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

by E. L. James

  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 find 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 fingers.

  “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 fingers twist in his still-damp hair. Pushing my body flush 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 fluid movement, he clears all the plans and papers off his desk so that they scatter on the floor, sweeps me up in his arms, and lays me down across the short end of his desk so that my head is almost off 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 filling 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 fills 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 stiffening, 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 fingers 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 fly. 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 first 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 flush.

  “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 find me weird?” He tries to stifle 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 thoug
ht 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 office 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 first, thank you,” I mutter and take my blazing face quickly out of the room.

  In the shower, I try to figure out what’s up with Christian. He is the most complicated person I know, and I cannot understand his ever-changing moods. He seemed fine 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 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 confident 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 off 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 fleet. 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 offer. But I’d be happier taking a scheduled flight.”

  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 overstaffed.”

  “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 confided 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 fidgeting 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 first interview went well, but it was for a larger conglomerate with offices 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 chesterfield 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 flush 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 flight 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 field 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 off 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, floaty look as the receptionist. She could be in her late thirties, maybe in her forties. It’s so difficult 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 office, 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 flush 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.