. It’s the reason I’m here. Why no boyfriend, Miss Steele? Sexual orientation unknown—perhaps she’s gay. I snort, thinking that unlikely. I recall the question she asked during the interview, her acute embarrassment, the way her skin flushed a pale rose . . . Shit. I’ve been suffering from these ludicrous thoughts since I met her.
That’s why you’re here.
I’m itching to see her again—those blue eyes have haunted me, even in my dreams. I haven’t mentioned her to Flynn, and I’m glad because I’m now behaving like a stalker. Perhaps I should let him know. I roll my eyes—I don’t want him hounding me about his latest solution-based shit. I just need a distraction . . . and right now the only distraction I want is working as a salesclerk in a hardware store.
You’ve come all this way. Let’s see if little Miss Steele is as appealing as you remember. Showtime, Grey. I climb out of the car and stroll across the lot to the front door. A bell chimes a flat electronic note as I walk in.
The store is much bigger than it looks from the outside, and although it is almost lunchtime the place is quiet, for a Saturday. There are aisles and aisles of the usual crap you’d expect. I’d forgotten the possibilities that a hardware store could present to someone like me. I mainly shop online for my needs, but while I’m here, maybe I’ll stock up on a few items . . . Velcro, split rings—Yeah. I’ll find the delectable Miss Steele and have some fun.
It takes me all of three seconds to spot her. She’s hunched over the counter, staring intently at a computer screen and picking at her lunch—a bagel. Unthinking, she wipes a crumb from the corner of her lips and into her mouth and sucks on her finger. My cock twitches in response. Fuck! What am I, fourteen? My reaction is fucking irritating. Maybe this adolescent response will stop if I fetter, fuck, and flog her . . . and not necessarily in that order. Yeah. That’s what I need.
She is thoroughly absorbed in her task, and it gives me an opportunity to study her. Salacious thoughts aside, she is attractive, seriously attractive. I’ve remembered her well.
She glances up and freezes, pinning me with intelligent, discerning eyes—the bluest of blue that seem to see right through me. It’s as unnerving as the first time I met her. She just stares, shocked I think, and I don’t know if this is a good response or a bad response.
“Miss Steele. What a pleasant surprise.”
“Mr. Grey,” she whispers, breathy and flustered. Ah . . . a good response.
“I was in the area. I need to stock up on a few things. It’s a pleasure to see you again, Miss Steele.” A real pleasure. She’s dressed in tight T-shirt and jeans, not the shapeless shit she was wearing earlier this week. She’s all long legs, small waist, and perfect tits. She continues to gape, and I have to resist the urge to reach out and tip her chin up to close her mouth. I’ve flown from Seattle just to see you, and the way you look right now, it was worth the journey.
“Ana. My name’s Ana. What can I help you with, Mr. Grey?” She takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders like she did in the interview, and gives me a fake smile that I’m sure she reserves for customers.
Game on, Miss Steele.
“There are a few items I need. To start with, I’d like some cable ties.”
Her lips part as she inhales sharply.
You’d be amazed what I can do with a few cable ties, Miss Steele.
“We stock various lengths. Shall I show you?”
“Please. Lead the way, Miss Steele.”
She steps out from behind the counter and gestures toward one of the aisles. She’s wearing chucks. Idly I wonder what she’d look like in skyscraper heels. Laboutins . . . nothing but Laboutins.
“They’re in with the electrical goods, aisle eight.” Her voice wavers and she blushes . . . again.
She is affected by me. Hope blooms in my chest. Not gay then. I smirk.
“After you,” I murmur, holding my hand out for her to lead the way. Letting her walk ahead gives me the space and time to admire her fantastic ass. She really is the whole package: sweet, polite, and beautiful with all the physical attributes I value in a submissive. But the million-dollar question is, could she be a submissive? She probably knows nothing of the lifestyle—my lifestyle—but I very much want to introduce her to it. You are getting way ahead of yourself on this deal, Grey.
“Are you in Portland on business?” she asks, interrupting my thoughts. Her voice is high, trying to feign disinterest. It makes me want to laugh, which is refreshing. Women rarely make me laugh.
“I was visiting the WSU farming division based in Vancouver.” I lie. Actually I’m here to see you, Miss Steele.
She flushes, and I feel like a shit.
“I’m currently funding some research there in crop rotation and soil science.” That, at least, is true.
“All part of your feed-the-world plan?” Her lips shift to a half-smile.
“Something like that.” I mutter. Is she laughing at me? Oh I’d love to put a stop to that if she is. But how to start? Maybe with dinner, rather than the usual interview . . . now that would be novel; taking a prospect out to dinner.
We arrive at the cable ties, which are arranged in an assortment of lengths and colors. Absentmindedly my fingers trace over the packets. I could just ask her out for dinner. Like on a date? Would she come? When I glance at her she’s examining her knotted fingers. She can’t look at me . . . this is promising. I select the longer ties. They are more flexible after all—they can accommodate two ankles and two wrists at once.
“These will do,” I murmur, and she blushes, again.
“Is there anything else?” she says quickly—either she’s being super attentive or she wants to get me out of the store, I don’t know which.
“I’d like some masking tape.”
“Are you redecorating?”
I suppress my snort. “No, not redecorating.” I haven’t held a paintbrush in a long time. The thought makes me smile, I have people to do all that shit.
“This way,” she murmurs, looking chagrined. “Masking tape is in the decorating aisle.”
Come on Grey. You don’t have long. Engage her in some conversation. “Have you worked here long?” Of course, I already know the answer. Unlike some people, I do my research. She blushes once more—Christ, this girl is shy. I don’t have a hope in hell. She turns quickly and walks down the aisle toward the section labeled DECORATING. I follow her eagerly. What am I, a fuc
king puppy?
“Four years,” she mumbles as we reach the masking tape. She bends down and grasps two rolls, each a different width.
“I’ll take that one,” I say. The wider tape is much more effective as a gag. As she passes it to me, the tips of our fingers touch, briefly. It resonates in my groin. Fuck!
She pales. “Anything else?” Her voice is soft and husky.
Christ, I’m having the same effect on her that she has on me. Maybe . . .
“Some rope, I think.”
“This way.” She quickly scoots up the aisle, giving me another chance to appreciate her fine ass.
“What sort were you after? We have synthetic and natural filament rope . . . twine . . . cable cord . . .”
Shit—stop. I groan inwardly, trying to chase away the image of her suspended from the ceiling in my playroom.
“I’ll take five yards of the natural filament rope, please.” It’s coarser and chafes more if you struggle against it . . . my rope of choice.
A tremor runs through her fingers, but she efficiently measures out five yards. Pulling a utility knife from her right pocket, she cuts the rope in one swift gesture, coils it neatly, and ties it off with a slipknot. Impressive.
“Were you a Girl Scout?”
“Organized group activities aren’t really my thing, Mr. Grey.”
“What is your thing, Anastasia?” I catch her gaze, and her irises dilate as I stare. Yes!
“Books,” she whispers.
“What kind of books?”
“Oh, you know. The usual. The classics. British literature, mainly.”
British literature? Bronte and Austen, I bet. All those romantic hearts and flowers types. Fuck. That’s not good.
“Anything else you need?”
“I don’t know. What else would you recommend?” I want to see her reaction.
“For a do-it-yourselfer?” she asks, surprised.
