by E. L. James
To: Anastasia Steele
Dear Miss Steele,
I have arrived safely, and please accept my apologies for not letting you know. I don’t want to cause you any worry. It’s heartwarming to know that you care for me. I am thinking of you, too, and as ever looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
I sigh. Christian is back to formality.
* * *
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: The Situation
Date: June 2 2011 22:40 EST
To: Christian Grey
Dear Mr. Grey,
I think it is very evident that I care for you deeply. How could you doubt that?
I hope your “situation” is under control.
Your Ana x
P.S.: Are you going to tell me what I said in my sleep?
* * *
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Pleading the Fifth
Date: June 2 2011 19:45
To: Anastasia Steele
Dear Miss Steele,
I like very much that you care for me. The “situation” here is not yet resolved.
With regard to your P.S., the answer is no.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
* * *
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Pleading Insanity
Date: June 2 2011 22:48 EST
To: Christian Grey
I hope it was amusing. But you should know I cannot accept any responsibility for what comes out of my mouth when I am unconscious. In fact—you probably misheard me.
A man of your advanced years is surely a little deaf.
* * *
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Pleading Guilty
Date: June 2 2011 19:52
To: Anastasia Steele
Dear Miss Steele,
Sorry, could you speak up? I can’t hear you.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
* * *
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Pleading Insanity Again
Date: June 2 2011 22:54 EST
To: Christian Grey
You are driving me crazy.
* * *
From: Christian Grey
Subject: I Hope So …
Date: June 2 2011 19:59
To: Anastasia Steele
Dear Miss Steele,
I intend to do exactly that on Friday evening. Looking forward to it.
;)
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
* * *
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Grrrrrr
Date: June 2 2011 23:02 EST
To: Christian Grey
I am officially pissed at you.
Good night.
Miss A. R. Steele
* * *
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Wild Cat
Date: June 2 2011 20:05
To: Anastasia Steele
Are you growling at me, Miss Steele?
I possess a cat of my own for growlers.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
Cat of his own? I’ve never seen a cat in his apartment. No, I am not going to answer him. Oh, he can be so exasperating sometimes. Fifty shades of exasperating. I clamber into bed and lie glaring at the ceiling as my eyes adjust to the dark. I hear another ping from my computer. I am not going to look. No, definitely not. No, I am not going to look. Gah! Like the fool I am, I cannot resist the lure of Christian Grey’s words.
* * *
From: Christian Grey
Subject: What You Said in Your Sleep
Date: June 2 2011 20:20
To: Anastasia Steele
Anastasia,
I’d rather hear you say the words that you uttered in your sleep when you’re conscious, that’s why I won’t tell you. Go to sleep. You’ll need to be rested with what I have in mind for you tomorrow.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
Oh no … What have I said? It’s as bad as I think, I’m sure.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
* * *
My mother hugs me tightly.
“Follow your heart, darling, and please, please—try not to overthink things. Relax and enjoy yourself. You are so young, sweetheart. You have so much of life to experience yet, just let it happen. You deserve the best of everything.” She whispers in my ear, her heartfelt words comforting. She kisses my hair.
“Oh, Mom.” Hot, unwelcome tears prick my eyes as I cling to her.
“Darling, you know what they say. You have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince.”
I give her a lopsided, bittersweet smile.
“I think I’ve kissed a prince, Mom. I hope he doesn’t turn into a frog.”
She gives me her most endearing, motherly, absolute-unconditional-love smile, and I marvel at the love I feel for this woman as we hug again.
“Ana—they’re calling your flight,” Bob’s voice is anxious.
“Will you visit, Mom?”
“Of course, darling—soon. Love you.”
“Me, too.”
Her eyes are red with unshed tears as she releases me. I hate leaving her. I hug Bob and, turning, head to the gate—I do not have time for the first class lounge today. I will myself not to glance back. But I do … and Bob is holding my mom, and tears are streaming down her face. I can no longer hold mine back. I put my head down and proceed to the gate, keeping my eyes on the shiny white floor, blurred through my watery tears.
Once on board, in the luxury of first class, I curl up in my seat and try to compose myself. It is always painful to wrench myself away from Mom … she is scatty, disorganized, but newly insightful, and she loves me. Unconditional love—what every child deserves from its parents. I frown at my wayward thoughts and, pulling out my BlackBerry, stare at it despondently.
What does Christian know of love? Seems he didn’t get the unconditional love he was entitled to during his very early years. My heart twists, and my mother’s words waft like a zephyr through my mind: Yes, Ana. Hell, what do you need? A neon sign flashing on his forehead? She thinks Christian loves me, but then she’s my mother, of course she’d think that. She thinks I deserve the best of everything. I frown. It’s true, and in a moment of startling clarity, I see it. It’s very simple: I want his love. I need Christian Grey to love me. This is why I am so reticent about our relationship—because on some basic, fundamental level, I recognize within me a deep-seated compulsion to be loved and cherished.
And because of his fifty shades, I am holding myself back. The BDSM is a distraction from the real issue. The sex is amazing, he’s wealthy, he’s beautiful, but this is all meaningless without his love, and the real heart-fail is that I don’t know if he’s capable of love. He doesn’t even love himself. I recall his self-loathing, her love being the only form he found acceptable. Punished—whipped, beaten, whatever their relationship entailed—he feels undeserving of love. Why does he feel like that? How can he feel like that? His words haunt me: It’s very hard to grow up in a perfect family when you’re not perfect.
I close my eyes, imagining his pain, and I can’t begin to comprehend it. I shudder as I remember that I may have divulged too much. What have I confessed to Christian in my sleep? What secrets have I revealed?
I stare at the BlackBerry in the vague hope that it will give me some answers. Rather unsurprisingly, it is not very forthcoming. As we haven’t taken off yet, I decide to e-mail my Fifty Shades.
* * *
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Homeward Bound
Date: June 3 2011 12:53 EST
To: Christian Grey
Dear Mr. Grey,
I am once again ensconced in first class, for which I thank you. I am count
ing the minutes until I see you this evening and perhaps torturing the truth out of you about my nocturnal admissions.
Your Ana x
* * *
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Homeward Bound
Date: June 3 2011 09:58
To: Anastasia Steele
Anastasia, I look forward to seeing you.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
His response makes me frown. It sounds clipped and formal, not his usual witty, pithy style.
* * *
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Homeward Bound
Date: June 3 2011 13:01 EST
To: Christian Grey
Dearest Mr. Grey,
I hope everything is okay re “the situation.” The tone of your e-mail is worrying.
Ana x
* * *
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Homeward Bound
Date: June 3 2011 10:04
To: Anastasia Steele
Anastasia,
The situation could be better. Have you taken off yet? If so you should not be e-mailing. You are putting yourself at risk, in direct contravention of the rule regarding your personal safety. I meant what I said about punishments.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
Crap. Okay. Jeez. What is eating him? Perhaps “the situation”? Maybe Taylor’s gone AWOL, maybe he’s dropped a few million on the stock market—whatever the reason.
* * *
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Overreaction
Date: June 3 2011 13:06 EST
To: Christian Grey
Dear Mr. Grumpy,
The aircraft doors are still open. We are delayed but only by ten minutes. My welfare and that of the passengers around me is vouchsafed. You may stow your twitchy palm for now.
Miss Steele
* * *
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Apologies—Twitchy Palm Stowed
Date: June 3 2011 10:08
To: Anastasia Steele
I miss you and your smart mouth, Miss Steele.
I want you safely home.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
* * *
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Apology Accepted
Date: June 3 2011 13:10 EST
To: Christian Grey
They are shutting the doors. You won’t hear another peep from me, especially given your deafness.
Laters.
Ana x
I switch off the BlackBerry, unable to shake my anxiety. Something is up with Christian. Perhaps “the situation” is out of hand. I sit back, glancing up at the overhead bin where my bags are stowed. I managed this morning, with my mother’s help, to buy Christian a small gift to say thank you for first class and for the gliding. I smile at the memory of the soaring—that was something else. I don’t know yet if I’ll give my silly gift to him. He might think it’s childish—and if he’s in a strange mood, maybe not. I am both eager to return and apprehensive of what awaits me at my journey’s end. As I mentally flick through all the scenarios that could be “the situation,” I become aware that once again the only empty seat is beside me. I shake my head as the thought crosses my mind that Christian might have purchased the adjacent seat so that I couldn’t talk to anyone. I dismiss the idea as ridiculous—no one could be that controlling, that jealous, surely. I close my eyes as the plane taxis toward the runway.
I EMERGE INTO THE Sea-Tac arrivals terminal eight hours later to find Taylor waiting and holding up a sign that reads MISS A. STEELE. Honestly! But it’s good to see him.
“Hello, Taylor.”
“Miss Steele,” he greets me formally, but I see a hint of a smile in his sharp brown eyes. He looks his usual immaculate self—smart charcoal suit, white shirt, and charcoal tie.
“I do know what you look like, Taylor, you don’t need a sign, and I do wish you’d call me Ana.”
“Ana. Can I take your bags, please?”
“No, I can manage. Thank you.”
His lips tighten perceptibly.
“B-but, if you’d be more comfortable taking them,” I stammer.
“Thank you.” He grabs my backpack and my newly acquired wheelie case for the clothes my mother has bought me. “This way, ma’am.”
I sigh. He’s so polite. I remember, though I would like to erase it from my memory, that this man has bought me underwear. In fact—and the thought unsettles me—he’s the only man who’s ever bought me underwear. Even Ray’s never had to endure that hardship. We walk in silence to the black Audi SUV outside in the airport parking lot, and he holds the door open for me. I clamber in, wondering if wearing such a short skirt for the return to Seattle was a good idea. It was cool and welcome in Georgia. Here I feel exposed. Once Taylor has stowed my bags in the trunk, we set off for Escala.
The journey is slow, caught up in rush-hour traffic. Taylor keeps his eyes on the road ahead. Taciturn does not begin to describe him.
I can bear the silence no longer.
“How’s Christian, Taylor?”
“Mr. Grey is preoccupied, Miss Steele.”
Oh, this must be “the situation.” I am mining a seam of gold.
“Preoccupied?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I frown at Taylor, and he glances at me in the rearview mirror, our eyes meeting. He’s saying no more. Jeez, he can be as tight lipped as the control freak himself.
“Is he okay?”
“I believe so, ma’am.”
“Are you more comfortable calling me Miss Steele?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh, okay.”
Well, that curtails our conversation, and we continue in silence. I begin to think that Taylor’s recent slip, when he told me that Christian had been hell on wheels, was an anomaly. Perhaps he’s embarrassed about it, worried that he’s been disloyal. The silence is suffocating.
“Could you put some music on, please?”
“Certainly, ma’am. What would you like to hear?”
“Something soothing.”
I see a smile play on Taylor’s lips as our eyes meet briefly again in the mirror.
“Yes, ma’am.”
He pushes a few buttons on the steering wheel, and the gentle strains of Pachelbel’s Canon fills the space between us. Oh yes … this is what I need.
“Thank you.” I sit back as we drive slowly but steadily along Interstate 5 into Seattle.
TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER HE drops me outside the impressive façade that is the entrance to Escala.
“In you go, ma’am,” he says, holding the door open for me. “I’ll bring up your luggage.” His expression is soft, warm, avuncular even.
Jeez … Uncle Taylor, what a thought.
“Thank you for meeting me.”
“It’s a pleasure, Miss Steele.” He smiles, and I head into the building. The doorman nods and waves.
As I ride up to the thirtieth floor, a thousand butterflies stretch their wings and flutter erratically in my stomach. Why am I so nervous? And I know it’s because I have no idea what kind of mood Christian’s going to be in when I arrive. My inner goddess is hopeful for one type of mood; my subconscious, like me, is fraught with nerves.
The elevator doors open, and I’m in the foyer. It is so strange not to be met by Taylor. Of course, he’s parking the car. In the great room, Christian is on his BlackBerry, talking quietly as he stares through the glass doors at the early evening Seattle skyline. He’s wearing a gray suit with the jacket undone, and he’s running his hand through his hair. He’s agitated, tense even. Oh no—what’s wrong? Agitated or not, he’s still a fine sight. How can he look so … arresting?
“No trace … Okay … Yes.” He turns and sees me, and his whole demeanor changes. From tension to relief to something else: a look that calls directly to my inner go
ddess, a look of sensual carnality, his eyes scorching.
My mouth goes dry and desire blooms in my body … whoa.
“Keep me informed,” he snaps, and shuts off his phone as he strides purposefully toward me. I stand paralyzed as he closes the distance between us, devouring me with his eyes. Holy shit … something’s amiss—the strain in his jaw, the anxiety around his eyes. He shrugs out of his jacket, undoes his dark tie, and slings them both onto the couch en route to me. Then his arms are wrapped around me, and he’s pulling me to him, hard, fast, gripping my ponytail to tilt my head up, kissing me like his life depends on it. What the hell? He drags the hair tie painfully out of my hair, but I don’t care. There’s a desperate, primal quality to his kiss. He needs me, for whatever reason, at this point in time, and I have never felt so desired and coveted. It’s dark and sensual and alarming all at the same time. I kiss him back with equal fervor, my fingers twisting and fisting in his hair. Our tongues entwine, our passion and ardor erupting between us. He tastes divine, hot, sexy, and his scent—all body wash and Christian—is arousing. He drags his mouth away from mine, and he’s staring down at me, gripped by some unnamed emotion. “What’s wrong?” I breathe.
