by E. L. James
This I can handle. When I know she’s going to touch me, it’s okay. I can deal, especially since I’m wearing my jacket. I weave us through the crowd to where Elliot and Kate are making a spectacle of themselves.
Still dancing, Elliot leans toward me in mid-strut when we’re beside him and sizes us up with a look of incredulity.
“I’m taking Ana home. Tell Kate,” I shout in his ear.
He nods and pulls Kavanagh into his arms.
Right. Let me take Miss Drunk Bookworm home, but for some reason she seems reluctant to go. She’s watching Kavanagh with concern. When we’re off the dance floor she looks back at Kate, then at me, swaying and a little dazed.
“Fuck—” By some miracle I catch her as she passes out in the middle of the bar. I’m tempted to haul her over my shoulder, but we’d be too conspicuous, so I pick her up once more, cradling her against my chest, and take her outside to the car.
“Christ,” I mutter as I fish the key out of my jeans and hold her at the same time. Amazingly, I manage to get her into the front seat and strap her in.
“Ana.” I give her a little shake, because she’s worryingly quiet. “Ana!”
She mumbles something incoherent and I know she’s still conscious. I know I should take her home, but it’s a long drive to Vancouver, and I don’t know if she’ll be sick again. I don’t relish the idea of my Audi reeking of vomit. The smell emanating from her clothes is already noticeable.
I head to The Heathman, telling myself that I’m doing this for her sake.
Yeah, tell yourself that, Grey.
SHE SLEEPS IN MY arms as we travel up in the elevator from the garage. I need to get her out of her jeans and her shoes. The stale stench of vomit pervades the space. I’d really like to give her a bath, but that would be stepping beyond the bounds of propriety.
And this isn’t?
In my suite, I drop her purse on the sofa, then carry her into the bedroom and lay her down on the bed. She mumbles once more but doesn’t wake.
Briskly I remove her shoes and socks and put them in the plastic laundry bag provided by the hotel. Then I unzip her jeans and pull them off, check the pockets before stuffing the jeans in the laundry bag. She falls back on the bed, splayed out like a starfish, all pale arms and legs, and for a moment I picture those legs wrapped around my waist as her wrists are bound to my Saint Andrew’s cross. There’s a fading bruise on her knee and I wonder if that’s from the fall she took in my office.
She’s been marked since then…like me.
I sit her up and she opens her eyes.
“Hello, Ana,” I whisper, as I remove her jacket slowly and without her cooperation.
“Grey. Lips,” she mutters.
“Yes, sweetheart.” I ease her down onto the bed. She closes her eyes again and rolls onto her side, but this time huddles into a ball, looking small and vulnerable. I pull the covers over her and plant a kiss in her hair. Now that her filthy clothes have gone, a trace of her scent has reappeared. Apples, fall, fresh, delicious…Ana. Her lips are parted, eyelashes fanning out over pale cheeks, and her skin looks flawless. One more touch is all I allow myself as I stroke her cheek with the back of my index finger.
“Sleep well,” I murmur, and then head into the living room to complete the laundry list. When it’s done, I place the offending bag outside my suite so the contents will be collected and laundered.
Before I check my e-mails I text Welch, asking him to see if José Rodriguez has any police records. I’m curious. I want to know if he preys on drunk young women. Then I address the issue of clothes for Miss Steele: I send a quick e-mail to Taylor.
* * *
From: Christian Grey
RE: Miss Anastasia Steele
Date: May 20, 2011 23:46
To: J B Taylor
Good morning,
Can you please find the following items for Miss Steele and have them delivered to my usual room before 10:00.
Jeans: Blue Denim Size 4
Blouse: Blue. Pretty. Size 4
Converse: Black Size 7
Socks: Size 7
Lingerie: Underwear—Size Small. Bra—Estimate 34C.
Thank you.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
Once it’s disappeared from my outbox, I text Elliot.
Ana is with me.
If you’re still with Kate, tell her.
He texts by return.
Will do.
Hope you get laid.
You soooo need it. ;)
His response makes me snort.
I so do, Elliot. I so do.
I open my work e-mail and begin to read.
SATURDAY, MAY 21, 2011
* * *
Nearly two hours later, I come to bed. It’s just after 1:45. She’s fast asleep and hasn’t moved from where I left her. I strip, pull on my PJ pants and a T-shirt, and climb in beside her. She’s comatose; it’s unlikely she’s going to thrash around and touch me. I hesitate for a moment as the darkness swells within me, but it doesn’t surface and I know it’s because I’m watching the hypnotic rise and fall of her chest and I’m breathing in sync with her. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. For seconds, minutes, hours, I don’t know, I watch her. And while she sleeps I survey every beautiful inch of her lovely face. Her dark lashes fluttering while she sleeps, her lips slightly parted so I glimpse her even white teeth. She mutters something unintelligible and her tongue darts out and licks her lips. It’s arousing, very arousing. Finally I fall into a deep and dreamless slumber.
IT’S QUIET WHEN I open my eyes, and I’m momentarily disoriented. Oh yes. I’m at The Heathman. The clock at my bedside says 7:43.
When was the last time I slept this late?
Ana.
Slowly I turn my head, and she’s fast asleep, facing me. Her beautiful face soft in repose.
I have never slept with a woman. I’ve fucked many, but to wake up beside an alluring young woman is a new and stimulating experience. My cock agrees.
This will not do.
Reluctantly, I climb out of bed and change into my running gear. I need to burn off this…excess energy. As I change into my sweats I can’t remember the last time I’ve slept so well.
In the living room, I fire up my laptop, check my e-mail, and respond to two from Ros and one from Andrea. It takes me a little longer than usual, as I’m distracted knowing that Ana is asleep in the next room. I wonder how she’ll feel when she wakes.
Hungover. Ah.
In the minibar I find a bottle of orange juice and empty it into a glass. She’s still asleep when I enter, her hair a riot of mahogany spread across her pillow, and the covers have slipped below her waist. Her T-shirt has ridden up, exposing her belly and her navel. The sight stirs my body once more.
Stop standing here ogling the girl, for fuck’s sake, Grey.
I have to get out of here before I do something I’ll regret. Placing the glass on the bedside table, I duck into the bathroom, find two Advil in my travel kit, and deposit them beside the glass of orange juice.
With one last lingering look at Anastasia Steele—the first woman I’ve ever slept with—I head out for my run.
WHEN I RETURN FROM my exercise, there’s a bag in the living room from a store I don’t recognize. I take a peek and see it contains clothes for Ana. From what I can see, Taylor has done well—and all before 9:00.
The man is a marvel.
Her purse is on the sofa where I dropped it last night, and the door to the bedroom is closed, so I assume she’s not left and that she’s still asleep.
It’s a relief. Poring over the room-service menu, I decide to order some food. She’ll be hungry when she wakes, but I have no idea what she’ll eat, so in a rare moment of indulgence I order a selection from the breakfast menu. I’m informed it wil
l take half an hour.
Time to wake the delectable Miss Steele; she’s slept enough.
Grabbing my workout towel and the shopping bag, I knock on the door and enter. To my delight, she’s sitting up in bed. The tablets are gone and so is the juice.
Good girl.
She pales as I saunter into the room.
Keep it casual, Grey. You don’t want to be charged with kidnapping.
She closes her eyes, and I assume it’s because she’s embarrassed.
“Good morning, Anastasia. How are you feeling?”
“Better than I deserve,” she mutters, as I place the bag on the chair. When she turns her gaze to me her eyes are impossibly big and blue, and though her hair is a tangled mess…she looks stunning.
“How did I get here?” she asks, as though she’s afraid of the answer.
Reassure her, Grey.
I sit down on the edge of the bed and stick to the facts. “After you passed out, I didn’t want to risk the leather upholstery in my car, taking you all the way to your apartment. So I brought you here.”
“Did you put me to bed?”
“Yes.”
“Did I throw up again?”
“No.” Thank God.
“Did you undress me?”
“Yes.” Who else would have undressed you?
She blushes, and at last she has some color in her cheeks. Perfect teeth bite down on her lip. I suppress a groan.
“We didn’t—?” she whispers, staring at her hands.
Christ, what kind of animal does she think I am?
“Anastasia, you were comatose. Necrophilia is not my thing.” My tone is dry. “I like my women sentient and receptive.” She sags with relief, which makes me wonder if this has happened to her before, that she’s passed out and woken up in a stranger’s bed and found out he’s fucked her without her consent. Maybe that’s the photographer’s modus operandi. The thought is disturbing. But I recall her confession last night—that she’d never been drunk before. Thank God she hasn’t made a habit of this.
“I’m so sorry,” she says, her voice full of shame.
Hell. Maybe I should go easy on her.
“It was a very diverting evening. Not one that I’ll forget in a while.” I hope that sounds conciliatory, but her brow creases.
“You didn’t have to track me down with whatever James Bond gadgetry you’re developing for the highest bidder.”
Whoa! Now she’s pissed. Why?
“First, the technology to track cell phones is available over the Internet.”
Well, the Deep Net…
“Second, my company does not invest or manufacture any kind of surveillance devices.”
My temper is fraying, but I’m on a roll. “And third, if I hadn’t come to get you, you’d probably be waking up in the photographer’s bed, and from what I can remember, you weren’t overly enthused about him pressing his suit.”
She blinks a couple of times, then starts giggling.
She’s laughing at me again.
“Which medieval chronicle did you escape from? You sound like a courtly knight.”
She’s beguiling. She’s calling me out…again, and her irreverence is refreshing, really refreshing. However, I’m under no illusion that I’m a knight in shining armor. Boy, has she got the wrong idea. And though it may not be to my advantage, I’m compelled to warn her that there’s nothing chivalrous or courtly about me. “Anastasia, I don’t think so. Dark knight, maybe.” If only she knew—and why are we discussing me? I change the subject. “Did you eat last night?”
She shakes her head.
I knew it!
“You need to eat. That’s why you were so ill. Honestly, it’s drinking rule number one.”
“Are you going to continue to scold me?”
“Is that what I’m doing?”
“I think so.”
“You’re lucky I’m just scolding you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if you were mine, you wouldn’t be able to sit down for a week after the stunt you pulled yesterday. You didn’t eat, you got drunk, you put yourself at risk.” The fear in my gut surprises me; such irresponsible, risk-taking behavior. “I hate to think what could have happened to you.”
She scowls. “I would have been fine. I was with Kate.”
Some help she was!
“And the photographer?” I retort.
“José just got out of line,” she says, dismissing my concern and tossing her tangled hair over her shoulder.
“Well, the next time he gets out of line, maybe someone should teach him some manners.”
“You’re quite the disciplinarian,” she snaps.
“Oh, Anastasia, you have no idea.”
An image of her shackled to my bench, peeled gingerroot inserted in her ass so she can’t clench her buttocks, comes to mind, followed by judicious use of a belt or strap. Yeah…That would teach her not to be so irresponsible. The thought is hugely appealing.
She’s staring at me wide-eyed and dazed, and it makes me uncomfortable. Can she read my mind? Or is she just looking at a pretty face.
“I’m going to have a shower. Unless you’d like to shower first?” I tell her, but she continues to gape. Even with her mouth open she’s quite lovely. She’s hard to resist, and I grant myself permission to touch her, tracing the line of her cheek with my thumb. Her breath catches in her throat as I stroke her soft bottom lip.
“Breathe, Anastasia,” I murmur, before I stand and inform her that breakfast will be here in fifteen minutes. She says nothing, her smart mouth silent for once.
In the bathroom I take a deep breath, strip, and climb into the shower. I’m half tempted to jerk off, but the familiar fear of discovery and disclosure, from an earlier time in my life, stops me.
Elena would not be pleased.
Old habits.
As the water cascades over my head I reflect on my latest interaction with the challenging Miss Steele. She’s still here, in my bed, so she cannot find me completely repulsive. I noticed the way her breath caught in her throat, and how her gaze followed me around the room.
Yeah. There’s hope.
But would she make a good submissive?
It’s obvious she knows nothing of the lifestyle. She couldn’t even say “fuck” or “sex” or whatever bookish college students use as a euphemism for fucking these days. She’s quite the innocent. She’s probably been subjected to a few fumbling encounters with boys like the photographer.
The thought of her fumbling with anyone irks me.
I could just ask her if she’s interested.
No. I’d have to show her what she’d be taking on if she agreed to a relationship with me.
Let’s see how we both fare over breakfast.
Rinsing off the soap, I stand beneath the hot stream and gather my wits for round two with Anastasia Steele. I switch off the water and, stepping out of the shower, grab a towel. A quick check in the steamed-up mirror and I decide to skip shaving today. Breakfast will be here shortly, and I’m hungry. Quickly I brush my teeth.
When I open the bathroom door she’s out of bed and searching for her jeans. She looks up like the archetypal startled fawn, all long legs and big eyes.
“If you’re looking for your jeans, I’ve sent them to the laundry.” She really has great legs. She shouldn’t hide them in pants. Her eyes narrow, and I think she’s going to argue with me, so I tell her why. “They were spattered with your vomit.”
“Oh,” she says.
Yes. “Oh.” Now, what do you have to say to that, Miss Steele?
“I sent Taylor out for another pair and some shoes. They’re in the bag on the chair.” I nod at the shopping bag.
She raises her eyebrows—in surprise, I think. “Um. I’ll have a shower,”
she mutters, and then as an afterthought she adds, “Thanks.”
Grabbing the bag, she dodges around me, darts into the bathroom, and locks the door.
Hmm…she couldn’t get into the bathroom quick enough.
Away from me.
Perhaps I’m being too optimistic.
Disheartened, I briskly dry off and get dressed. In the living room I check my e-mail, but there’s nothing urgent. I’m interrupted by a knock on the door. Two young women have arrived from room service.
“Where would you like breakfast, sir?”
“Set it up on the dining table.”
Walking back into the bedroom, I catch their furtive looks, but I ignore them and suppress the guilt I feel over how much food I’ve ordered. We’ll never eat it all.
“Breakfast is here,” I call, and rap on the bathroom door.
“O-okay.” Ana’s voice sounds a little muted.
Back in the living room, our breakfast is on the table. One of the women, who has dark, dark eyes, hands me the check to sign, and from my wallet I pull a couple of twenties for them.
“Thank you, ladies.”
“Just call room service when you want the table cleared, sir,” Miss Dark Eyes says with a coquettish look, as if she’s offering more.
My chilly smile warns her off.
Sitting down at the table with the newspaper, I pour myself a coffee and make a start on my omelet. My phone buzzes—a text from Elliot.
Kate wants to know if Ana is still alive.
I chuckle, somewhat mollified that Ana’s so-called friend is thinking about her. It’s obvious that Elliot hasn’t given his dick a rest after all his protestations yesterday. I text back.
Alive and kicking ;)
Ana appears a few moments later: hair wet, in the pretty blue blouse that matches her eyes. Taylor has done well; she looks lovely. Scanning the room, she spots her purse.
“Crap, Kate!” she blurts.
“She knows you’re here and still alive. I texted Elliot.”
She gives me an uncertain smile as she walks toward the table.
“Sit,” I say, pointing to the place that’s been set for her. She frowns at the amount of food on the table, which only accentuates my guilt.
