by E. L. James
Anastasia Steele
Assistant to Jack Hyde, Editor, SIP
Jack returns after midday and tells me that New York is off for me, though he is still going and there’s nothing he can do to change senior management policy. He strides into his office, slamming the door, obviously furious. Why is he so angry?
Deep down, I know his intentions are less than honorable, but I am sure I can deal with him, and I wonder what Christian knows about Jack’s previous PAs. I park these thoughts and continue with some work, but resolve to try to make Christian change his mind, though the prospects are bleak.
At one o’clock, Jack pokes his head out of the office door.
“Ana, please could you go and get me some lunch?”
“Sure. What would you like?”
“Pastrami on rye, hold the mustard. I’ll give you the money when you’re back.”
“Anything to drink?”
“Coke, please. Thanks, Ana.” He heads back into his office as I reach for my purse.
Crap. I promised Christian I wouldn’t go out. I sigh. He’ll never know, and I’ll be quick.
Claire from Reception offers me her umbrella since it is still pouring with rain. As I head out of the front doors, I pull my jacket around me and take a furtive glance in both directions from beneath the overlarge golf umbrella. Nothing seems amiss. There’s no sign of Ghost Girl.
I march briskly, and I hope inconspicuously, down the block to the deli. However, the closer I get to the deli, the more I have a creepy sense that I am being watched, and I don’t know if it’s my heightened feeling of paranoia or a reality. Shit. I hope it’s not Leila with a gun.
It’s just your imagination, my subconscious snaps. Who the hell would want to shoot you?
Within fifteen minutes, I am back—safe and sound, but relieved. I think Christian’s extreme paranoia and his overprotective vigilance is beginning to get to me.
As I take Jack’s lunch in to him, he glances up from the phone.
“Ana, thanks. Since you’re not coming with me, I’m going to need you to work late. We need to get these briefs ready. Hope you don’t have plans.” He smiles up at me warmly, and I flush.
“No, that’s fine,” I say with a bright smile and a sinking heart. This is not going to go down well. Christian will freak, I’m sure.
As I head back to my desk I decide not to tell him immediately; otherwise he might have time to interfere in some way. I sit and eat the chicken salad sandwich Mrs. Jones made for me. It’s delicious. She makes a mean sandwich.
Of course, if I moved in with Christian, she would make lunch for me every weekday. The idea is unsettling. I have never had dreams of obscene wealth and all the trappings—only love. To find someone who loves me and doesn’t try to control my every move. The phone rings.
“Jack Hyde’s office—”
“You assured me you wouldn’t go out,” Christian interrupts me, his voice cold and hard.
My heart sinks for the millionth time this day. Shit. How the hell does he know?
“Jack sent me out for some lunch. I couldn’t say no. Are you having me watched?” My scalp prickles at the notion. No wonder I felt so paranoid—someone was watching me. The thought makes me angry.
“This is why I didn’t want you going back to work,” Christian snaps.
“Christian, please. You’re being”—So Fifty—“so suffocating.”
“Suffocating?” he whispers, surprised.
“Yes. You have to stop this. I’ll talk to you this evening. Unfortunately I have to work late because I can’t go to New York.”
“Anastasia, I don’t want to suffocate you,” he says quietly, appalled.
“Well, you are. I have work to do. I’ll talk to you later.” I hang up, feeling drained and vaguely depressed.
After our wonderful weekend, the reality is hitting home. I have never felt more like running. Running to some quiet retreat so I can think about this man, about how he is, and about how to deal with him. On one level, I know he’s broken—I can see that clearly now—and it’s both heartbreaking and exhausting. From the small pieces of precious information that he’s given me about his life, I understand why. An unloved child; a hideously abusive environment; a mother who couldn’t protect him, whom he couldn’t protect, and who died in front of him.
I shudder. My poor Fifty. I am his, but not to be kept in some gilded cage. How am I going to make him see this?
With a heavy heart, I drag one of the manuscripts Jack wants me to summarize into my lap and continue to read. I can think of no easy solution to Christian’s fucked-up control issues. I will just have to talk to him later, face-to-face.
Half an hour later, Jack e-mails me a document that I need to tidy up, polish, and have ready to be printed in time for his conference. It will take me not just the rest of the afternoon but well into the evening, too. I set to work.
When I look up, it’s after seven and the office is deserted, though the light in Jack’s office is still on. I hadn’t noticed everyone leaving, but I am nearly finished. I e-mail the document back to Jack for his approval and check my inbox. There’s nothing new from Christian, so I quickly glance at my BlackBerry, and it startles me by buzzing—it’s Christian.
“Hi,” I murmur.
“Hi, when will you be finished?”
“By seven thirty, I think.”
“I’ll meet you outside.”
“Okay.”
He sounds quiet, nervous even. Why? Wary of my reaction?
“I’m still mad at you, but that’s all,” I whisper. “We have a lot to talk about.”
“I know. See you at seven thirty.”
Jack comes out of his office.
“I have to go. See you later.” I hang up.
I look up at Jack as he strolls casually toward me.
“I just need a couple of tweaks. I’ve e-mailed the brief back to you.”
He leans over me while I retrieve the document, rather close—uncomfortably close. His arm brushes mine. Accidentally? I flinch, but he pretends not to notice. His other arm rests on the back of my chair, touching my back. I sit up so I’m not leaning against the backrest.
“Pages sixteen and twenty-three, and that should be it,” he murmurs, his mouth inches from my ear.
My skin crawls at his proximity, but I choose to ignore it. Opening the document, I shakily start on the changes. He’s still leaning over me, and all my senses are hyperaware. It’s distracting and awkward, and inside I am screaming, Back off!
“Once this is done, it’ll be good to go to print. You can organize that tomorrow. Thank you for staying late and doing this, Ana.” His voice is smooth, gentle, like he’s talking to a wounded animal. My stomach twists.
“I think the least I could do is reward you with a quick drink. You deserve one.” He tucks a strand of my hair that’s come loose from my hair tie behind my ear and gently caresses the lobe.
I cringe, gritting my teeth, and jerk my head away. Shit! Christian was right. Don’t touch me.
“Actually, I can’t this evening.” Or any other evening, Jack.
“Just a quick one?” he coaxes.
“No, I can’t. But thank you.”
Jack sits on the end of my desk and frowns. Alarm bells sound loudly in my head. I am on my own in the office. I cannot leave. I glance nervously at the clock. Another five minutes before Christian is due.
“Ana, I think we make a great team. I’m sorry that I couldn’t pull off this New York trip. It won’t be the same without you.”
I’m sure it won’t. I smile weakly up at him, because I can’t think of what to say. And for the first time all day, I feel the tiniest hint of relief that I am not going.
“So, did you have a good weekend?” he asks smoothly.
“Yes, thanks.” Where is he going with this?
“See your boyfriend?”
“Yes.”
“What does he do?”
Owns your ass … “He’s in business.”<
br />
“That’s interesting. What kind of business?”
“Oh, he has his fingers in all sorts of pies.”
Jack cocks his head to one side as he leans in toward me, invading my personal space—again.
“You’re being very coy, Ana.”
“Well, he’s in telecommunications, manufacturing, and agriculture.”
Jack raises his eyebrows. “So many things. Who does he work for?”
“He works for himself. If you’re happy with the document, I’d like to go, if that’s okay?”
He leans back. My personal space is safe again.
“Of course. Sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you,” he says disingenuously.
“What time does the building close?”
“Security is here until eleven.”
“Good.” I smile, and my subconscious flops down in her armchair, relieved to know that we are not alone in the building. Switching off my computer, I grab my purse and stand up, ready to leave.
“You like him then? Your boyfriend?”
“I love him,” I answer, looking Jack squarely in the eye.
“I see.” Jack frowns and he stands up from my desk. “What’s his surname?”
I flush.
“Grey. Christian Grey,” I mumble.
Jack’s mouth drops open. “Seattle’s richest bachelor? That Christian Grey?”
“Yes. The same.” Yes, that Christian Grey, your future boss who will have you for breakfast if you invade my personal space again.
“I thought he looked familiar,” Jack says darkly and his brow creases again. “Well, he’s a lucky man.”
I blink at him. What do I say to that?
“Have a good evening, Ana.” Jack smiles, but the smile doesn’t touch his eyes, and he walks stiffly back into his office without a backward glance.
I let out a long sigh of relief. Well, that problem might be solved. Fifty works his magic again. Just his name is my talisman, and it has this man retreating with his tail between his legs. I allow myself a small victorious smile. You see, Christian? Even your name protects me—you didn’t have to go to all that trouble of clamping down on expenses. I tidy my desk and check my watch. Christian should be outside.
The Audi is parked by the sidewalk, and Taylor leaps out to open the rear passenger door. I have never been so pleased to see him, and I scramble into the car out of the rain.
Christian is in the rear seat, gazing at me, his eyes wide and wary. He’s bracing himself for my anger, his jaw tight and tense.
“Hi,” I murmur.
“Hi,” he replies cautiously. He reaches over and grasps my hand, squeezing it tightly, and my heart thaws a little. I’m so confused. I haven’t even worked out what I need to say to him.
“Are you still mad?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I murmur. He raises my hand and lightly grazes my knuckles with soft butterfly kisses.
“It’s been a shitty day,” he says.
“Yes, it has.” But for the first time since he left for work this morning, I begin to relax. Just being in his company is a soothing balm; all the shit from Jack, and the snarky e-mails to and fro, and the nuisance that is Elena fade into the background. It’s just me and my control freak in the back of the car.
“It’s better now that you’re here,” he murmurs. We sit in silence as Taylor weaves through the evening traffic, both of us brooding and contemplative; but I feel Christian slowly unwind beside me as he, too, relaxes, gently running his thumb across my knuckles in a soft, soothing rhythm.
Taylor drops us outside the apartment building, and we both duck inside, out of the rain. Christian clasps my hand as we wait for the elevator, his eyes scanning the front of the building.
“I take it you haven’t found Leila yet.”
“No. Welch is still looking for her,” he mutters despondently.
The elevator arrives and in we step. Christian glances down at me, his eyes unreadable. Oh, he just looks glorious—tousled hair, white shirt, dark suit. And suddenly it’s there, from nowhere, that feeling. Oh my—the longing, the lust, the electricity. If it were visible, it would be an intense blue aura around and between us; it’s so strong. His lips part as he gazes at me.
“Do you feel it?” he breathes.
“Yes.”
“Oh, Ana.” He groans and he grabs me, his arms snaking around me, one hand at the nape of my neck, tipping my head back as his lips find mine. My fingers are in his hair and caressing his cheek as he pushes me back against the elevator wall.
“I hate arguing with you,” he breathes against my mouth, and there’s a desperate, passionate quality to his kiss that mirrors mine. Desire explodes in my body, all the tension of the day seeking an outlet, straining against him, seeking more. We’re all tongues and breathing and hands and touch and sweet, sweet sensation. His hand is on my hip, and abruptly he’s pulling up my skirt, his fingers stroking my thighs.
“Sweet Jesus, you’re wearing stockings.” He moans in appreciative awe as his thumb caresses the flesh above my stocking line. “I want to see this,” he breathes, and he pulls my skirt right up, exposing the tops of my thighs.
Stepping back, he reaches over to press the “stop” button, and the elevator coasts smoothly to a halt between the twenty-second and twenty-third floors. His eyes are dark, lips parted, and he’s breathing as hard as am I. We gaze at each other, not touching. I am grateful for the wall against my back, holding me up while I bask in this beautiful man’s sensual, carnal appraisal.
“Take your hair down,” he orders, his voice husky. I reach up and undo the tie, releasing my hair so it tumbles in a thick cloud around my shoulders to my breasts. “Undo the top two buttons of your shirt,” he whispers, his eyes wilder now.
He makes me feel so wanton. I reach up and undo each button, achingly, slowly, so that the tops of my breasts are tantalizingly revealed.
He swallows. “Do you have any idea how alluring you look right now?”
Very deliberately, I bite my lip and shake my head. He closes his eyes briefly, and when he opens them again, they are blazing. He steps forward and places his hands on the elevator walls on either side of my face. He’s as close as he can be without touching me.
I tip my face up to meet his gaze, and he leans down and runs his nose against mine, so it’s the only contact between us. I am so hot in the confines of this elevator with him. I want him—now.
“I think you do, Miss Steele. I think you like to drive me wild.”
“Do I drive you wild?” I whisper.
“In all things, Anastasia. You are a siren, a goddess.” And he reaches for me, grasping my leg above my knee and hitching it around his waist, so that I am standing on one leg, leaning into him. I feel him against me, feel him hard and wanting above the apex of my thighs as he runs his lips down my throat. I moan and wrap my arms around his neck.
“I’m going to take you now,” he breathes and I arch my back in response, pressing myself against him, eager for the friction. He groans deep and low in the back of his throat and boosts me higher as he undoes his fly.
“Hold tight, baby,” he murmurs, and magically produces a foil packet that he holds in front of my mouth. I take it between my teeth, and he tugs, so that between us, we rip it open.
“Good girl.” He steps back a fraction as he slides on the condom. “God, I can’t wait for the next six days,” he growls and gazes down at me through hooded eyes. “I do hope you’re not overly fond of these panties.” He tears through them with his adept fingers, and they disintegrate in his hands. My blood is pounding through my veins. I am panting with need.
His words are intoxicating, all my angst from the day forgotten. It’s just him and me, doing what we do best. Without taking his eyes off mine, he sinks slowly into me. My body bows and I tilt my head back, closing my eyes, relishing the feel of him inside me. He pulls back and then moves into me again, so slow, so sweet. I groan.
“You’re mine, Anastasia,” he murmurs aga
inst my throat.
“Yes. Yours. When will you accept that?” I pant. He groans and starts to move, really move. And I surrender myself to his relentless rhythm, savoring each push and pull, his ragged breathing, his need for me, reflecting mine.
It makes me feel powerful, strong, desired, and loved—loved by this captivating, complicated man, whom I love in return with all my heart. He pushes harder and harder, his breathing ragged, losing himself in me as I lose myself in him.
“Oh, baby,” Christian moans, his teeth grazing my jaw, and I come hard around him. He stills, clutches me, and follows suit, whispering my name.
NOW THAT CHRISTIAN IS spent, calm and kissing me gently, his breathing eases. He holds me upright against the elevator wall, our foreheads pressed together, and my body is like jelly, weak but gratifyingly sated from my climax.
“Oh, Ana,” he murmurs. “I need you so much.” He kisses my forehead.
“And I you, Christian.”
Releasing me, he straightens my skirt and does up the two buttons on my shirt, then punches the combination into the keypad that starts the elevator again. It rises with a jolt so that I reach out and clasp his arms.
“Taylor will be wondering where we are.” He grins lasciviously at me.
Oh, crap. I drag my fingers through my hair in a vain attempt to combat the just-fucked look, then give up and fasten it in a ponytail.
“You’ll do.” Christian smirks as he does up his fly and puts the condom in his pants pocket.
Once more he looks the embodiment of an American entrepreneur, and since his hair has the just-fucked look most of the time, there’s very little difference. Except now he’s smiling, relaxed, his eyes crinkling with boyish charm. Are all men this easily placated?
Taylor is waiting when the doors open.
“Problem with the elevator,” Christian murmurs as we both step out, and I cannot look either of them in the face. I scurry through the double doors to Christian’s bedroom in search of some fresh underwear.
WHEN I RETURN, CHRISTIAN has removed his jacket and is sitting at the breakfast bar chatting with Mrs. Jones. She smiles kindly at me as she puts out two plates of hot food for us. Mmm, it smells delicious—coq au vin if I am not mistaken. I am famished.
