by E. L. James
“Don’t just pick the apples and throw them away, asshole!”
“Fuck off, you righteous dweeb.”
Elliot picks an apple, takes a bite, and throws it at me.
“Maggot,” he taunts.
No! Don’t call me that.
I jump him. Pounding my fists into his face.
“You fucking pig. This is food. You’re just wasting it. Grandpa sells these. You pig. Pig. Pig.”
“ELLIOT. CHRISTIAN.”
Dad drags me off Elliot, who is cowering on the ground.
“What is this about?”
“He’s insane.”
“Elliot!”
“He’s destroying the apples.” Anger swells in my chest, in my throat. I think I might explode. “He’s taking a bite and then throwing them away. Throwing them at me.”
“Elliot, is this true?”
Elliot turns red under Dad’s hard stare.
“I think you’d better come with me. Christian, pick up the apples. You can help Mom bake a pie.”
She’s fast asleep when I wake, my nose in her fragrant hair, my arms cocooning her. I’ve dreamed about romping through my grandfather’s apple orchard with Elliot; those were happy, angry days.
It’s nearly seven—another lie-in with Miss Steele. It’s odd waking up beside her, but odd in a good way. I contemplate waking her with a morning fuck; my body is more than willing—but she’s practically comatose and she might be sore. I should let her sleep. I climb out of bed, careful not to wake her, grab a T-shirt, gather her clothes from the floor, and wander into the living room.
“Good morning, Mr. Grey.” Mrs. Jones is busy in the kitchen.
“Good morning, Gail.” Stretching, I look out the windows at the remnants of a vivid dawn.
“You have some laundry there?” she asks.
“Yes. These are Anastasia’s.”
“Do you want me to wash and press them?”
“Do you have time?”
“I’ll put them on the quick cycle.”
“Excellent, thank you.” I pass her Ana’s clothes. “How was your sister?”
“Very well, thanks. The kids are growing. Boys can be rough.”
“I know.”
She smiles and offers to make me some coffee.
“Please. I’ll be in my study.” As she watches me her smile changes from pleasant to knowing…in the way that’s feminine and secretive. Then she hurries out of the kitchen, I assume to the laundry room.
What’s her problem?
Okay, this is the first Monday—the first time—in the four years she’s worked for me that there’s been a woman asleep in my bed. But it’s not that big a deal. Breakfast for two, Mrs. Jones. I think you can manage that.
I shake my head and wander into my study to start work. I’ll shower later…maybe with Ana.
I check my e-mails and send one to Andrea and Ros, saying I’ll be in this afternoon, not this morning. Then I take a look at Barney’s latest schematics.
GAIL KNOCKS AND BRINGS me a second cup of coffee, letting me know it’s already 8:15.
That late?
“I’m not going into the office this morning.”
“Taylor was asking.”
“I’ll go this afternoon.”
“I’ll tell him. I’ve hung Miss Steele’s clothes in your closet.”
“Thank you. That was quick. She still asleep?”
“I think so.” And there’s that little smile again. I arch my brows and her smile broadens as she turns to leave my study. I put my work aside and head off with my coffee to take a shower and have a shave.
ANA IS STILL OUT for the count when I finish dressing.
You’ve exhausted her, Grey. And it was pleasurable, more than pleasurable. She looks serene, as if she doesn’t have a care in the world.
Good.
From the chest I take my watch, and on an impulse open the top drawer and pocket my last condom.
You never know.
I amble back through the living room toward my study.
“Do you want your breakfast yet, sir?”
“I’ll have breakfast with Ana. Thanks.”
I pick up the phone and call Andrea from my desk. After we’ve exchanged a few words she puts me through to Ros.
“So when can we expect you?” Ros’s tone is sarcastic.
“Good morning, Ros. How are you?” I say sweetly.
“Pissed.”
“At me?”
“Yes, at you, and your hands-off work ethic.”
“I’ll be in later. The reason I’m calling is I’ve decided to liquidate Woods’s company.” I’ve told her this already, but she and Marco are taking too long. I want this done, now. I remind her that this was going to happen if the company’s P&L didn’t improve. And it hasn’t.
“He needs more time.”
“I’m not interested, Ros. We’re not carrying deadweight.”
“Are you sure?”
“I don’t want any more lame excuses.” Enough, already. I’ve made up my mind.
“Christian—”
“Have Marco call me, it’s shit-or-bust time.”
“Okay. Okay. If that’s what you really want. Anything else?”
“Yes. Tell Barney that the prototype looks good, though I’m not sure about the interface.”
“I thought the interface worked well, once I figured it out. Not that I’m an expert.”
“No, it’s just missing something.”
“Talk to Barney.”
“I want to meet him this afternoon to discuss.”
“Face-to-face?”
Her sarcasm is irritating. But I ignore her tone and tell her that I want his whole team there to brainstorm.
“He’ll be pleased. So I’ll see you this afternoon?” She sounds hopeful.
“Okay,” I reassure her. “Transfer me back to Andrea.”
While I wait for her to pick up the phone I gaze out at the cloudless sky. It’s the same shade as Ana’s eyes.
Sappy, Grey.
“Andrea—”
A movement distracts me. Looking up, I’m pleased to see Ana standing in the doorway, dressed in nothing but my T-shirt. Her legs, long and shapely, are on display for my eyes only. She has great legs.
“Mr. Grey,” Andrea answers.
My eyes lock with Ana’s. They are the color of a summer sky and just as warm. Good Lord, I could bask in her warmth all day—every day.
Don’t be absurd, Grey.
“Clear my schedule this morning, but get Bill to call me. I’ll be in at two. I need to talk to Marco this afternoon, that will need at least half an hour.”
A soft smile tugs at Ana’s lips and I find myself mirroring her.
“Yes, sir,” Andrea says.
“Schedule Barney and his team in after Marco or maybe tomorrow, and find time for me to see Claude every day this week.”
“Sam wants to talk to you, this morning.”
“Tell him to wait.”
“It’s about Darfur.”
“Oh?”
“Apparently he sees the aid convoy as a great personal PR opportunity.”
Oh, God. He would, wouldn’t he?
“No, I don’t want publicity for Darfur.” My voice is gruff with exasperation.
“He says there’s a journalist from Forbes who wants to talk to you about it.”
How the hell do they know?
“Tell Sam to deal with it,” I snap. That’s what he’s paid to do.
“Do you want to speak to him directly?” she asks.
“No.”
“Will do. I also need to RSVP to the event on Saturday.”
“Which event?”
“Chamber of Commerce Gala.”
&n
bsp; “That’s next Saturday?” I ask, as an idea pops into my head.
“Yes, sir.”
“Hold on—” I turn to Ana, who’s jiggling her left foot but not taking her sky-blue eyes off me. “When will you be back from Georgia?”
“Friday,” she says.
“I’ll need an extra ticket, because I have a date,” I inform Andrea.
“A date?” Andrea squeaks with incredulity.
I sigh. “Yes, Andrea, that’s what I said. A date. Miss Anastasia Steele will accompany me.”
“Yes, Mr. Grey.” She sounds as if I’ve made her day.
For fuck’s sake. What is it with my staff?
“That’s all.” I hang up. “Good morning, Miss Steele.”
“Mr. Grey,” Ana says in greeting. I walk around my desk until I’m in front of her, and caress her face.
“I didn’t want to wake you, you looked so peaceful. Did you sleep well?”
“I am very well rested, thank you. I just came to say hi before I had a shower.” She’s smiling and her eyes are shining with delight. It’s a pleasure to see her like this. Before I get back to work I lean down to give her a gentle kiss. Suddenly she wraps her arms around my neck and tangles her fingers in my hair, and presses her body along the length of mine.
Whoa.
Her lips are persistent, so I respond, kissing her back, surprised by the intensity of her ardor. With one hand I cup her head, with the other her naked, recently spanked ass, and my body ignites like dry tinder.
“Well, sleep seems to agree with you.” My voice is laced with sudden lust. “I suggest you go and have your shower, or shall I lay you across my desk now?”
“I choose the desk,” she whispers at the corner of my mouth, grinding her sex against my erection.
Well, this is a surprise.
Her eyes are dark and greedy with want. “You’ve really got a taste for this, haven’t you, Miss Steele? You’re becoming insatiable.”
“I’ve only got a taste for you.”
“Damn right. Only me!” Her words are a siren’s call to my libido. Losing all self-restraint, I sweep everything off my desk, sending my papers, phone, and pens all clattering or floating to the floor, but I don’t give a damn. I lift Ana and lay her across my desk so her hair spills over the edge and onto the seat of my chair.
“You want it, you got it, baby,” I growl, whipping out the condom and unzipping my pants. Making quick work of covering my cock, I stare down at the insatiable Miss Steele. “I sure hope you’re ready,” I warn her, grabbing hold of her wrists and keeping them at her sides. With one swift move I’m inside her.
“Ah…Christ, Ana. You’re so ready.” I give her a nanosecond to adjust to my presence. Then I start to push. Back and forth. Over and over. Harder and harder. She tips her head back, mouth open in a wordless plea, as her breasts rise and fall in rhythm with each jolt to her body. She wraps her legs around me while I stand, drilling into her.
This what you want, baby?
She meets every thrust, rocking against me and moaning as I possess her. Taking her—higher and higher and higher—until I feel her stiffening around me.
“Come on, baby, give it up for me,” I grit through clenched teeth, and she does, spectacularly, crying out and sucking me into my own orgasm.
Fuck. I come as spectacularly as she does, and I slump down on top of her while her body tightens around me with aftershocks.
Damn. That was unexpected.
“What the hell are you doing to me?” I’m breathless, my lips skimming her neck. “You completely beguile me, Ana. You weave some powerful magic.”
And you jumped me!
I release her wrists and move to stand, but she tightens her legs around me, her fingers tangling in my hair.
“I’m the one beguiled,” she whispers. Our eyes are locked, her scrutiny intense, as if she’s seeing through me. Seeing the darkness in my soul.
Shit. Let me go. This is too much.
I cup her face in my hands to kiss her quickly, but as I do the unwelcome thought of her being in this position with someone else pops into my mind. No. She’s not doing this with anyone else. Ever.
“You. Are. Mine.” My words crack between us. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, yours,” she says, her expression heartfelt, her words full of conviction, and my irrational jealousy recedes.
“Are you sure you have to go to Georgia?” I ask, smoothing her hair from around her face.
She nods.
Damn.
I pull out of her and she winces.
“Are you sore?”
“A little,” she says with a timid smile.
“I like you sore. Reminds you where I’ve been, and only me.” I give her a rough, possessive kiss.
Because I don’t want her to go to Georgia.
And no one’s jumped me since…since Elena.
And even then, it was always calculated, part of a scene.
Standing, I hold out my hand and pull her to a sitting position. As I tug off the condom, she murmurs, “Always prepared.”
I give her a confounded look as I fasten my fly. She holds up the empty foil packet by way of explanation.
“A man can hope, Anastasia, dream even, and sometimes his dreams come true.” I had no idea I’d get to use it so soon, and on her terms, not mine. Miss Steele, for such an innocent, you are, as ever, unexpected.
“So…on your desk…that’s been a dream?” she asks.
Sweetheart. I’ve had sex on this desk many, many times, but always at my instigation, never at a submissive’s.
This is not how it works.
Her face falls as she reads my thoughts.
Shit. What can I say? Ana, unlike you, I have a past.
I run my hand through my hair in frustration; this morning is not going according to plan.
“I’d better go and have a shower,” she says, subdued. She stands and takes a few steps toward the door.
“I’ve got a couple more calls to make. I’ll join you for breakfast once you’re out of the shower.” I gaze after her, wondering what to say to make this right. “I think Mrs. Jones has laundered your clothes from yesterday. They’re in the closet.”
She looks surprised, and impressed. “Thank you,” she says.
“You’re most welcome.”
Her brow creases as she studies me, baffled.
“What?” I ask.
“What’s wrong?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you’re being more weird than usual.”
“You find me weird?” Ana, baby, “weird” is my middle name.
“Sometimes.”
Tell her. Tell her no one’s pounced on you for a long time.
“As ever, I’m surprised by you, Miss Steele.”
“Surprised how?”
“Let’s just say that was an unexpected treat.”
“We aim to please, Mr. Grey,” she teases, still scrutinizing me.
“And please me you do,” I acknowledge. But you disarm me, too. “I thought you were going to have a shower?”
Her mouth turns down.
Shit.
“Yes, um, I’ll see you in a moment.” She turns and scampers out of my study, leaving me standing in a maze of confusion. I shake my head to clear it, then begin picking up my scattered belongings from the floor and arranging them on my desk.
How the hell can she just waltz into my study and seduce me? I’m supposed to be in control of this relationship. This is what I was thinking about last night: her unbridled enthusiasm and affection. How the hell am I supposed to deal with that? It’s not something I know. I pause as I pick up my phone.
But it’s nice.
Yeah.
More than nice.
I chuckle at
the thought and remember her “nice” e-mail. Damn, there’s a missed call from Bill. He must have phoned during my tryst with Miss Steele. I sit down at my desk, master of my own universe once more—now that she’s in the shower—and call him back. I need Bill to tell me about Detroit…and I need to get back on my game.
Bill doesn’t pick up, so I call Andrea.
“Mr. Grey.”
“Is the jet free today and tomorrow?”
“It’s not scheduled for use until Thursday, sir.”
“Great. Can you try Bill for me?”
“Sure.”
My conversation with Bill is lengthy. Ruth has done an excellent job scouting all of the available brownfield sites in Detroit. Two are viable for the tech plant we want to build, and Bill is certain that Detroit has the available labor force we require.
My heart sinks.
Does it have to be Detroit?
I have vague memories of the place: drunks, hobos, and crackheads shouting at us on the streets; the seedy dive we called home; and a young, broken woman, the crack whore I called Mommy, staring into space while she sat in a drab, grimy room filled with stale air and dust motes.
And him.
I shudder. Don’t think about him…or her.
But I can’t help it. Ana has said nothing about my nocturnal confession. I’ve never mentioned the crack whore to anyone. Perhaps that’s why Ana attacked me this morning: she thinks I need some TLC.
Fuck that.
Baby. I’ll take your body if you offer it up. I’m doing just fine. But even as the thought pops into my head I wonder if I’m “just fine.” I ignore my unease; it’s something to discuss with Flynn when he’s back.
Right now, I’m hungry. I hope she’s gotten her sweet butt out of that shower, because I need to eat.
ANA IS STANDING AT the kitchen counter talking to Mrs. Jones, who has set places for our breakfast.
“Would you like something to eat?” asks Mrs. Jones.
“No thank you,” Ana says.
Oh no you don’t.
“Of course you’ll have something to eat,” I growl at both of them. “She likes pancakes, bacon, and eggs, Mrs. Jones.”
“Yes, Mr. Grey. What would you like, sir?” she replies, without batting an eyelid.
“Omelet, please, and some fruit. Sit,” I tell Ana, pointing to one of the barstools. She does, and I take a seat beside her while Mrs. Jones makes our breakfast.
