by E. L. James
I don’t dare.
“If you behave, I’ll let you come. In my mouth.”
Fuck.
“But not yet. We’ve got a long way to go before then.”
Her fingernail blazes down my skin, from the top of my sternum to my navel.
I want to scream.
She grabs my face, squeezing open my mouth, and kisses me.
Her tongue demanding and wet.
She brandishes the leather flogger.
And I know this will be tough to endure.
But I have my eye on the prize. Her fucking mouth.
As the first lash falls and blisters across my skin, I welcome the pain and the endorphin rush.
“Mr. Grey, we’ll be landing in twenty minutes,” Taylor informs me, startling me awake. “Are you okay, sir?”
“Yeah. Sure. Thanks.”
“Would you like some water?”
“Please.” I take a deep breath to bring my heart rate down, and Taylor passes me a glass of cold Evian. I take a welcome sip, glad that it’s just Taylor on board. It’s not often I dream about my heady days with Mrs. Lincoln.
Out of the window the sky is blue, the sparse clouds pinking with the early-evening sun. The light up here is brilliant. Golden. Tranquil. The sinking sun reflecting off the cumulus clouds. For a moment I wish I were in my sailplane. I bet the thermals are fantastic up here.
Yes!
That’s what I should do: take Ana soaring. That would be more, wouldn’t it?
“Taylor.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’d like to take Anastasia soaring in Georgia—at dawn tomorrow, if we can find somewhere to do that. But later would be fine, too.” If it’s later I’ll have to move my meeting.
“I’ll get on it.”
“Never mind the cost.”
“Okay, sir.”
“Thanks.”
Now I just have to tell Ana.
THERE ARE TWO CARS waiting for us when the G550 comes to a halt on the tarmac near the Signature Flight Support terminal at the airport. Taylor and I step out of the plane and into the suffocating heat.
Hell, it’s sticky, even at this time.
The rep hands the keys for both cars to Taylor. I raise a brow at him. “Ford Mustang?”
“It’s all I could find in Savannah at short notice.” Taylor looks sheepish.
“At least it’s a red convertible. Though in this heat I hope it has AC.”
“It should have everything, sir.”
“Good. Thanks.” I take the keys from him and, grabbing my messenger bag, leave him to unload the rest of the luggage from the plane into his Suburban.
I shake hands with Stephan and Beighley and thank them for a smooth flight. In the Mustang, I cruise out of the airport and onward to downtown Savannah, listening to Bruce on my iPod through the car sound system.
ANDREA HAS BOOKED ME into a suite at the Bohemian Hotel, which looks out over the Savannah River. It’s dusk and the view from the balcony is impressive: the river is luminous, reflecting the graduated colors of the sky and the lights on the suspension bridge and the docks. The sky is incandescent, the colors shaded from deep purple to a rosy pink.
It’s almost as striking as twilight over the Sound.
But I don’t have time to stand here and admire the view. I set up my laptop, crank the air-conditioning to full blast, and call Ros for an update.
“Why the sudden interest in Georgia, Christian?”
“It’s personal.”
She huffs down the phone. “Since when have you let your personal life interfere with business?”
Since I met Anastasia Steele.
“I don’t like Detroit,” I snap.
“Okay.” She backs off.
“I might meet the Savannah Brownfield liaison for a drink later,” I add, attempting to placate her.
“Whatever, Christian. There are a few other things we need to talk about. The aid has arrived in Rotterdam. Do you still want to go ahead?”
“Yes. Let’s get it done. I made a commitment at the End Global Hunger launch. This needs to happen before I can face that committee again.”
“Okay. Any further thoughts on the publishing acquisition?”
“I’m still undecided.”
“I think SIP has some potential.”
“Yeah. Maybe. Let me think about it for a while longer.”
“I’m seeing Marco to discuss the Lucas Woods situation.”
“Okay, let me know how that goes. Call me later.”
“Will do. Bye for now.”
I’m avoiding the inevitable. I know this. But I decide it would be better to tackle Miss Steele—via e-mail or phone, I’ve yet to decide which—on a full stomach, so I order dinner. While I’m waiting there’s a text from Andrea letting me know my drinks appointment is off. I’m fine with that. I’ll see them tomorrow morning, provided I’m not soaring with Ana.
Before room service arrives, Taylor calls.
“Mr. Grey.”
“Taylor. Are you checked in?”
“Yes, sir. Your luggage will be on its way up in a moment.”
“Great.”
“The Brunswick Soaring Association has a glider free. I’ve asked Andrea to fax through your flying credentials to them. Once the paperwork’s signed, we’re good to go.”
“Great.”
“They’ll do anytime from six a.m.”
“Even better. Have them ready from then. Send me the address.”
“Will do.”
There’s a knock on the door—my luggage and room service have arrived simultaneously. The food smells delicious: fried green tomatoes and shrimp and grits. Well, I’m in the South.
While I eat I contemplate my strategy with Ana. I could pay a visit to her mom’s tomorrow at breakfast. Bring bagels. Then take her soaring. That’s probably the best plan. She hasn’t been in touch all day, so I guess she’s mad. I reread her last message once I’ve finished dinner.
What the hell has she got against Elena? She knows nothing about our relationship. What we had happened a long time ago and now we’re just friends. What right does Ana have to be mad?
And if it wasn’t for Elena, God knows what would have happened to me.
There’s a knock on the door. It’s Taylor.
“Good evening, sir. Happy with your room?”
“Yes, it’s fine.”
“I have the paperwork for the Brunswick Soaring Association here.”
I scan the hire agreement. It looks fine. I sign it and give it back to him. “I’ll drive myself tomorrow. I’ll see you there?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll be there from six.”
“I’ll let you know if anything changes.”
“Shall I unpack for you, sir?”
“Please. Thanks.”
He nods and takes my suitcase into the bedroom.
I’m restless, and I need to get what I’m going to say to Ana clear in my mind. I glance at my watch; it’s twenty past nine. I’ve left this really late. Perhaps I should have a quick drink first. I leave Taylor to unpack and decide to check out the hotel bar before I speak to Ros again and write to Ana.
The rooftop bar is crowded, but I find a seat at the end of the counter and order a beer. It’s a hip, contemporary place, with moody lighting and a relaxed vibe. I scan the bar, avoiding eye contact with the two women sitting next to me…and a movement captures my attention: a frustrated flip of glossy mahogany hair that catches and refracts the light.
It’s Ana. Fuck.
She’s facing away from me, seated opposite a woman who could only be her mother. The resemblance is striking.
What are the fucking odds?
In all the gin joints…Jesus.
I watch them, transfixed. They’re drinking
cocktails—Cosmopolitans, by the look of them. Her mother is stunning: like Ana, but older; she looks late thirties, with long, dark hair, and eyes that are Ana’s shade of blue. She has a bohemian vibe about her…not someone I’d automatically associate with the golf club set. Perhaps she’s dressed that way because she’s out with her young, beautiful daughter.
This is priceless.
Seize the day, Grey.
I fish my phone out of my jeans pocket. It’s time to e-mail Ana. This should be interesting. I’ll test her mood…and I get to watch.
* * *
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Dinner Companions
Date: June 1 2011 21:40 EST
To: Anastasia Steele
Yes, I had dinner with Mrs. Robinson. She is just an old friend, Anastasia.
Looking forward to seeing you again. I miss you.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
Her mother looks earnest; maybe she’s concerned for her daughter, or maybe she’s trying to extract information from her.
Good luck, Mrs. Adams.
And for a moment I wonder if they’re discussing me. Her mother stands; it looks like she’s visiting the restroom. Ana checks her purse and pulls out her BlackBerry.
Here we go…
She begins to read, her shoulders hunched over, her fingers flexing and drumming on the table. She starts tapping furiously at the keys. I can’t see her face, which is frustrating, but I don’t think she’s impressed with what she’s just read. A moment later she abandons the phone on the table in what appears to be disgust.
That’s not good.
Her mother returns and signals one of the waiters for another round of drinks. I wonder how many they’ve had.
I check my phone, and sure enough, there’s a response.
* * *
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: OLD Dinner Companions
Date: June 1 2011 21:42 EST
To: Christian Grey
She’s not just an old friend.
Has she found another adolescent boy to sink her teeth into?
Did you get too old for her?
Is that the reason your relationship finished?
What the hell? My temper simmers as I read.
Isaac is in his late twenties.
Like me.
How dare she?
Is it the drink talking?
Time to declare yourself, Grey.
* * *
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Careful…
Date: June 1 2011 21:45 EST
To: Anastasia Steele
This is not something I wish to discuss via e-mail.
How many Cosmopolitans are you going to drink?
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
She studies her phone, sits up suddenly, and looks around the room.
Showtime, Grey.
I deposit ten bucks on the counter and saunter over to them.
Our eyes meet. She blanches—shocked, I think—and I don’t know how she’ll greet me, or how I’ll contain my temper if she says anything else about Elena.
She tucks her hair behind her ears with restless fingers. A sure sign that she’s nervous. “Hi,” she says, her voice strained and high-pitched.
“Hi.” I lean down and kiss her cheek. She smells amazing, even if she does tense as my lips brush her skin. She looks lovely; she’s caught some sun, and she’s not wearing a bra. Her breasts are straining against the silky material of her top, but hidden by her long hair.
For my eyes only, I hope.
And even though she’s mad, I’m glad to see her. I’ve missed her.
“Christian, this is my mother, Carla.” Ana gestures to her mom.
“Mrs. Adams, I am delighted to meet you.”
Her mom’s eyes are all over me.
Shit! She’s checking me out. Best ignore it, Grey.
After a longer-than-necessary pause, she reaches out to shake my hand. “Christian.”
“What are you doing here?” Ana asks, her tone accusatory.
“I came to see you, of course. I’m staying in this hotel.”
“You’re staying here?” she squeaks.
Yes. I can’t quite believe it, either. “Well, yesterday you said you wished I was here.” I’m trying to gauge her reaction. So far there’s been: nervous fidgeting, tensing, an accusatory tone, and a strained voice. This is not going well. “We aim to please, Miss Steele,” I add, deadpan, hoping to put her in a good mood.
“Won’t you join us for a drink, Christian?” Mrs. Adams says graciously, and catches the eye of the waiter.
I need something stronger than beer. “I’ll have a gin and tonic,” I tell the waiter. “Hendrick’s, if you have it, or Bombay Sapphire. Cucumber with the Hendrick’s, lime with the Bombay.”
“And two more Cosmos, please,” Ana adds, with an anxious look at me.
She’s right to be anxious. I think she’s had enough to drink already.
“Please pull up a chair, Christian.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Adams.”
I do as she asks, and sit down beside Ana.
“So you just happen to be staying in the hotel where we’re drinking?” Ana’s tone is tense.
“Or you just happen to be drinking in the hotel where I’m staying. I just finished dinner, came in here, and saw you. I was distracted, thinking about your most recent e-mail”—I give her a pointed look—“and I glance up and there you are. Quite a coincidence, eh?”
Ana looks flustered. “My mother and I were shopping this morning and on the beach this afternoon. We decided on a few cocktails this evening,” she says hurriedly, as if she has to justify drinking in a bar with her mother.
“Did you buy that top?” I ask. She really does look stunning. Her camisole is emerald green; I’ve made the right choices—gem colors—for the clothes Caroline Acton has selected for her. “The color suits you. And you’ve caught some sun. You look lovely.” Her cheeks color and her lips lift at my compliment. “Well, I was going to pay you a visit tomorrow. But here you are.” I take her hand, because I want to touch her, and I give it a gentle squeeze. Slowly I caress her knuckles with my thumb, and her breathing alters.
Yes, Ana. Feel it.
Don’t be mad at me.
Her eyes meet mine, and I’m rewarded with her coy smile.
“I thought I’d surprise you. But as ever, Anastasia, you surprise me by being here. I don’t want to interrupt the time you have with your mother. I’ll have a quick drink and then retire. I have work to do.” I resist kissing her knuckles. I don’t know what she’s said to her mother about us, if anything.
“Christian, it’s lovely to meet you finally. Ana has spoken very fondly of you,” Mrs. Adams says, with a charming smile.
“Really?” I glance at Ana, who’s blushing.
Fondly, eh?
This is good news.
The waiter places my gin and tonic in front of me.
“Hendrick’s, sir.”
“Thank you.”
He serves Ana and her mother fresh Cosmopolitans.
“How long are you in Georgia, Christian?” her mom asks.
“Until Friday, Mrs. Adams.”
“Will you have dinner with us tomorrow evening? And please, call me Carla.”
“I’d be delighted to, Carla.”
“Excellent,” she says. “If you two will excuse me, I need to visit the restroom.”
Hasn’t she just been to the restroom?
I stand as she leaves, then sit down again to face the wrath of Miss Steele. I take her hand once more. “So, you’re mad at me for having dinner with an old friend.” I kiss each knuckle.
/> “Yes.” She’s curt.
Is she jealous?
“Our sexual relationship was over long ago, Anastasia. I don’t want anyone but you. Haven’t you worked that out yet?”
“I think of her as a child molester, Christian.”
My scalp tingles in shock. “That’s very judgmental. It wasn’t like that.” I release her hand in frustration.
“Oh, how was it, then?” she snaps, sticking out her stubborn little chin.
Is this the drink talking?
She continues, “She took advantage of a vulnerable fifteen-year-old boy. If you had been a fifteen-year-old girl and Mrs. Robinson was a Mr. Robinson, tempting you into a BDSM lifestyle, that would have been okay? If it was Mia, say?”
Oh, now she’s being ridiculous. “Ana, it wasn’t like that.”
Her eyes flash. She’s really angry. Why? This has nothing to do with her. But I don’t want a full-blown argument here in the bar. I moderate my voice. “Okay, it didn’t feel like that to me. She was a force for good. What I needed.” Good God, I’d probably be dead by now if it wasn’t for Elena. I’m struggling to control my temper.
Her brow furrows. “I don’t understand.”
Shut her down, Grey.
“Anastasia, your mother will be back shortly. I’m not comfortable talking about this now. Later, maybe. If you don’t want me here, I have a plane on standby at Hilton Head. I can go.”
Her expression changes to panic. “No—don’t go. Please. I’m thrilled you’re here,” she adds quickly.
Thrilled? You could have fooled me.
“I’m just trying to make you understand,” she says. “I’m angry that as soon as I left, you had dinner with her. Think about how you are when I get anywhere near José. José is a good friend. I have never had a sexual relationship with him. Whereas you and her—”
“You’re jealous?”
How can I make her realize that Elena and I are friends? She has nothing to be jealous about.
Clearly, Miss Steele is possessive.
And it takes me a moment to realize that I like that.
“Yes, and angry about what she did to you,” she continues.
“Anastasia, she helped me. That’s all I’ll say about that. And as for your jealousy, put yourself in my shoes. I haven’t had to justify my actions to anyone in the last seven years. Not one person. I do as I wish, Anastasia. I like my autonomy. I didn’t go and see Mrs. Robinson to upset you. I went because every now and then we have dinner. She’s a friend and a business partner.”
