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

by E. L. James

  I gaze back at the room again. Miss Olga Kelly is on the far side, hovering by the entrance. She’s the Realtor, of course. I notice the room is huge and double height, a little like the great room at Escala. There’s a balcony above—that must be the landing on the second floor. There’s a huge fireplace and a whole line of French doors opening onto the terrace. It has an old-world charm.

  “Can we look around the house?”

  He blinks at me. “Sure.” He shrugs, puzzled.

  Miss Kelly’s face lights up like Christmas when we head back in. She’s delighted to take us on a tour and gives us the spiel.

  The house is enormous: twelve thousand square feet on six acres of land. As well as the main living room, there’s the eat-in—no, banquet-in—kitchen with family room attached—family!—a music room, a library, a study and, much to my amazement, an indoor pool and exercise suite with sauna and steam room attached. Downstairs in the basement there’s a cinema—jeez—and game room. Hmm … what sort of games could we play in here?

  Miss Kelly points out all sorts of features, but basically the house is beautiful and was obviously at one time a happy family home. It’s a little shabby now, but nothing that some TLC couldn’t cure.

  As we follow Miss Kelly up the magnificent main stairs to the second floor, I can hardly contain my excitement … this house has everything I could ever wish for in a home.

  “Couldn’t you make the existing house more ecological and self-sustaining?”

  Christian blinks at me, nonplussed. “I’d have to ask Elliot. He’s the expert in all this.”

  Miss Kelly leads us into the master suite, where full-height windows open onto a balcony, and the view is still spectacular. I could sit in bed and gaze out all day, watching the sailing boats and the changing weather.

  There are five additional bedrooms on this floor. Kids! I push the thought hastily to one side. I have too much to process already. Miss Kelly is busily suggesting to Christian how the grounds could accommodate riding stables and a paddock. Horses! Terrifying images of my few riding lessons flash through my mind, but Christian doesn’t appear to be listening.

  “The paddock would be where the meadow is now?” I ask.

  “Yes,” Miss Kelly says brightly.

  To me the meadow looks like somewhere to lie in the long grass and have picnics, not for some four-legged fiend of Satan to roam.

  Back in the main room, Miss Kelly discreetly disappears, and Christian leads me out once more onto the terrace. The sun has set and lights from the towns on the Olympic peninsula are twinkling on the far side of the Sound.

  Christian pulls me into his arms and tips my chin up with his index finger, staring intently down at me.

  “Lot to take in?” he asks, his expression unreadable.

  I nod.

  “I wanted to check that you liked it before I bought it.”

  “The view?”

  He nods.

  “I love the view, and I like the house that’s here.”

  “You do?”

  I smile shyly. “Christian, you had me at the meadow.”

  His lips part as he inhales sharply, then his face transforms with a grin, and his hands are suddenly thrusting into my hair and his mouth is on mine.

  BACK IN THE CAR as we head for Seattle, Christian’s mood has lifted considerably.

  “So, you’re going to buy it?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll put Escala on the market?”

  He frowns. “Why would I do that?”

  “To pay for …” My voice trails off—of course. I flush.

  He smirks at me. “Trust me, I can afford it.”

  “Do you like being rich?”

  “Yes. Show me someone who doesn’t,” he says darkly.

  Okay, get off that subject quickly.

  “Anastasia, you’re going to have to learn to be rich, too, if you say yes,” he says softly.

  “Wealth isn’t something I’ve ever aspired to, Christian.” I frown.

  “I know. I love that about you. But then again, you’ve never been hungry,” he says simply. His words are sobering.

  “Where are we going?” I ask brightly, changing the subject.

  “To celebrate.” Christian relaxes.

  Oh! “Celebrate what, the house?”

  “Have you forgotten already? Your acting editor role.”

  “Oh yes.” I grin. Unbelievably, I had forgotten.

  “Where?”

  “Up high at my club.”

  “Your club?”

  “Yes. One of them.”

  THE MILE HIGH CLUB is on the seventy-sixth floor of Columbia Tower, higher even than Christian’s apartment. It’s very trendy and has the most head-spinning views over Seattle.

  “Cristal, ma’am?” Christian hands me a glass of chilled champagne as I sit perched on a barstool.

  “Why, thank you, Sir.” I stress the last word flirtatiously, batting my eyelashes at him deliberately.

  He gazes at me and his face darkens. “Are you flirting with me, Miss Steele?”

  “Yes, Mr. Grey, I am. What are you going to do about it?”

  “I’m sure I can think of something,” he says, his voice low. “Come—our table’s ready.”

  As we approach the table, Christian stops me, his hand on my elbow.

  “Go and take your panties off,” he whispers.

  Oh? A delicious tingle runs down my spine.

  “Go,” he commands quietly.

  Whoa, what? He’s not smiling—he’s dead serious. Every muscle below my waistline tightens. I hand him my glass of champagne, turn sharply on my heel, and head for the restroom.

  Shit. What’s he going to do? Perhaps this club is aptly named.

  The restrooms are the height of modern design—all dark wood, black granite, and pools of light from strategically placed halogens. In the privacy of the stall, I smirk as I divest myself of my underwear. Again I’m grateful I changed into the navy blue shift dress. I thought it appropriate attire to meet the good Dr. Flynn—I hadn’t expected the evening to take this unexpected course.

  I am excited already. Why does he affect me so? I slightly resent how easily I fall under his spell. I know now that we won’t be spending the evening talking through all our issues and recent events … but how can I resist him?

  Checking my appearance in the mirror, I am bright-eyed and flushed with excitement. Issues, schmissues.

  I take a deep breath and head back out into the club. I mean, it’s not as if I haven’t gone pantyless before. My inner goddess is draped in a pink feather boa and diamonds, strutting her stuff in fuck-me shoes.

  Christian stands politely when I return to the table, his expression unreadable. He looks his usual perfect, cool, calm, and collected self. Of course, I now know differently.

  “Sit beside me,” he says. I slide into the seat and he sits. “I’ve ordered for you. I hope you don’t mind.” He hands me my half-finished glass of champagne, regarding me intently, and under his scrutiny, my blood heats anew. He rests his hands on his thighs. I tense and part my legs slightly.

  The waiter arrives with a dish of oysters on crushed ice. Oysters. The memory of the two of us in the private dining room at the Heathman fills my mind. We were discussing his contract. Oh, boy. We’ve come a long way since then.

  “I think you liked oysters last time you tried them.” His voice is low, seductive.

  “Only time I’ve tried them.” I’m all breathy, my voice exposing me. His lips twitch with a smile.

  “Oh, Miss Steele—when will you learn?” he muses.

  He takes an oyster from the dish and lifts his other hand from his thigh. I flinch in anticipation, but he reaches for a slice of lemon.

  “Learn what?” I ask. Jeez, my pulse is racing. His long, skilled fingers gently squeeze the lemon over the shellfish.

  “Eat,” he says, holding the shell close to my mouth. I part my lips, and he gently places the shell on my bottom lip. “Tip y
our head back slowly,” he murmurs. I do as he asks and the oyster slips down my throat. He doesn’t touch me, only the shell does.

  Christian helps himself to one, then feeds me another. We continue this torturous routine until all twelve are gone. His skin never connects with mine. It’s driving me crazy.

  “Still like oysters?” he asks as I swallow the final one.

  I nod, flushed, craving his touch.

  “Good.”

  I squirm in my seat. Why is this so hot?

  He puts his hand casually on his own thigh again, and I melt. Now. Please. Touch me. My inner goddess is on her knees, naked except for her panties—begging. He runs his hand up and down his thigh, lifts it, then places it back where it was.

  The waiter tops up our champagne glasses and whisks away our plates. Moments later he’s back with our entrées, sea bass—I don’t believe it—served with asparagus, sautéed potatoes, and a hollandaise sauce.

  “A favorite of yours, Mr. Grey?”

  “Most definitely, Miss Steele. Though I believe it was cod at the Heathman.” His hand moves up and down his thigh. My breathing spikes, but still he doesn’t touch me. It’s so frustrating. I try to concentrate on our conversation.

  “I seem to remember we were in a private dining room then, discussing contracts.”

  “Happy days,” he says, smirking. “This time I hope to get to fuck you.” He moves his hand to pick up his knife.

  Gah!

  He takes a bite out of his sea bass. He’s doing this on purpose.

  “Don’t count on it,” I mutter with a pout and he glances at me, amused. “Speaking of contracts,” I add. “The NDA.”

  “Tear it up,” he says simply.

  Whoa.

  “What? Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure I’m not going to run to the Seattle Times with an exposé?” I tease.

  He laughs and it’s a wonderful sound. He looks so young.

  “No. I trust you. I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

  Oh. I grin shyly at him. “Ditto,” I breathe.

  His eyes light up. “I’m very glad you’re wearing a dress,” he murmurs. And bam—desire courses through my already overheated blood.

  “Why haven’t you touched me, then?” I hiss.

  “Missing my touch?” he asks, grinning. He’s amused … the bastard.

  “Yes,” I seethe.

  “Eat,” he orders.

  “You’re not going to touch me, are you?”

  “No.” He shakes his head.

  What? I gasp out loud.

  “Just imagine how you’ll feel when we’re home,” he whispers. “I can’t wait to get you home.”

  “It will be your fault if I combust here on the seventy-sixth floor,” I mutter through gritted teeth.

  “Oh, Anastasia. We’d find a way to put the fire out,” he says, grinning salaciously at me.

  Fuming, I dig into my sea bass, and my inner goddess narrows her eyes in quiet, devious contemplation. We can play this game, too. I learned the basics during our meal at the Heathman. I take a bite out of my sea bass. It is melt-in-the-mouth delicious. I close my eyes, savoring the taste. When I open them, I begin my seduction of Christian Grey, very slowly hitching my skirt up, exposing more of my thighs.

  Christian pauses momentarily, a forkful of fish suspended midair.

  Touch me.

  After a beat, he resumes eating. I take another bite of sea bass, ignoring him. Then, putting down my knife, I run my fingers up the inside of my lower thigh, lightly tapping my skin with my fingertips. It’s distracting even to me, especially as I am craving his touch. Christian pauses once more.

  “I know what you’re doing.” His voice is low and husky.

  “I know that you know, Mr. Grey,” I reply softly. “That’s the point.” I pick up an asparagus stalk, gaze sideways at him from beneath my lashes, then dip the asparagus into the hollandaise sauce, swirling the tip around and around.

  “You’re not turning the tables on me, Miss Steele.” Smirking he reaches over and takes the spear from me—amazingly and annoyingly managing not to touch me again. No, this isn’t right—this is not going according to plan. Gah!

  “Open your mouth,” he commands.

  I am losing this battle of wills. I glance up at him again, and his eyes blaze bright gray. Parting my lips a fraction, I run my tongue across my lower lip. Christian smiles and his eyes darken further.

  “Wider,” he breathes, his lips parting so that I can see his tongue. I groan inwardly and bite my bottom lip, then do as he asks.

  I hear his sharp intake of breath—he’s not so immune. Good, I am finally getting to him.

  Keeping my eyes locked on his, I take the spear in my mouth, and suck gently … delicately … on the end. The hollandaise sauce is mouthwatering. I bite down, moaning quietly in appreciation.

  Christian closes his eyes. Yes! When he opens them again, his pupils have dilated. The effect on me is immediate. I groan and reach out to touch his thigh. To my surprise, he uses his other hand to grab my wrist.

  “Oh no you don’t, Miss Steele,” he murmurs softly. Raising my hand to his mouth, he gently brushes my knuckles with his lips, and I squirm. Finally! More, please.

  “Don’t touch,” he scolds me quietly, and places my hand back on my knee. It’s so frustrating—this brief unsatisfactory contact.

  “You don’t play fair.” I pout.

  “I know.” He picks up his champagne glass to propose a toast, and I mirror his actions.

  “Congratulations on your promotion, Miss Steele.” We clink glasses and I blush.

  “Yes, kind of unexpected,” I mutter. He frowns as if some unpleasant thought has crossed his mind.

  “Eat,” he orders. “I am not taking you home until you’ve finished your meal, and then we can really celebrate.” His expression is so heated, so raw, so commanding. I am melting.

  “I’m not hungry. Not for food.”

  He shakes his head, thoroughly enjoying himself, but narrows his eyes at me just the same.

  “Eat, or I’ll put you across my knee, right here, and we’ll entertain the other diners.”

  His words make me squirm. He wouldn’t dare! Him and his twitchy palm. I press my mouth into a hard line and stare at him. Picking up an asparagus stalk, he dips the head into the hollandaise.

  “Eat this,” he murmurs, his voice low and seductive.

  I willingly comply.

  “You really don’t eat enough. You’ve lost weight since I’ve known you.” His tone is gentle.

  I don’t want to think about my weight; truth is, I like being this slim. I swallow the asparagus.

  “I just want to go home and make love,” I mutter disconsolately. Christian grins.

  “So do I, and we will. Eat up.”

  Reluctantly, I turn back to my food and start to eat. Honestly, I’ve taken my panties off and everything. I feel like a child who has been denied candy. He is such a tease, a delicious, hot, naughty tease, and all mine.

  He quizzes me about Ethan. As it turns out, Christian does business with Kate and Ethan’s father. Hmm … it’s a small world. I’m relieved he doesn’t mention Dr. Flynn or the house, as I’m finding it difficult to concentrate on our conversation. I want to go home.

  The carnal anticipation is unfurling between us. He’s so good at this. Making me wait. Setting the scene. Between bites, he places his hand on his thigh, so close to mine, but still doesn’t touch me just to tease me further.

  Bastard! Finally I finish my food and place my knife and fork on the plate.

  “Good girl,” he murmurs, and those two words hold so much promise.

  I frown at him. “What now?” I ask, desire clawing at my belly. Oh, I want this man.

  “Now? We leave. I believe you have certain expectations, Miss Steele. Which I intend to fulfill to the best of my ability.”

  Whoa!

  “The best … of your a … bil … ity?�
�� I stutter. Holy shit.

  He grins and stands.

  “Don’t we have to pay?” I ask, breathless.

  He cocks his head to one side. “I am a member here. They’ll bill me. Come, Anastasia, after you.” He steps aside, and I stand to leave, conscious that I am not wearing my panties.

  He gazes at me darkly, like he’s undressing me, and I glory in his carnal appraisal. It just makes me feel so sexy—this beautiful man desires me. Will I always get a kick out of this? Deliberately stopping in front of him, I smooth my dress over my hips.

  Christian whispers in my ear, “I can’t wait to get you home.” But he still doesn’t touch me.

  On the way out he murmurs something about the car to the maître d’, but I’m not listening; my inner goddess is incandescent with anticipation. Jeez, she could light up Seattle.

  Waiting by the elevators, we are joined by two middle-aged couples. When the doors open, Christian takes my elbow and steers me to the back. I glance around, and we’re surrounded by dark smoked-glass mirrors. As the other couples enter, one man in a rather unflattering brown suit greets Christian.

  “Grey.” He nods politely. Christian nods in return but is silent.

  The couples stand in front of us, facing the elevator doors. They are obviously friends—the women chat loudly, excited and animated after their meal. I think they’re all a little tipsy.

  As the doors close, Christian briefly stoops down beside me to tie his shoelace. Odd, his shoelaces aren’t undone. Discreetly he places his hand on my ankle, startling me, and as he stands his hand travels swiftly up my leg, skating deliciously over my skin—whoa—right up. I have to stifle my gasp of surprise as his hand reaches my backside. Christian moves behind me.

  Oh my. I gape at the people in front of us, staring at the backs of their heads. They have no idea what we’re up to. Wrapping his free arm around my waist, Christian pulls me to him, holding me in place as his fingers explore. Holy fucking shit … in here? The elevator travels smoothly down, stopping at the fifty-third floor to let some more people on, but I am not paying attention. I am focused on every little move his fingers make. Circling around … now moving forward, questing, as we shuffle back.

  Again I stifle a groan when his fingers find their goal.