I line up on the white ball and with a swift clean stroke,
hit the center ball of the triangle square on with such force
that a striped ball spins and plunges into the top right
pocket. I’ve scattered the rest of the balls.
“I choose stripes,” I say innocently, smiling coyly at
Christian. His mouth twists in amusement.
“Be my guest,” he says politely.
I proceed to pocket the next three balls in quick
succession. Inside, I’m dancing. At this moment, I am so
grateful to José for teaching me to play pool and play it
well. Christian watches impassively, giving nothing away,
but his amusement seems to ebb. I miss the green stripe by
a hairsbreadth.
“You know, Anastasia, I could stand here and watch
you leaning and stretching across this billiard table all day,”
he says appreciatively.
he says appreciatively.
I flush. Thank heavens I am wearing my jeans. He
smirks. He’s trying to put me off my game, the bastard. He
pulls his cream sweater over his head, tosses it onto the
back of a chair, and grins at me, as he saunters over to
take his first shot.
He bends low over the table. My mouth goes dry. Oh,
I see what he means. Christian in tight jeans and white Tshirt,
bending, like that . . . is something to behold. I quite
lose my train of thought. He sinks four solids rapidly, then
fouls by sinking the white.
“A very elementary mistake, Mr. Grey,” I tease.
He smirks. “Ah, Miss Steele, I am but a foolish mortal.
Your go, I believe.” He waves at the table.
“You’re not trying to lose are you?”
“Oh no. For what I have in mind as the prize, I want to
win, Anastasia.” He shrugs casually. “But then, I always
want to win.”
I narrow my eyes at him. Right then . . . I’m so glad
I’m wearing my blue blouse, which is pleasingly low-cut. I
I’m wearing my blue blouse, which is pleasingly low-cut. I
stalk around the table, bending low at every available
opportunity—giving Christian an eyeful of my behind and
my cleavage whenever I can. Two can play at that game. I
glance at him.
“I know what you’re doing,” he whispers, his eyes
dark.
I tilt my head coquettishly to one side, gently fondling
my cue, running my hand up and down it slowly. “Oh. I am
just deciding where to take my next shot,” I murmur
distractedly.
Leaning across, I hit the orange stripe into a better
position. I then stand directly in front of Christian and take
the rest from underneath the table. I line up my next shot,
leaning right over the table. I hear Christian’s sharp intake
of breath, and of course, I miss. Shit.
He comes to stand behind me while I am still bent over
the table and places his hand on my backside. Hmm . . .
“Are you waving this around to taunt me, Miss
Steele?” And he smacks me, hard.
I gasp. “Yes,” I mutter, because it’s true.
“Be careful what you wish for, baby.”
I rub my behind as he wanders to the other end of the
table, leans over, and takes his shot. Jeez, I could look at
him all day. He hits the red ball, and it shoots into the left
side pocket. He aims for the yellow, top right, and it just
misses. I grin.
“Red Room here we come,” I taunt him.
He merely raises an eyebrow and directs me to
continue. I make quick work of the green stripe and by
some fluke, manage to knock in the final orange stripe.
“Name your pocket,” Christian murmurs, and it’s as if
he’s talking about something else, something dark and
rude.
“Top left-hand.” I take aim over the black, hit it, but
miss. It skirts wide. Damn.
Christian smiles a wicked grin as he leans over the
table and makes short work of the two remaining solids. I
am practically panting, watching him, his lithe body
stretching over the table. He stands and chalks his cue, his
stretching over the table. He stands and chalks his cue, his
eyes burning into me.
“If I win . . .”
Oh yes?
“I am going to spank you, then fuck you over this
billiard table.”
Holy shit. Every single muscle south of my navel
clenches hard.
“Top right,” he murmurs, pointing to the black, and
bends to take the shot.
de Saint-Exupéry, Antoine. Night Flight. Translated by Stuart Gilbert.
New Jersey: Prentice Hall, June 1932. (First published in 1931 under the
original title of Vol de nuit.)
With easy grace, Christian taps the white ball so that it
glides across the table, kisses the black and oh-so-slowly
the black rolls, teeters on the edge, and finally drops into
the top right pocket of the billiard table.
Damn.
He stands, and his mouth twists in a triumphant I-soown-
you-Steele smile. Putting down his cue, he saunters
casually toward me, all tousled hair, jeans, and white Tshirt.
He doesn’t look like a CEO—he looks like a bad
boy from the wrong side of town. Holy cow, he’s so
fucking sexy.
“You’re not going to be a sore loser, are you?” he
murmurs, barely containing his grin.
“Depends how hard you spank me,” I whisper, holding
on to my cue for support. He takes my cue and puts it to
one side, hooks his finger into the top of my shirt, and pulls
me toward him.
“Well, let’s count your misdemeanors, Miss Steele.”
He counts on his long fingers. “One, making me jealous of
my own staff. Two, arguing with me about working. And
three, waving your delectable derriere at me for the last
twenty minutes.”
His eyes glow a soft gray with excitement, and leaning
down, he rubs his nose against mine. “I want you to take
your jeans and this very fetching shirt off. Now.” He plants
a feather-soft kiss on my lips, wanders nonchalantly over
to the door, and locks it.
Oh my.
When he turns and gazes at me, his eyes are burning. I
stand paralyzed like a complete zombie, my heart
pounding, my blood pumping, not actually able to move a
muscle. In my mind, all I can think is—this is for him—
the thought repeating like a mantra over and over again.
“Clothes, Anastasia. You appear to still be wearing
them. Take them off—or I will do it for you.”
“You do it.” I finally find my voice, and it sounds low
and heated. Christian grins.
“Oh, Miss Steele. It’s a dirty job, but I think I can rise
to the challenge.”
“You normally rise to most challenges, Mr. Grey.” I
raise an eyebrow at him, and he smirks.
“Why, Miss Steele, whatever do you mean?” On his
way over to me, he pauses at the small desk built into one
of the bookshelves. Reaching over, he picks up a twelveinch
Perspex ruler. He holds each end and flexes it, his
eyes not leaving mine.
Holy shit—his weapon of choice. My mouth goes
dry.
dry.
Suddenly, I’m hot and bothered and damp in all the
right places. Only Christian could turn me on with just a
look and the flex of a ruler. He slips it into the back pocket
of his jeans and ambles toward me, eyes dark and full of
promise. Without saying a word, he drops to his knees in
front of me and starts to undo my laces, quickly and
efficiently, dragging both my Converse and socks off. I
lean on the side of the billiard table so I don’t fall. Gazing
down at him as he undoes my laces, I marvel at the depth
of feeling that I have for this beautiful flawed man. I love
him.
He grabs my hips, slips his fingers into the waistband of
my jeans, and undoes the button and zipper. He peers up
through his long lashes, grinning his most salacious grin as
he slowly peels my jeans off. I step out of them, glad that
I’m wearing these pretty, pretty panties, and he grasps the
back of my legs and runs his nose along the apex of my
thighs. I practically melt.
“I want to be quite rough with you, Ana. You’ll have to
tell me to stop if it’s too much,” he breathes.
Oh my. He kisses me . . . there. I moan softly.
“Safe word?” I murmur.
“No, no safe word, just tell me to stop, and I’ll stop.
Understand?” He kisses me again, nuzzling me. Oh, that
feels good. He stands, his stare intense. “Answer me,” he
orders his voice velvet soft.
“Yes, yes, I understand.” I’m puzzled by his insistence.
“You’ve been dropping hints and giving me mixed
signals all day, Anastasia,” he says. “You said you were
signals all day, Anastasia,” he says. “You said you were
worried I’d lost my edge. I’m not sure what you meant by
that, and I don’t know how serious you were, but we are
going to find out. I don’t want to go back into the
playroom yet, so we can try this now, but if you don’t like
it, you must promise to tell me.” A burning intensity born of
his anxiety replaces his earlier cockiness.
Whoa, please don’t be anxious, Christian. “I’ll tell
you. No safe word,” I reiterate to reassure him.
“We’re lovers, Anastasia. Lovers don’t need safe
words.” He frowns. “Do they?”
“I guess not,” I murmur. Jeez—how do I know? “I
promise.”
He searches my face for any clue that I might lack the
courage of my convictions, and I’m nervous but excited,
too. I’m much happier to do this, knowing that he loves
me. It’s very simple to me, and right now, I don’t want to
overthink it.
A slow smile stretches across his face, and he starts to
unbutton my shirt, his deft fingers making short work of it,
though he doesn’t take it off. He leans over and picks up
the cue.
Oh fuck, what’s he going to do with that ? A frisson
of fear runs through me.
“You play well, Miss Steele. I must say I’m surprised.
Why don’t you sink the black?”
My fear forgotten, I pout, wondering why the hell he
should be surprised—sexy, arrogant bastard. My inner
goddess is limbering up in the background, doing her floor
exercises—a great fat smile on her face.
exercises—a great fat smile on her face.
I position the white ball. Christian strolls back around
the table and stands right behind me as I lean over to take
my shot. He places his hand on my right thigh and runs his
fingers up and down my leg, up to my behind and back
again, lightly stroking me.
“I am going to miss if you keep doing that,” I whisper,
closing my eyes and relishing the feel of his hands on me.
“I don’t care if you hit or miss, baby. I just wanted to
see you like this—partially dressed, stretched out on my
billiard table. Do you have any idea how hot you look at
the moment?”
I flush, and my inner goddess grabs a rose between her
teeth and starts to tango. Taking a deep breath, I try to
ignore him and line up my shot. It’s impossible. He
caresses my behind, over and over again.
“Top left,” I murmur, then hit the white ball. He smacks
me hard, squarely on my backside.
It’s so unexpected, I yelp. The white hits the black,
which bounces off the cushion wide of the pocket.
Christian caresses my behind again.
“Oh, I think you need to try that again,” he whispers.
“You should concentrate, Anastasia.”
I am panting now, excited by this game. He strolls to
the end of the table, sets up the black ball again, then runs
the white ball back down to me. He looks so carnal, dark
eyed with a lascivious smile. How could I ever resist this
man? I catch the ball and line it up, ready to strike again.
“Uh-uh,” he admonishes. “Just wait.” Oh, he just loves
prolonging the agony. He wanders back and stands behind
prolonging the agony. He wanders back and stands behind
me again. I close my eyes once more as he strokes my left
thigh this time then fondles my backside again.
“Take aim,” he breathes.
I can’t help my moan as desire twists and turns inside
me. And I try, really try, to think about where I should hit
the black with the white. I shift slightly to my right, and he
follows me. I bend over the table once more. Using every
last vestige of inner strength—which has diminished
considerably since I know what will happen once I strike
the white ball—I take aim and hit the white again. Christian
smacks me once more, hard.
Ow! I miss again. “Oh no!” I groan.
“Once more, baby. And if you miss this time, I’m really
going to let you have it.”
What? Have what?
He sets up the black ball once more and walks,
achingly slow, back to me until he’s standing behind me,
caressing my backside once more.
“You can do it,” he coaxes.
Oh—not when you’re distracting me like this. I
push my behind back against his hand, and he smacks me
lightly.
“Eager, Miss Steele?” he murmurs.
Yes. I want you.
“Well, let’s get rid of these.” He gently slides my
panties down my thighs and off. I can’t see what he does
with them, but he leaves me feeling exposed as he plants a
soft kiss on each cheek.
“Take the shot, baby.”
“Take the shot, baby.”
I want to whimper, this is so not going to happen. I
know I am going to miss. I line up the white, hit it, and in
my impatience, miss the black completely. I wait for the
blow—but it doesn’t come. Instead he leans right over me,
flattening me against the table, takes the cue out of my
hand and rolls it to the side cushion. I can feel him, hard,
against my backside.
“You missed,” he says softly in my ear. My cheek is
pressed against the baize. “Put your hands flat on the
table.”
I do as he says.
“Good. I’m going to spank you now and next time,
maybe you won’t.” He shifts so he’s standing to my left
side, his erection against my hip.
I groan and my heart leaps into my mouth. My breath
comes in short pants and a hot, heavy excitement courses
through my veins. Gently, he caresses my behind and curls
his other hand around the nape of my neck, his fingers
fisting in my hair, his elbow at my back, holding me down.
I am completely helpless.
“Open your legs,” he murmurs and for a moment, I
hesitate. And he smacks me hard—with the ruler! The
noise is harsher than the sting, and it takes me by surprise.
I gasp, and he hits me again.
“Legs,” he orders. I open my legs, panting. The ruler
strikes again. Ow—it stings, but its crack across my skin
sounds worse than it feels.
I close my eyes and absorb the pain. It’s not too bad,
and Christian’s breathing becomes harsher. He hits me
and Christian’s breathing becomes harsher. He hits me
again and again, and I moan. I am not sure how many
more strokes I can bear—but hearing him, knowing how
turned on he is, feeds my arousal and my willingness to
continue. I am crossing to the dark side, a place in my
psyche I don’t know well but have visited before in the
playroom—with the Tallis. The ruler strikes once more,
and I moan loudly, and Christian groans in response. He
hits me again—and again . . . and once more . . . harder
this time—and I wince.
“Stop.” The word is out of my mouth before I’m even
aware that I’ve said it. Christian drops the ruler
immediately and releases me.
“Enough?” he whispers.
“Yes.”
“I want to fuck you now,” he says, his voice strained.
“Yes,” I murmur with longing. He undoes his fly, as I
lie panting on the table, knowing that he’s going to be
rough.
I marvel once more at how I have managed—and yes,
enjoyed— what he’s done to me up to this point. It’s so
dark but so him.
He eases two fingers inside me and moves them in a
circular motion. The feeling is exquisite. Closing my eyes, I
revel in the sensation. I hear the telltale rip of foil, then he’s
standing behind me, between my legs, pushing them wider.
Slowly he sinks into me, filling me. I hear his groan of
pure pleasure, and it stirs my soul. He grasps my hips
firmly, eases out of me again, and this time slams back into
me, causing me to cry out. He stills for a moment.
“Again?” he asks softly.
“Yes . . . I’m fine. Lose yourself . . . take me with
you,” I murmur breathlessly.
He moans low in his throat, eases out of me once
more, then slams into me, and repeats this over and over
slowly, deliberately—a punishing, brutal, heavenly rhythm.
Oh fucking my . . . My insides begin to quicken. He
feels it, too, and increases the rhythm, pushing me, higher,
harder, faster—and I surrender, exploding around him—a
draining, soul-grabbing orgasm that leaves me spent and
exhausted.
I’m vaguely aware that Christian, too, is letting go,
calling my name, his fingers digging into my hips, and then
he stills and collapses on me. We sink to the floor, and he
cradles me in his arms.
“Thank you, baby,” he breathes, covering my upturned
face in soft feather-light kisses. I open my eyes and gaze
up at him, and he wraps his arms tighter around me.
“Your cheek is pink from the baize,” he murmurs,
rubbing my face tenderly. “How was that?” His eyes are
wide and cautious.
“Teeth-clenchingly good,” I mutter. “I like it rough,
Christian, and I like it gentle, too. I like that it’s with you.”
He closes his eyes and hugs me even tighter.
Jeez, I’m tired.
“You never fail, Ana. You are beautiful, bright,
challenging, fun, sexy, and I thank divine providence every
day that it was you that came to interview me and not
Katherine Kavanagh.” He kisses my hair. I smile and yawn
against his chest. “I’m wearing you out,” he continues.
“Come. Bath, then bed.”
We are both in Christian’s bath, facing each other chindeep
in foam, the sweet scent of jasmine enveloping us.
Christian is massaging my feet, one at a time. It feels so
good it should be illegal.
“Can I ask you something?” I murmur.
“Of course. Anything, Ana, you know that.”
I take a deep breath and sit up, flinching only slightly.
“Tomorrow—when I go to work—can Sawyer just
deliver me to the front door of the office then pick me up
at the end of the day? Please, Christian. Please,” I plead.
His hands still as his brow creases. “I thought we
agreed,” he grumbles.
“Please,” I beg.
“What about lunchtime?”
“I’ll make myself something to take from here so I
don’t have to go out, please.”
He kisses my instep. “I find it very difficult to say no to
you,” he mutters as if he senses this is a failing on his part.
“You won’t go out?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
I beam at him. “Thank you.” I lean up onto my knees,
sloshing water everywhere, and kiss him.
“You’re most welcome, Miss Steele. How’s your
“You’re most welcome, Miss Steele. How’s your
behind?”
“Sore. But not too bad. The water is soothing.”
“I’m glad you told me to stop,” he says, gazing at me.
“So is my behind.”
He grins.
I stretch out in bed, so tired. It’s only ten thirty, but it feels
like three in the morning. This has to be one of the most
exhausting weekends of my life.
“Didn’t Ms. Acton provide any nightwear?” Christian
asks, his voice laced with disapproval as he stares down at
me.
“I have no idea. I like wearing your T-shirts,” I mumble
sleepily.
His face softens, and he leans over and kisses my
forehead.
“I need to work. But I don’t want to leave you alone.
Can I use your laptop to log in to the office? Will I disturb
you if I work from here?”
“S’not my laptop.” I drift.
The alarm clicks on, startling me awake with the traffic
news. Christian is still asleep beside me. Rubbing my eyes,
I glance at the clock. Six thirty—too early.
It’s raining outside for the first time in ages, and the
light is muted and mellow. I’m cozy and comfortable in this
vast modern monolith with Christian at my side. I stretch
vast modern monolith with Christian at my side. I stretch
and turn to the delicious man beside me. His eyes spring
open and he blinks sleepily.
“Good morning.” I smile and caress his face, leaning
down to kiss him.
“Good morning, baby. I usually wake before the alarm
goes off,” he murmurs in wonder.
“It’s set so early.”
“That it is, Miss Steele.” Christian grins. “I have to get
up.” He kisses me, and then he’s up and out of bed. I flop
back against the pillows. Wow, waking up on a school
day next to Christian Grey. How did this all happen? I
close my eyes and doze.
“Come on, sleepyhead, get up.” Christian leans over
me. He’s shaved, clean, fresh—Hmm, he smells so
good—in a crisp white shirt and black suit, no tie—the
CEO is back. Holy Moses, he looks good like this, too.
“What?” he asks.
“I wish you’d come back to bed.”
His lips part, surprised by my come-on, and he smiles
almost shyly. “You are insatiable, Miss Steele. As much as
that idea appeals, I have an eight thirty meeting, so I have
to go shortly.”
Oh, I’ve slept for another hour or so. Shit. I leap out
of bed, much to Christian’s amusement.
I shower and dress quickly, wearing the clothes I set out
yesterday: a fitted, gray pencil skirt; pale-gray silk shirt;
and high-heeled black pumps, all care of my new
and high-heeled black pumps, all care of my new
wardrobe. I brush my hair and carefully put it up, then
wander out to the great room, not really knowing what to
expect. How am I going to get to work?
Christian is sipping coffee at the breakfast bar. Mrs.
Jones is in the kitchen making pancakes and bacon.
“You look lovely,” Christian murmurs. Wrapping an
arm around me, he kisses me under my ear. Out of the
corner of my eye, I catch Mrs. Jones’s smile. I flush.
“Good morning, Miss Steele,” she says as she places
pancakes and bacon in front of me.
“Oh, thank you. Good morning,” I mumble. Jeez—I
could get used to this.
“Mr. Grey says you’d like to take lunch with you to
work. What would you like to eat?”
I glance at Christian, who is trying very hard not to
smirk. I narrow my eyes at him.
“A sandwich . . . salad. I really don’t mind.” I beam at
Mrs. Jones.
“I’ll rustle up a packed lunch for you, ma’am.”
“Please, Mrs. Jones, call me Ana.”
“Ana.” She smiles and turns to make me tea.
Wow . . . this is so cool.
I turn and cock my head at Christian, challenging him
—go on, accuse me of flirting with Mrs. Jones.
“I have to go, baby. Taylor will come back and drop
you at work with Sawyer.”
“Only to the door.”
“Yes. Only to the door.” Christian rolls his eyes. “Be
careful, though.”
I glance around and spy Taylor standing in the
entranceway. Christian stands and kisses me, grasping my
chin.
“Laters, baby.”
“Have a good day at the office, dear,” I call after him.
He turns and flashes me his beautiful smile then he’s gone.
Mrs. Jones hands me a cup of tea, and suddenly I feel
awkward with just the two of us here.
“How long have you worked for Christian?” I ask,
thinking I ought to make some kind of conversation.
“Four years or so,” she says pleasantly, as she sets
about making my packed lunch.
“You know, I can do that,” I mutter, embarrassed that
she should be doing this for me.
“You eat your breakfast, Ana. This is what I do. I
enjoy it. It’s nice to look after someone other than Mr.
Taylor and Mr. Grey.” She smiles very sweetly at me.
My cheeks pink with pleasure, and I want to bombard
this woman with questions. She must know so much about
Fifty, and although her manner is warm and friendly, it’s
also very professional. I know I’ll only embarrass both of
us if I start quizzing her, so I finish my breakfast in a
reasonably comfortable silence, punctuated only by her
questions on my food preferences for lunch.
Twenty-five minutes later Sawyer appears at the
entrance to the great room. I have brushed my teeth, and
I’m waiting to go. Clutching my brown paper lunch bag—I
can’t even remember my mom doing this for me—Sawyer
and I head to the first floor via the elevator. He’s very
taciturn, too, giving nothing away. Taylor is waiting in the
Audi, and I climb into the rear passenger seat when
Sawyer opens the door.
“Good morning, Taylor,” I say brightly.
“Miss Steele.” He smiles.
“Taylor, I’m sorry about yesterday and my
inappropriate remarks. I hope I didn’t get you into
trouble.”
Taylor frowns in bemusement at me from the rearview
mirror as he pulls out into the Seattle traffic.
“Miss Steele, I’m rarely in trouble,” he says
reassuringly.
Oh good. Maybe Christian didn’t tell him off. Just
me, then, I think sourly.
“I’m glad to hear it, Taylor.” I smile.
Jack gazes at me, assessing my appearance, as I make my
way to my desk.
“Morning, Ana. Good weekend?”
“Yes, thanks. You?”
“It was good. Get settled in—I have work for you to
do.”
I nod and sit down at my computer. It seems like years
since I was at work. I switch on my computer and fire up
my e-mail program—and of course there’s an e-mail from
Christian.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Boss
Date: June 13, 2011 08:24
To: Anastasia Steele
Good morning, Miss Steele
I just wanted to say thank you for a wonderful weekend in spite of
all the drama.
I hope you never leave, ever.
And just to remind you that the news of SIP is embargoed for four
weeks.
Delete this e-mail as soon as you’ve read it.
Yours
Christian Grey,
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc. & Your boss’s boss’s boss.
Hope I never leave? Does he want me to move in? Holy
Moses . . . I barely know the man. I press delete.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Bossy
Date: June 13, 2011: 09:03
To: Christian Grey
To: Christian Grey
Dear Mr. Grey
Are you asking me to move in with you? And of course, I
remembered that the evidence of your epic stalking capabilities is
embargoed for another four weeks. Do I make a check out to
Coping Together and send to your dad? Please don’t delete this
e-mail. Please respond to it.
ILY xxx
Anastasia Steele
Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, SIP
“Ana!” Jack makes me jump.
“Yes,” I flush, and Jack frowns at me.
“Everything okay?”
“Sure.” I scramble up and take my notebook into his
office.
“Good. As you probably remember, I’m going to that
Commissioning Fiction Symposium in New York on
Thursday. I have tickets and reservations, but I’d like you
to come with me.”
“To New York?”
“Yes. We’ll need to go Wednesday and stay
overnight. I think you’ll find it a very educational
experience.” His eyes darken as he says this, but his smile
is polite. “Would you make the necessary travel
arrangements? And book an additional room at the hotel
where I am staying? I think Sabrina, my previous PA, left
where I am staying? I think Sabrina, my previous PA, left
all the details handy somewhere.”
“Okay.” I smile wanly at Jack.
Crap. I wander back to my desk. This is not going to
go down well with Fifty—but the fact is, I want to go. It
sounds like a real opportunity, and I’m sure I can keep
Jack at arm’s length if that’s his ulterior motive. Back at
my desk there’s a response from Christian.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Me, Bossy?
Date: June 13, 2011 09:07
To: Anastasia Steele
Yes. Please.
Christian Grey,
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
Jeez . . . he does want me to move in. Oh, Christian—it’s
too soon. I put my head in my hands to try and recover my
wits. This is all I need after my extraordinary weekend. I
haven’t had a moment to myself to think through and
understand all that I have experienced and discovered
these last two days.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Flynnisms
Date: June 13, 2011: 09:20
To: Christian Grey
Christian
What happened to walking before we run?
Can we talk about this tonight, please?
I’ve been asked to go to a conference in New York on Thursday.
It means an overnight stay on Wednesday.
Just thought you should know.
A x
Anastasia Steele
Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, SIP
From: Christian Grey
Subject: WHAT?
Date: June 13, 2011 09:21
To: Anastasia Steele
Yes. Let’s talk this evening.
Are you going on your own?
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: No Bold Shouty Capitals on a Monday Morning!
Date: June 13, 2011: 09:30
To: Christian Grey
Can we talk about this tonight?
A x
Anastasia Steele
Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, SIP
From: Christian Grey
Subject: You Haven’t Seen Shouty Yet.
Date: June 13, 2011 09:35
To: Anastasia Steele
Tell me.
If it’s with the sleazeball you work with, then the answer is no,
over my dead body.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
My heart sinks. Shit—it’s like he’s my dad.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: No YOU haven’t seen shouty yet.
Date: June 13, 2011 09:46
To: Christian Grey
Yes. It is with Jack.
I want to go. It’s an exciting opportunity for me.
And I have never been to New York.
Don’t get your knickers in a twist.
Anastasia Steele
Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, SIP
From: Christian Grey
Subject: No YOU haven’t seen shouty yet.
Date: June 13, 2011 09:50
To: Anastasia Steele
Anastasia
It’s not my fucking knickers I am worried about.
The answer is NO.
Christian Grey
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
“No!” I shout at my computer, causing the entire office to
come to a standstill and stare at me. Jack peers out from
his office.
“Everything all right, Ana?”
“Yes. Sorry,” I mutter. “I er . . . just didn’t save a
document.” I am scarlet with embarrassment. He smiles at
me but with a puzzled expression. I take several deep
breaths and quickly type a response. I am so mad.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Fifty Shades
Date: June 13, 2011 09:55
To: Christian Grey
Christian
You need to get a grip.
I am NOT going to sleep with Jack—not for all the tea in China.
I LOVE you. That’s what happens when people love each other.
They TRUST each other.
I don’t think you are going to SLEEP WITH, SPANK, FUCK, or
WHIP anyone else. I have FAITH and TRUST in you.
Please extend the same COURTESY to me.
Ana
Anastasia Steele
Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, SIP
I sit waiting for his response. Nothing arrives. I call the
airline and book a ticket for myself, ensuring I am on the
same flight as Jack. I hear the ping of new mail.
From: Lincoln, Elena
Subject: Lunch Date
Date: June 13, 2011 10:15
To: Anastasia Steele
Dear Anastasia
I would really like to have lunch with you. I think we got off on the
wrong foot, and I’d like to make that right. Are you free sometime
this week?
Elena Lincoln
Holy crap—not Mrs. Robinson! How the hell did she find
out my e-mail address? I put my head in my hands. Can
this day get any worse?
My phone rings and wearily I lift my head from my
hands and answer, glancing at the clock. It is only ten
hands and answer, glancing at the clock. It is only ten
twenty, and already I wish I hadn’t left Christian’s bed.
“Jack Hyde’s office, Ana Steele speaking.”
An achingly familiar voice snarls at me, “Will you
please delete the last e-mail you sent me and try to be a
little more circumspect in the language you use in your
work e-mail? I told you, the system is monitored. I shall
endeavor to do some damage limitation from here.” He
hangs up.
Holy fuck . . . I sit staring at the phone. Christian hung
up on me. That man is stomping all over my fledgling
career, and he hangs up on me? I glare at the receiver, and
if it wasn’t completely inanimate, I know it would shrivel in
horror under my withering stare.
I open my e-mails and delete the one I sent him. It’s
not that bad. I just mention spanking and well, whipping.
Jeez, if he’s so ashamed of it, he damn well shouldn’t do it.
I pick up my Blackberry and call his mobile.
“What?” he snaps.
“I am going to New York whether you like it or not,” I
hiss.
“Don’t count—”
I hang up, cutting him off mid-sentence. Adrenaline is
coursing through my body. There—that told him. I am so
mad.
I take a deep breath, trying to compose myself.
Closing my eyes, I imagine that I am in my happy place.
Hmm . . . a boat cabin with Christian. I shake the image
off as I am too mad at Fifty right now for him to be
anywhere near my happy place.
anywhere near my happy place.
Opening my eyes, I calmly reach for my notebook and
carefully run through my to do list. I take a long, deep
breath, my equilibrium restored.
“Ana!” Jack shouts, startling me. “Don’t book that
flight!”
“Oh, too late. I’ve done it,” I reply as he strides out of
his office over to me. He looks mad.
“Look, there’s something going on. For some reason,
suddenly, all travel and hotel expenses for staff have to be
approved by senior management. This has come right from
the top. I am going up to see old Roach. Apparently, a
moratorium on all spending has just been implemented. I
don’t understand it.” Jack pinches the bridge of his nose
and closes his eyes.
Most of the blood drains from my face and knots form
in my stomach. Fifty!
“Take my calls. I’ll go see what Roach has to say.” He
winks at me and strides off to see his boss—not the boss’s
boss.
Damn it. Christian Grey . . . My blood starts to boil
again.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: What have you done?
Date: June 13, 2011 10:43
To: Christian Grey
Please tell me you won’t interfere with my work.
I really want to go to this conference.
I shouldn’t have to ask you.
I have deleted the offending e-mail.
Anastasia Steele
Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, SIP
From: Christian Grey
Subject: What have you done?
Date: June 13, 2011 10:46
To: Anastasia Steele
I am just protecting what is mine.
The e-mail that you so rashly sent is wiped from the SIP server
now, as are my e-mails to you.
Incidentally, I trust you implicitly. It’s him I don’t trust.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
I check to see if I still have his e-mails, and they have
disappeared. This man’s influence knows no bounds. How
does he do this? Who does he know that can stealthily
delve into the depths of SIP’s servers and remove emails?
I am so out of my league here.
mails? I am so out of my league here.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Grown Up
Date: June 13, 2011 10:43
To: Christian Grey
Christian
I don’t need protecting from my own boss.
He may make a pass at me, but I shall say no.
You cannot interfere. It’s wrong and controlling on so many
levels.
Anastasia Steele
Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, SIP
From: Christian Grey
Subject: The Answer is NO
Date: June 13, 2011 10.50
To: Anastasia Steele
Ana
I have seen how “effective” you are at fighting off unwanted
attention. I remember that’s how I had the pleasure of spending
my first night with you. At least the photographer has feelings for
you. The sleazeball, on the other hand, does not. He is a serial
philanderer, and he will try to seduce you. Ask him what
happened to his previous PA and the one before that.
I don’t want to fight about this.
If you want to go to New York, I’ll take you. We can go this
weekend. I have an apartment there.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
Oh, Christian! That’s not the point. He’s so damn
frustrating. And of course he has an apartment there.
Where else does he own property? Trust him to bring up
José. Will I ever live that down? I was drunk, for heaven’s
sake. I wouldn’t get drunk with Jack.
I shake my head at the screen, but figure I cannot
continue to argue with him over e-mail. I shall have to bide
my time until this evening. I check the clock. Jack is still
not back from his meeting with Jerry, and I need to deal
with Elena. I read her e-mail again and decide that the best
way to handle it is to send it to Christian. Let him
concentrate on her rather than me.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: FW Lunch date or Irritating Baggage
Date: June 13, 2011 11:15
To: Christian Grey
Christian
While you have been busy interfering in my career and saving
your ass from my careless missives, I received the following e-mail
from Mrs. Lincoln. I really don’t want to meet with her—even if I
did, I am not allowed to leave this building. How she got hold of
my e-mail address, I don’t know. What would you suggest I do?
Her e-mail is below:
Dear Anastasia, I would really like to have lunch with you. I
think we got off on the wrong foot, and I’d like to make that
right. Are you free sometime this week?
Elena Lincoln
Anastasia Steele
Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, SIP
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Irritating Baggage
Date: June 13, 2011 11:23
To: Anastasia Steele
Don’t be mad at me. I have your best interests at heart.
If anything happened to you, I would never forgive myself.
I’ll deal with Mrs. Lincoln.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Laters
Date: June 13, 2011: 11:32
To: Christian Grey
Can we please discuss this tonight?
I am trying to work, and your continued interference is very
distracting.
Anastasia Steele
Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, SIP
Jack returns after midday and tells me that New York is
off for me though he is still going and there’s nothing he
can do to change senior management policy. He strides
into his office, slamming the door, obviously furious. Why
is he so angry?
Deep down, I know his intentions are less than
honorable, but I am sure I can deal with him, and I wonder
what Christian knows about Jack’s previous PAs. I park
these thoughts and continue with some work, but resolve
to try to make Christian change his mind, though the
prospects are bleak.
prospects are bleak.
At one o’clock, Jack pokes his head out of the office
door.
“Ana, please could you go and get me some lunch?”
“Sure. What would you like?”
“Pastrami on rye, hold the mustard. I’ll give you the
money when you’re back.”
“Anything to drink?”
“Coke, please. Thanks, Ana.” He heads back into his
office as I reach for my purse.
Crap. I promised Christian I wouldn’t go out. I sigh.
He’ll never know, and I’ll be quick.
Claire from reception offers me her umbrella since it is
still pouring with rain. As I head out of the front doors, I
pull my jacket around me and take a furtive glance in both
directions from beneath the overlarge golf umbrella.
Nothing seems amiss. There’s no sign of Ghost Girl.
I march briskly, and I hope inconspicuously, down the
block to the deli. However, the closer I get to the deli, the
more I have a creepy sense that I am being watched, and I
don’t know if it’s my heightened feeling of paranoia or a
reality. Shit. I hope it’s not Leila with a gun.
It’s just your imagination, my subconscious snaps.
Who the hell would want to shoot you?
Within fifteen minutes, I am back—safe, sound but
relieved. I think Christian’s extreme paranoia and his
overprotective vigilance is beginning to get to me.
As I take Jack’s lunch in to him, he glances up from
the phone.
“Ana, thanks. Since you’re not coming with me, I’m
“Ana, thanks. Since you’re not coming with me, I’m
going to need you to work late. We need to get these
briefs ready. Hope you don’t have plans.” He smiles up at
me warmly, and I flush.
“No, that’s fine,” I say with a bright smile and a sinking
heart. This is not going to go down well. Christian will
freak, I’m sure.
As I head back to my desk I decide not to tell him
immediately, otherwise he might have time to interfere in
some way. I sit and eat the chicken salad sandwich Mrs.
Jones made for me. It’s delicious. She makes a mean
sandwich.
Of course, if I moved in with Christian, she would
make lunch for me every weekday. The idea is unsettling. I
have never had dreams of obscene wealth and all the
trappings—only love. To find someone who loves me and
doesn’t try to control my every move. The phone rings.
“Jack Hyde’s office—”
“You assured me you wouldn’t go out,” Christian
interrupts me, his voice cold and hard.
My heart sinks for the millionth time this day. Shit.
How the hell does he know?
“Jack sent me out for some lunch. I couldn’t say no.
Are you having me watched?” My scalp prickles at the
notion. No wonder I felt so paranoid—
someone was watching me. The thought makes me angry.
“This is why I didn’t want you going back to work,”
Christian snaps.
“Christian, please. You’re being”—So Fifty—“so
suffocating.”
“Suffocating?” he whispers, surprised.
“Yes. You have to stop this. I’ll talk to you this
evening. Unfortunately, I have to work late because I can’t
go to New York.”
“Anastasia, I don’t want to suffocate you,” he says
quietly, appalled.
“Well, you are. I have work to do. I’ll talk to you
later.” I hang up, feeling drained and vaguely depressed.
After our wonderful weekend, the reality is hitting
home. I have never felt more like running. Running to some
quiet retreat so I can think about this man, about how he
is, and about how to deal with him. On one level, I know
he’s broken—I can see that clearly now—and it’s both
heartbreaking and exhausting. From the small pieces of
precious information that he’s given me about his life, I
understand why. An unloved child; a hideously abusive
environment; a mother who couldn’t protect him, whom he
couldn’t protect, and who died in front of him.
I shudder. My poor Fifty. I am his, but not to be kept
in some gilded cage. How am I going to make him see
this?
With a heavy heart, I drag one of the manuscripts Jack
wants me to summarize into my lap and continue to read. I
can think of no easy solution to Christian’s fucked-up
control issues. I will just have to talk to him later, face to
face.
Half an hour later, Jack e-mails me a document that I
need to tidy up and polish, ready for printing tomorrow in
time for his conference. It will take me not just the rest of
the afternoon but well into the evening, too. I set to work.
When I look up, it’s after seven and the office is
deserted, though the light in Jack’s office is still on. I
hadn’t noticed everyone leaving, but I am nearly finished. I
e-mail the document back to Jack for his approval and
check my inbox. There’s nothing new from Christian, so I
quickly glance at my Blackberry, and it startles me by
buzzing—it’s Christian.
“Hi,” I murmur.
“Hi, when will you be finished?”
“By seven thirty, I think.”
“I’ll meet you outside.”
“Okay.”
He sounds quiet, nervous even. Why? Wary of my
reaction?
“I’m still mad at you, but that’s all,” I whisper. “We
have a lot to talk about.”
“I know. See you at seven thirty.”
Jack comes out of his office.
“I have to go. See you later.” I hang up.
I look up at Jack as he strolls casually toward me.
“I just need a couple of tweaks. I’ve e-mailed the brief
back to you.”
He leans over me while I retrieve the document, rather
close—uncomfortably close. His arm brushes mine.
Accidentally? I flinch, but he pretends not to notice. His
other arm rests on the back of my chair, touching my
back. I sit up so I’m not leaning against the backrest.
“Pages sixteen and twenty-three, and that should be
it,” he murmurs, his mouth inches from my ear.
My skin crawls at his proximity, but I choose to ignore
it. Opening the document, I shakily start on the changes.
He’s still leaning over me, and all my senses are
hyperaware. It’s distracting and awkward, and inside I am
screaming, Back off!
“Once this is done, it’ll be good to go to print. You can
organize that tomorrow. Thank you for staying late and
doing this, Ana.” His voice is smooth, gentle, like he’s
talking to a wounded animal. My stomach twists.
“I think the least I could do is reward you with a quick
drink. You deserve one.” He tucks a strand of my hair
that’s come loose from my hair tie behind my ear and
gently caresses the lobe.
I cringe gritting my teeth, and I jerk my head away.
Shit! Christian was right. Don’t touch me.
“Actually, I can’t this evening.” Or any other evening,
Jack.
“Just a quick one?” he coaxes.
“No, I can’t. But thank you.”
Jack sits on the end of my desk and frowns. Alarm
bells sound loudly in my head. I am on my own in the
office. I cannot leave. I glance nervously at the clock.
Another five minutes before Christian is due.
“Ana, I think we make a great team. I’m sorry that I
couldn’t pull off this New York trip. It won’t be the same
without you.”
I’m sure it won’t. I smile weakly up at him, because I
I’m sure it won’t. I smile weakly up at him, because I
can’t think of what to say. And for the first time all day, I
feel the tiniest hint of relief that I am not going.
“So, did you have a good weekend?” he asks
smoothly.
“Yes, thanks.” Where is he going with this?
“See your boyfriend?”
“Yes.”
“What does he do?”
Owns your ass . . . “He’s in business.”
“That’s interesting. What kind of business?”
“Oh, he has his fingers in all sorts of pies.”
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