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

by E. L. James

  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 off 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 fifty-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 effort 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 briefly 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 fingers 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 fingers 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 flush.

  “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 affecting 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 fifteen?”

  “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 fine-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 floor. 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 fine,” 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 fishes into his inside jacket pocket and pulls out a piece of paper. My e-mail.

  “Clause 2. Agreed. This is for the benefit 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 first 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 first-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 fleshiness … 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 first 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 affect 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 off 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 fine 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 stuff 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 fish,” 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 h
is 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 selfish. 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.”