Fifty Shades Trilogy Bundle: Fifty Shades of Grey; Fifty Shades Darker; Fifty Shades Freed

by E. L. James

  “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 briefly.

  “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 standoffish 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 flush. 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 find 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 difference 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 stifle 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 flick 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 finally I realize it’s the car. Christian seems oblivious, lost in thought.

  The traffic is light and we’re soon on Interstate 5 heading south, the wind sweeping over our heads. Bruce is singing about being on fire and his desire. How apt. I flush 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 flowers 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 flushes 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 reflect his glorious smile back at him.

  “My mother liked you,” he says dryly.

  “Really?” His words make me flush with pleasure.

  “Oh yes. She’s always thought I was gay.”

&nbs
p; 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 fifteen?” He smiles.

  “You remembered. No, none of the fifteen.”

  “Oh.”

  “You know, Anastasia, it’s been a weekend of firsts for me, too,” he says quietly.

  “It has?”

  “I’ve never slept with anyone, never had sex in my bed, never flown 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 flouncing 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 fifteen.”

  “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 flush.

  “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 … difficult. 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 briefly. 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 reflected in his eyes. This is fundamentally what I don’t grasp. Why me? Why not one of the fifteen? Oh no … Will that be me—a number? Sixteen of many?

  “What happened to the fifteen?” 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 find 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, flesh to flesh, it’s what is so unexpected from him, normal, inti
mate. 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 five in the evening. The lights are on—Kate is at home. Packing, no doubt, unless Elliot is still there. He switches off 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 fingers 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.