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

by E. L. James

  “Miss Steele. What a pleasant surprise.”

  “Mr. Grey,” she whispers, breathy and flustered. Ah … a good response.

  “I was in the area. I need to stock up on a few things. It’s a pleasure to see you again, Miss Steele.” A real pleasure. She’s dressed in tight T-shirt and jeans, not the shapeless shit she was wearing earlier this week. She’s all long legs, small waist, and perfect tits. She continues to gape, and I have to resist the urge to reach out and tip her chin up to close her mouth. I’ve flown from Seattle just to see you, and the way you look right now, it was worth the journey.

  “Ana. My name’s Ana. What can I help you with, Mr. Grey?” She takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders like she did during the interview, and gives me a fake smile that I’m sure she reserves for customers.

  Game on, Miss Steele.

  “There are a few items I need. To start with, I’d like some cable ties.”

  Her lips part as she inhales sharply.

  You’d be amazed what I can do with a few cable ties, Miss Steele.

  “We stock various lengths. Shall I show you?”

  “Please. Lead the way, Miss Steele.”

  She steps out from behind the counter and gestures toward one of the aisles. She’s wearing Chucks. Idly I wonder what she’d look like in skyscraper heels. Louboutins … nothing but Louboutins.

  “They’re in with the electrical goods, aisle eight.” Her voice wavers and she blushes … again.

  She is affected by me. Hope blooms in my chest. Not gay then. I smirk.

  “After you,” I murmur, holding my hand out for her to lead the way. Letting her walk ahead gives me the space and time to admire her fantastic ass. She really is the whole package: sweet, polite, and beautiful with all the physical attributes I value in a submissive. But the million-dollar question is, Could she be a submissive? She probably knows nothing of the lifestyle—my lifestyle—but I very much want to introduce her to it. You are getting way ahead of yourself on this deal, Grey.

  “Are you in Portland on business?” she asks, interrupting my thoughts. Her voice is high, trying to feign disinterest. It makes me want to laugh, which is refreshing. Women rarely make me laugh.

  “I was visiting the WSU farming division based in Vancouver,” I lie. Actually, I’m here to see you, Miss Steele.

  She flushes, and I feel like a shit.

  “I’m currently funding some research there in crop rotation and soil science.” That, at least, is true.

  “All part of your feed-the-world plan?” Her lips shift to a half-smile.

  “Something like that,” I mutter. Is she laughing at me? Oh I’d love to put a stop to that if she is. But how to start? Maybe with dinner, rather than the usual interview … now that would be novel; taking a prospect out to dinner.

  We arrive at the cable ties, which are arranged in an assortment of lengths and colors. Absentmindedly my fingers trace over the packets. I could just ask her out for dinner. Like on a date? Would she come? When I glance at her she’s examining her knotted fingers. She can’t look at me … this is promising. I select the longer ties. They are more flexible after all—they can accommodate two ankles and two wrists at once.

  “These will do,” I murmur, and she blushes again.

  “Is there anything else?” she says quickly—either she’s being super attentive or she wants to get me out of the store, I don’t know which.

  “I’d like some masking tape.”

  “Are you redecorating?”

  I suppress my snort. “No, not redecorating.” I haven’t held a paintbrush in a long time. The thought makes me smile; I have people to do all that shit.

  “This way,” she murmurs, looking chagrined. “Masking tape is in the decorating aisle.”

  Come on, Grey. You don’t have long. Engage her in some conversation. “Have you worked here long?” Of course, I already know the answer. Unlike some people, I do my research. She blushes once more—Christ, this girl is shy. I don’t have a hope in hell. She turns quickly and walks down the aisle toward the section labeled DECORATING. I follow her eagerly. What am I, a fucking puppy?

  “Four years,” she mumbles as we reach the masking tape. She bends down and grasps two rolls, each a different width.

  “I’ll take that one,” I say. The wider tape is much more effective as a gag. As she passes it to me, the tips of our fingers touch, briefly. It resonates in my groin. Fuck!

  She pales. “Anything else?” Her voice is soft and husky.

  Christ, I’m having the same effect on her that she has on me. Maybe …

  “Some rope, I think.”

  “This way.” She quickly scoots up the aisle, giving me another chance to appreciate her fine ass.

  “What sort were you after? We have synthetic and natural filament rope … twine … cable cord …”

  Shit—stop. I groan inwardly, trying to chase away the image of her suspended from the ceiling in my playroom.

  “I’ll take five yards of the natural filament rope, please.” It’s coarser and chafes more if you struggle against it … my rope of choice.

  A tremor runs through her fingers, but she efficiently measures out five yards. Pulling a utility knife from her right pocket, she cuts the rope in one swift gesture, coils it neatly, and ties it off with a slipknot. Impressive.

  “Were you a Girl Scout?”

  “Organized group activities aren’t really my thing, Mr. Grey.”

  “What is your thing, Anastasia?” I catch her gaze, and her irises dilate as I stare. Yes!

  “Books,” she whispers.

  “What kind of books?”

  “Oh, you know. The usual. The classics. British literature, mainly.”

  British literature? Brontë and Austen, I bet. All those romantic hearts and flowers types. Fuck. That’s not good.

  “Anything else you need?”

  “I don’t know. What else would you recommend?” I want to see her reaction.

  “For a do-it-yourselfer?” she asks, surprised.

  I want to hoot with laughter. Oh baby, DIY is not my thing. I nod, stifling my mirth. Her eyes flick down my body and I tense. She is checking me out! Fuck me.

  “Coveralls,” she blurts out.

  It’s the most unexpected thing I’ve heard out of her sweet, smart mouth since the “are you gay” question.

  “You wouldn’t want to ruin your clothing.” She gestures to my jeans, embarrassed once more.

  I can’t resist. “I could always take them off.”

  “Um.” She flushes beet red and gazes down at the floor.

  “I’ll take some coveralls. Heaven forbid I should ruin any clothing,” I murmur, to put her out of her misery. Without a word, she turns and walks briskly up the aisle, and once again I follow in her enticing wake.

  “Do you need anything else?” she says breathlessly, handing me a pair of blue coveralls. She’s mortified, eyes still cast down, face flushed. Christ, she does things to me.

  “How’s the article coming along?” I ask in the hope she might relax a little.

  She looks up and gives me a brief relieved smile. Finally. “I’m not writing it, Katherine is. Miss Kavanagh. My roommate, she’s the writer. She’s very happy with it. She’s the editor of the magazine, and she was devastated that she couldn’t do the interview in person.”

  It’s the longest sentence she’s addressed to me since we first met, and she’s talking about someone else, not herself. Interesting.

  Before I can comment, she adds, “Her only concern is that she doesn’t have any original photographs of you.”

  The tenacious Miss Kavanagh wants photographs. Publicity stills, eh? I can do that. It will allow me to spend some more time with the delectable Miss Steele.

  “What sort of photographs does she want?”

  She gazes at me for a moment, then shakes her head.

  “Well, I’m around. Tomorrow, perhaps …” I can stay in Portland. Work from a hotel. A room at the Heathman,
perhaps. I’ll need Taylor to come down, bring my laptop and some clothes. Or Elliot—unless he’s screwing around, which is his usual MO over the weekend.

  “You’d be willing to attend a photo shoot?” She cannot contain her surprise.

  I give her a brief nod. You’d be amazed what I’d do to spend more time with you, Miss Steele … in fact, so am I.

  “Kate will be delighted—if we can find a photographer.” She smiles and her face lights up like a summer dawn. Christ, she’s breathtaking.

  “Let me know about tomorrow.” I pull my card out of my wallet. “It has my cell number on it. You’ll need to call before ten in the morning.” And if she doesn’t, I’ll head on back to Seattle and forget about this stupid venture. The thought depresses me.

  “Okay.” She continues to grin.

  “Ana!” We both turn as a young man, casually but expensively dressed, appears at the far end of the aisle. He’s all fucking smiles for Miss Anastasia Steele. Who the hell is this prick?

  “Er … excuse me for a moment, Mr. Grey.” She walks toward him, and the fucker engulfs her in a gorilla-like hug. My blood runs cold. It’s a primal response. Get your motherfucking paws off her. I fist my hands and am only slightly mollified when I see her make no move to hug him back.

  They fall into a whispered conversation. Shit, maybe Welch’s facts were wrong. Maybe this guy is her boyfriend. He looks the right age, and he can’t take his greedy little eyes off her. He holds her for a moment at arm’s length, examining her, then stands with his arm leisurely resting on her shoulder. It’s a seemingly casual gesture, but I know he’s staking a claim and telling me to back off. She seems embarrassed, shifting from foot to foot.

  Shit. I should go. Then she says something else to him and moves out of his reach, touching his arm, not his hand. It’s clear they aren’t close. Good.

  “Er … Paul, this is Christian Grey. Mr. Grey, this is Paul Clayton. His brother owns the place.” She gives me an odd look that I don’t understand and continues, “I’ve known Paul ever since I’ve worked here, though we don’t see each other that often. He’s back from Princeton, where he’s studying business administration.”

  The boss’s brother, not a boyfriend. The extent of the relief I feel is unexpected, and it makes me frown. This woman has really gotten under my skin.

  “Mr. Clayton.” My tone is deliberately clipped.

  “Mr. Grey.” He shakes my hand limply. Wet fucker. “Wait up—not the Christian Grey of Grey Enterprises Holdings?” In a heartbeat I watch him morph from territorial to obsequious.

  Yeah, that’s me, you prick.

  “Wow—is there anything I can get you?”

  “Anastasia has it covered, Mr. Clayton. She’s been very attentive.” Now fuck off.

  “Cool,” he gushes, all wide-eyed and deferential. “Catch you later, Ana.”

  “Sure, Paul,” she says, and he ambles off, thank Christ. I watch him disappear toward the back of the store.

  “Anything else, Mr. Grey?”

  “Just these items,” I mutter. Shit, I’m out of time, and I still don’t know if I’m going to see her again. I have to know whether there’s a hope in hell she might consider what I have in mind. How can I ask her? Am I ready to take on a new submissive, one who knows nothing? Shit. She’s going to need substantial training. I groan inwardly at all the interesting possibilities this presents … Fuck me, getting there is going to be half the fun. Will she even be interested? Or do I have this all wrong?

  She heads back to the cashier’s desk and rings up my purchases, all the while keeping her gaze cast down. Look at me, damn it! I want to see her beautiful blue eyes again and gauge what she’s thinking.

  Finally she raises her head. “That will be forty-three dollars, please.”

  Is that all?

  “Would you like a bag?” she asks, slipping into salesclerk mode as I pass her my Amex.

  “Please, Anastasia.” Her name—a beautiful name for a beautiful girl—rolls off my tongue.

  She packs the items briskly and efficiently into the carrier. This is it. I have to go.

  “You’ll call me if you want me to do the photo shoot?”

  She nods as she hands back my charge card.

  “Good. Until tomorrow, perhaps.” I can’t just leave. I have to let her know I’m interested. “Oh, and Anastasia? I’m glad Miss Kavanagh couldn’t do the interview.” Delighting in her stunned expression, I sling the bag over my shoulder and saunter out of the store.

  Yes, against my better judgment, I want her. Now I have to wait … fucking wait … again.

  That’s all … for now.

  Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading.

  E L James

  E L James

  * * *

  E L James is a former TV executive, wife, and mother of two based in West London. Since early childhood, she dreamed of writing stories that readers would fall in love with, but she put those dreams on hold to focus on her family and her career. She finally plucked up the courage to put pen to paper with her first novel, Fifty Shades of Grey. She is also the author of Fifty Shades Darker and Fifty Shades Freed.