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

by E. L. James

  “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 flowery, 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 flowery at all,” I grumble playfully.

  He grins and gently lifts me off 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 waffle 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 briefly 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 first time meeting them, too—at least she’ll be there for support. I roll my shoulders. They’re stiff. 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 flush 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 flushed, 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 flannel pants that I love, the ones that hang in that unbelievably sexy way off 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 fine, Miss Steele.”

  He is so waiting for me to say something.

  “Frank. I never figured 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 fingertips 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 off. Boy, can he dance. We cover the floor, from the window to the kitchen and back again, whirling and turning in time to the music. And he makes it so effortless 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?
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  I peek up at him in the elevator. He’s enjoying a private joke, a trace of a smile flirting 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 floor. 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 confirmed. 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 reflexively—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 different 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 effective at keeping you in your place.”

  I flush 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 reflects my introspective mood, closing in, suffocating.

  I glance briefly 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 flush. 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 affection 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 floors and antique rugs with a sweeping staircase to the second floor.

  “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 flutes. Kate bounces up to embrace me, and Mia finally 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 affection—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 fingers 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 flush 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-finally-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 finished 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 flutes filled with pale pink prosecco.