Miss Kelly leads us into the master suite where full
　　height windows open onto a balcony, and the view is still
　　spectacular. I could sit in bed and gaze out all day,
　　watching the sailing boats and the changing weather.
　　There are five additional bedrooms on this floor. Jeez
　　—kids. I push the thought hastily to one side. I have too
　　much to process already. Miss Kelly is busily suggesting to
　　Christian how the grounds could accommodate riding
　　stables and a paddock. Horses! Terrifying images of my
　　few riding lessons flash through my mind, but Christian
　　doesn’t appear to be listening.
　　“The paddock would be where the meadow is at the
　　moment?” I ask.
　　“Yes,” Miss Kelly says brightly.
　　“Yes,” Miss Kelly says brightly.
　　To me the meadow looks like somewhere to lie in the
　　long grass and have picnics, not for some four-legged fiend
　　of Satan to roam.
　　Back in the main room, Miss Kelly discreetly
　　disappears, and Christian leads me out once more onto the
　　terrace. The sun has set and lights from the towns on the
　　Olympic peninsula are twinkling on the far side of the
　　Sound.
　　Christian pulls me into his arms and tips my chin up
　　with his index finger, staring intently down at me.
　　“Lot to take in?” he asks, his expression unreadable.
　　I nod.
　　“I wanted to check you liked it before I bought it.”
　　“The view?”
　　He nods.
　　“I love the view, and I like the house that’s here.”
　　“You do?”
　　I smile shyly at him. “Christian, you had me at the
　　meadow.”
　　His lips part as he inhales sharply, then his face
　　transforms with a grin, and his hands are suddenly fisting
　　into my hair and his mouth is on mine.
　　Back in the car as we head for Seattle, Christian’s mood
　　has lifted considerably.
　　“So you’re going to buy it?” I ask.
　　“Yes.”
　　“You’ll put Escala on the market?”
　　He frowns. “Why would I do that?”
　　“To pay for . . .” My voice trails off—of course. I
　　flush.
　　He smirks at me. “Trust me, I can afford it.”
　　“Do you like being rich?”
　　“Yes. Show me someone who doesn’t,” he says
　　darkly.
　　Okay, get off that subject quickly.
　　“Anastasia, you’re going to have to learn to be rich,
　　too, if you say yes,” he says softly.
　　“Wealth isn’t something I’ve ever aspired to,
　　Christian.” I frown.
　　“I know. I love that about you. But then you’ve never
　　been hungry,” he says simply. His words are sobering.
　　“Where are we going?” I ask brightly, changing the
　　subject.
　　“To celebrate.” Christian relaxes.
　　Oh! “Celebrate what, the house?”
　　“Have you forgotten already? Your acting editor role.”
　　“Oh yes.” I grin. Unbelievably, I had forgotten.
　　“Where?”
　　“Up high at my club.”
　　“Your club?”
　　“Yes. One of them.”
　　The Mile High Club is on the seventy-sixth floor of
　　Columbia Tower, higher even than Christian’s apartment.
　　Columbia Tower, higher even than Christian’s apartment.
　　It’s very now and has the most head-spinning views over
　　Seattle.
　　“Cristal, ma’am?” Christian hands me a glass of chilled
　　champagne as I sit perched on a barstool.
　　“Why thank you, sir.” I stress the last word
　　flirtatiously, batting my eyelashes at him deliberately.
　　He gazes at me and his face darkens. “Are you flirting
　　with me, Miss Steele?”
　　“Yes, Mr. Grey, I am. What are you going to do about
　　it?”
　　“I’m sure I can think of something,” he says, his voice
　　low. “Come—our table’s ready.”
　　As we approach the table, Christian stops me, his hand
　　on my elbow.
　　“Go and take your panties off,” he whispers.
　　Oh? A delicious tingle runs down my spine.
　　“Go,” he commands quietly.
　　Whoa, what? I blink up at him. He’s not smiling—he’s
　　dead serious. Every muscle below my waistline tightens. I
　　hand him my glass of champagne, turn sharply on my heel,
　　and head for the restroom.
　　Shit. What’s he going to do? Perhaps this club is aptly
　　named.
　　The restrooms are the height of modern design—all
　　dark wood, black granite, and pools of light from
　　strategically placed halogens. In the privacy of the stall, I
　　smirk as I divest myself of my underwear. Again I’m
　　grateful I changed into the navy blue shift dress. I thought it
　　appropriate attire to meet the good Dr. Flynn—I hadn’t
　　appropriate attire to meet the good Dr. Flynn—I hadn’t
　　expected the evening to take this unexpected course.
　　I am excited already. Why does he affect me so? I
　　slightly resent how easily I fall under his spell. I know now
　　that we won’t be spending the evening talking through all
　　our issues and recent events . . . but how can I resist him?
　　Checking my appearance in the mirror, I am brighteyed
　　and flushed with excitement. Issues schmissues.
　　I take a deep breath and head back out into the club. I
　　mean, it’s not as if I haven’t gone panty less before. My
　　inner goddess is draped in a pink feather boa and
　　diamonds, strutting her stuff in fuck-me shoes.
　　Christian stands politely when I return to the table, his
　　expression unreadable. He looks his usual perfect, cool,
　　calm, and collected self. Of course, I now know
　　differently.
　　“Sit beside me,” he says. I slide into the seat and he
　　sits. “I’ve ordered for you. I hope you don’t mind.” He
　　hands me my half-finished glass of champagne, regarding
　　me intently and under his scrutiny, my blood heats anew.
　　He rests his hands on his thighs. I tense and part my legs
　　slightly.
　　The waiter arrives with a dish of oysters on crushed
　　ice. Oysters. The memory of the two of us in the private
　　dining room at the Heathman fills my mind. We were
　　discussing his contract. Oh boy. We’ve come a long way
　　since then.
　　“I think you liked oysters last time you tried them.” His
　　voice is low, seductive.
　　“Only time I’ve tried them.” I’m all breathy, my voice
　　“Only time I’ve tried them.” I’m all breathy, my voice
　　exposing me. His lips twitch with a smile.
　　“Oh, Miss Steele—when will you learn?” he muses.
　　He takes an oyster from the dish and lifts his other
　　hand from his thigh. I flinch in anticipation, but he reaches
　　for a slice of lemon.
　　“Learn what?” I ask. Jeez, my pulse is racing. His long,
　　skilled fingers gently squeeze the lemon over the shellfish.
　　“Eat,” he says, holding the shell close to my mouth. I
　　part my lips, and he gently places the shell on my bottom
　　lip. “Tip your head back slowly,” he murmurs. I do as he
　　asks and the oyster slips down my throat. He doesn’t
　　touch me, only the shell.
　　Christian helps himself to one, then feeds me another.
　　We continue this tortuous routine until all twelve are gone.
　　His skin never connects with mine. It’s driving me crazy.
　　“Still like oysters?” he asks as I swallow the final one.
　　I nod, flushed, craving his touch.
　　“Good.”
　　I squirm in my seat. Why is this so hot?
　　He puts his hand casually on his own thigh again, and I
　　melt. Now. Please. Touch me. My inner goddess is on her
　　knees, naked except for her panties—begging. He runs his
　　hand up and down his thigh, lifts it, then places it back
　　where it was.
　　The waiter tops up our champagne glasses and whisks
　　away our plates. Moments later he’s back with our entrée,
　　sea bass—I don’t believe it —served with asparagus,
　　sautéed potatoes, and a hollandaise sauce.
　　“A favorite of yours, Mr. Grey?”
　　“A favorite of yours, Mr. Grey?”
　　“Most definitely, Miss Steele. Though I believe it was
　　cod at the Heathman.” His hand moves up and down his
　　thigh. My breathing spikes, but still he doesn’t touch me.
　　It’s so frustrating. I try to concentrate on our conversation.
　　“I seem to remember we were in a private dining room
　　then, discussing contracts.”
　　“Happy days,” he says, smirking. “This time I hope to
　　get to fuck you.” He moves his hand to pick up his knife.
　　Gah!
　　He takes a bite out of his sea bass. He’s doing this on
　　purpose.
　　“Don’t count on it,” I mutter with a pout and he
　　glances at me, amused. “Speaking of contracts,” I add.
　　“The NDA.”
　　“Tear it up,” he says simply.
　　Whoa.
　　“What? Really?”
　　“Yes.”
　　“You’re sure I’m not going to run to the Seattle Times
　　with an exposé?” I tease.
　　He laughs and it’s a wonderful sound. He looks so
　　young.
　　“No. I trust you. I’m going to give you the benefit of
　　the doubt.”
　　Oh. I grin shyly at him. “Ditto,” I breathe.
　　His eyes light up. “I’m very glad you’re wearing a
　　dress,” he murmurs. And bam—desire courses through my
　　already overheated blood.
　　“Why haven’t you touched me, then?” I hiss.
　　“Why haven’t you touched me, then?” I hiss.
　　“Missing my touch?” he asks grinning. He’s
　　amused . . . the bastard.
　　“Yes,” I seethe.
　　“Eat,” he orders.
　　“You’re not going to touch me, are you?”
　　“No.” He shakes his head.
　　What? I gasp out loud.
　　“Just imagine how you’ll feel when we’re home,” he
　　whispers. “I can’t wait to get you home.”
　　“It will be your fault if I combust here on the seventysixth
　　floor,” I mutter through gritted teeth.
　　“Oh, Anastasia. We’d find a way to put the fire out,”
　　he says, grinning salaciously at me.
　　Fuming, I dig into my sea bass, and my inner goddess
　　narrows her eyes in quiet, devious contemplation. We can
　　play this game, too. I learned the basics during our meal at
　　the Heathman. I take a bite out of my sea bass. It is meltin-
　　the-mouth delicious. I close my eyes, savoring the taste.
　　When I open them, I begin my seduction of Christian
　　Grey, very slowly hitching my skirt up, exposing more of
　　my thighs.
　　Christian pauses momentarily, a forkful of fish
　　suspended midair.
　　Touch me.
　　After a beat, he resumes eating. I take another bite of
　　sea bass, ignoring him. Then, putting down my knife, I run
　　my fingers up the inside of my lower thigh, lightly tapping
　　my skin with my fingertips. It’s distracting even to me,
　　especially as I am craving his touch. Christian pauses once
　　especially as I am craving his touch. Christian pauses once
　　more.
　　“I know what you’re doing.” His voice is low and
　　husky.
　　“I know that you know, Mr. Grey,” I reply softly.
　　“That’s the point.” I pick up an asparagus stalk, gaze
　　sideways at him from beneath my lashes, then dip the
　　asparagus into the hollandaise sauce, swirling the tip round
　　and round.
　　“You’re not turning the tables on me, Miss Steele.”
　　Smirking he reaches over and takes the spear from me—
　　amazingly and annoyingly managing not to touch me again.
　　No, this isn’t right—this is not going according to plan.
　　Gah!
　　“Open your mouth,” he commands.
　　I am losing this battle of wills. I glance up at him again,
　　and his eyes blaze bright gray. Parting my lips a fraction I
　　run my tongue across my lower lip. Christian smiles and his
　　eyes darken further.
　　“Wider,” he breathes, his lips parting so that I can see
　　his tongue. I groan inwardly and bite my bottom lip, then
　　do as he asks.
　　I hear his sharp intake of breath—he’s not so immune.
　　Good, I am finally getting to him. My inner goddess fistpumps
　　the air above her chaise longue.
　　Keeping my eyes locked on his, I take the spear in my
　　mouth, and suck, gently . . . delicately . . . on the end. The
　　hollandaise sauce is mouthwatering. I bite down, moaning
　　quietly in appreciation.
　　Christian closes his eyes. Yes! When he opens them
　　again, his pupils have dilated. The effect on me is
　　immediate. I groan and reach out to touch his thigh. To my
　　surprise, he uses his other hand to grab my wrist.
　　“Oh, no you don’t, Miss Steele,” he murmurs softly.
　　Raising my hand to his mouth, he gently brushes my
　　knuckles with his lips, and I squirm. Finally! More, please.
　　“Don’t touch,” he scolds me quietly, and places my
　　hand back on my knee. It’s so frustrating—this brief

　　unsatisfactory contact.
　　“You don’t play fair.” I pout.
　　“I know.” He picks up his champagne glass to propose
　　a toast, and I mirror his actions.
　　“Congratulations on your promotion, Miss Steele.” We
　　clink glasses and I blush.
　　“Yes, kind of unexpected,” I mutter. He frowns as if
　　some unpleasant thought has crossed his mind.
　　“Eat,” he orders. “I am not taking you home until
　　you’ve finished your meal, and then we can really
　　celebrate.” His expression is so heated, so raw, so
　　commanding. I am melting.
　　“I’m not hungry. Not for food.”
　　He shakes his head, thoroughly enjoying himself, but
　　narrows his eyes at me just the same.
　　“Eat, or I’ll put you across my knee, right here, and
　　we’ll entertain the other diners.”
　　His words make me squirm. He wouldn’t dare! He
　　and his twitchy palm. I press my mouth into a hard line and
　　stare at him. Picking up an asparagus stalk, he dips the
　　head into the hollandaise.
　　“Eat this,” he murmurs, his voice low and seductive.
　　I willingly comply.
　　“You really don’t eat enough. You’ve lost weight since
　　I’ve known you.” His tone is gentle.
　　I don’t want to think about my weight; truth is, I like
　　being this slim. I swallow the asparagus.
　　“I just want to go home and make love,” I mutter
　　disconsolately. Christian grins.
　　“So do I, and we will. Eat up.”
　　Reluctantly, I turn back to my food and start to eat.
　　Honestly, I’ve taken my panties off and everything. I feel
　　like a child who has been denied candy. He is such a
　　tease, a delicious, hot, naughty tease, and all mine.
　　He quizzes me about Ethan. As it turns out, Christian
　　does business with Kate and Ethan’s father. Hmm . . . it’s
　　small world. I’m relieved he doesn’t mention Dr. Flynn or
　　the house as I’m finding it difficult to concentrate on our
　　conversation. I want to go home.
　　The carnal anticipation is unfurling between us. He’s so
　　good at this. Making me wait. Setting the scene. Between
　　bites, he places his hand on his thigh, so close to mine, but
　　still doesn’t touch me just to tease me further.
　　Bastard! Finally I finish my food, and place my knife
　　and fork on the plate.
　　“Good girl,” he murmurs, and those two words hold so
　　much promise.
　　I frown at him. “What now?” I ask, desire clawing at
　　my belly. Oh, I want this man.
　　“Now? We leave. I believe you have certain
　　expectations, Miss Steele. Which I intend to fulfill to the
　　best of my ability.”
　　Whoa!
　　“The best . . . of your a . . . bil . . . ity?” I stutter. Holy
　　shit.
　　He grins and stands.
　　“Don’t we have to pay?” I ask, breathless.
　　He cocks his head to one side. “I am a member here.
　　They’ll bill me. Come, Anastasia, after you.” He steps
　　aside, and I stand to leave, conscious that I am not
　　wearing my panties.
　　He gazes at me darkly, like he’s undressing me, and I
　　glory in his carnal appraisal. It just makes me feel so sexy
　　—this beautiful man desires me. Will I always get a kick
　　out of this? Deliberately stopping in front of him, I smooth
　　my dress over my hips.
　　Christian whispers in my ear, “I can’t wait to get you
　　home.” But he still doesn’t touch me.
　　On the way out he murmurs something about the car to
　　the ma?tre d’, but I’m not listening, my inner goddess is
　　incandescent with anticipation. Jeez, she could light up
　　Seattle.
　　Waiting by the elevators, we are joined by two middleaged
　　couples. When the doors open, Christian takes my
　　elbow and steers me to the back. I glance around, and
　　we’re surrounded by dark smoked-glass mirrors. As the
　　other couples enter, one man in a rather unflattering brown
　　suit greets Christian.
　　suit greets Christian.
　　“Grey,” he nods politely. Christian nods in return but is
　　silent.
　　The couples stand in front of us, facing the elevator
　　doors. They are obviously friends—the women chat
　　loudly, excited and animated after their meal. I think
　　they’re all a little tipsy.
　　As the doors close, Christian briefly stoops down
　　beside me to tie his shoelace. Odd, his shoelaces aren’t
　　undone. Discreetly he places his hand on my ankle,
　　startling me, and as he stands his hand travels swiftly up
　　my leg, skating deliciously over my skin—whoa—right up.
　　I have to stifle my gasp of surprise as his hand reaches my
　　backside. Christian moves behind me.
　　Oh my. I gape at the people in front of us, staring at
　　the backs of their heads. They have no idea what we’re up
　　to. Wrapping his free arm around my waist, Christian pulls
　　me to him, holding me in place as his fingers explore. Holy
　　fucking shit . . . in here? The elevator travels smoothly
　　down, stopping at the fifty-third floor to let some more
　　people on, but I am not paying attention. I am focused on
　　every little move his fingers make. Circling around . . . now
　　moving forward, questing, as we shuffle back.
　　Again I stifle a groan when his fingers find their goal.
　　“Always so ready, Miss Steele,” he whispers as he
　　slips a long finger inside me. I squirm and gasp. How can
　　he do this with all these people here?
　　“Keep still and quiet,” he warns, murmuring in my ear.
　　I’m flushed, warm, wanting, trapped in an elevator with
　　seven people, six of them oblivious to what’s occurring in
　　seven people, six of them oblivious to what’s occurring in
　　the corner. His finger slides in and out of me, again and
　　again. My breathing. Jeez, it’s embarrassing. I want to tell
　　him to stop . . . and continue . . . and stop. I sag against
　　him, and he tightens his arm around me, his erection
　　against my hip.
　　We halt again at the forty-fourth floor. Oh . . . how
　　long is this torture going to continue? In . . . out . . .
　　in . . . out . . . Subtly I grind myself against his persistent
　　finger. After all this time of not touching me, he chooses
　　now! Here! And it makes me feel so—wanton.
　　“Hush,” he breathes, seemingly unaffected as yet two
　　more people come aboard. The elevator is getting
　　crowded. Christian moves us both farther back so that
　　we’re now pressed into the corner, holding me in place
　　and torturing me further. He nuzzles my hair. I’m sure we
　　look like a young couple in love, canoodling in the corner,
　　if anyone could be bothered to turn round and see what
　　we’re doing . . . And he eases a second finger inside me.
　　Fuck! I groan, and I’m thankful that the gaggle of
　　people in front of us are still chatting away, totally
　　oblivious.
　　Oh, Christian, what you do to me. I lean my head
　　against his chest, closing my eyes and surrendering to his
　　unrelenting fingers.
　　“Don’t come,” he whispers. “I want that later.” He
　　splays his hand out on my belly, pressing down slightly, as
　　he continues his sweet persecution. The feeling is exquisite.
　　Finally the elevator reaches the first floor. With a loud
　　ping the doors open, and almost instantly the passengers
　　ping the doors open, and almost instantly the passengers
　　start exiting. Christian slowly slips his fingers out of me and
　　kisses the back of my head. I glance round at him, and he
　　smiles, then nods again at Mr. Badly-fitted-brown-suit
　　who returns his nod of acknowledgment as he shuffles out
　　of the elevator with his wife. I barely notice, concentrating
　　instead on staying upright and trying to manage my panting.
　　Jeez, I feel aching and bereft. Christian releases me,
　　leaving me to stand on my own two feet without leaning on
　　him.
　　Turning, I gaze up at him. He looks cool and unruffled,
　　his usual composed self. Hmm . . . This is so not fair.
　　“Ready?” he asks. His eyes gleam wickedly as he slips
　　first his index, then his middle finger into his mouth and
　　sucks on them. “Mighty fine, Miss Steele,” he whispers. I
　　nearly convulse on the spot.
　　“I can’t believe you just did that,” I murmur, and I’m
　　practically coming apart at the seams.
　　“You’d be surprised what I can do, Miss Steele,” he
　　says. Reaching out, he tucks a lock of hair behind my ear,
　　a slight smile betraying his amusement.
　　“I want to get you home, but maybe we’ll only make it
　　as far as the car.” He grins down at me as he takes my
　　hand and leads me out of the elevator.
　　What! Sex in the car? Can’t we just do it here on the
　　cool marble of the lobby floor . . . please?
　　“Come.”
　　“Yes, I want to.”
　　“Miss Steele!” he admonishes me with mock-amused
　　horror.
　　horror.
　　“I’ve never had sex in a car,” I mumble. Christian halts
　　and places those same fingers under my chin, tipping my
　　head back and glaring down at me.
　　“I’m very pleased to hear that. I have to say I’d be
　　very surprised, not to say mad, if you had.”
　　I flush, blinking up at him. Of course, I’ve only had sex
　　with him. I frown at him.
　　“That’s not what I meant.”
　　“What did you mean?” His tone is unexpectedly harsh.
　　“Christian, it was just an expression.”
　　“The famous expression, ‘I’ve never had sex in a car.’
　　Yes, it just trips off the tongue.”
　　Jeez . . . what’s his problem?
　　“Christian, I wasn’t thinking. For heaven’s sake,
　　you’ve just . . . um, done that to me in an elevator full of
　　people. My wits are scattered.”
　　He raises his eyebrows. “What did I do to you?” he
　　challenges.
　　I scowl at him. He wants me to say it.
　　“You turned me on, big time. Now take me home and
　　fuck me.”
　　His mouth drops open then he laughs, surprised. Now
　　he looks young and carefree. Oh, to hear him laugh. I love
　　it because it’s so rare.
　　“You’re a born romantic, Miss Steele.” He takes my
　　hand, and we head out of the building to where the valet
　　stands by my Saab.
　　“So you want sex in a car,” Christian murmurs as he
　　switches on the ignition.
　　“Quite frankly, I would have been happy with the
　　lobby floor.”
　　“Trust me, Ana, so would I. But I don’t fancy being
　　arrested at this time of night, and I didn’t want to fuck you
　　in a restroom. Well, not today.”
　　What! “You mean there was a possibility?”
　　“Oh yes.”
　　“Let’s go back.”
　　He turns to gaze at me and laughs. His laughter is
　　infectious; soon we’re both laughing—wonderful,
　　cathartic, head-held-back laughter. Reaching over, he
　　places his hand on my knee, caressing it gently with long
　　skilled fingers. I stop laughing.
　　“Patience, Anastasia,” he murmurs and pulls into the
　　Seattle traffic.
　　He parks the Saab in the Escala garage and turns off the
　　engine. Suddenly, in the confines of the car, the
　　atmosphere between us changes. With wanton
　　anticipation, I glance at him, trying to contain my
　　palpitating heart. He’s turned toward me, leaning against
　　the door, his elbow propped on the steering wheel.
　　He pulls his lower lip with his thumb and index finger.
　　His mouth is so distracting. I want it on me. He’s watching
　　me intently, his eyes dark gray. My mouth goes dry. He
　　smiles a slow sexy smile.
　　“We will fuck in the car at a time and place of my
　　choosing. Right now, I want to take you on every available
　　surface of my apartment.”
　　It’s like he’s addressing me below the waist . . . my
　　inner goddess performs four arabesques and a pas de
　　Basque.
　　“Yes.” Jeez, I sound so breathy, desperate.
　　He leans forward a fraction. I close my eyes, waiting
　　for his kiss, thinking—finally. But nothing happens. After a
　　moment, I open my eyes to find him gazing at me. I can’t
　　figure out what he’s thinking, but before I can say anything,
　　he distracts me once more.
　　“If I kiss you now we won’t make it into the
　　apartment. Come.”
　　Gah! Could this man be any more frustrating? He
　　climbs out of the car.
　　Once again, we wait for the elevator, my body thrumming
　　with anticipation. Christian holds my hand, running his
　　thumb rhythmically across my knuckles, each stroke
　　echoing through me. Oh, I want his hands on all of me.
　　He’s tortured me long enough.
　　“So, what happened to instant gratification?” I murmur
　　while we wait.
　　Christian smirks down at me.
　　“It’s not appropriate in every situation, Anastasia.”
　　“Since when?”
　　“Since when?”
　　“Since this evening.”

　　“Why are you torturing me so?”
　　“Tit for tat, Miss Steele.”
　　“How am I torturing you?”
　　“I think you know.”
　　I gaze up at him and his expression is difficult to read.
　　He wants my answer . . . that’s it.
　　“I’m into delayed gratification, too,” I whisper, smiling
　　shyly.
　　He tugs my hand unexpectedly, and suddenly I am in
　　his arms. He grabs the hair at the nape of my neck, pulling
　　gently so my head tips back.
　　“What can I do to make you say yes?” he asks
　　fervently, throwing me off balance once more. I blink at
　　him—at his lovely, serious, desperate expression.
　　“Give me some time? Please,” I murmur. He groans
　　and finally he kisses me, long and hard. Then we’re in the
　　elevator, and we’re all hands and mouths and tongues and
　　lips and fingers and hair. Desire, thick and strong, lances
　　through my blood, clouding all my reason. He pushes me
　　against the wall, pinning me with his hips, one hand in my
　　hair, the other at my chin, holding me in place.
　　“You own me,” he whispers. “My fate is in your hands,
　　Ana.”
　　His words are intoxicating, and in my overheated state,
　　I want to rip off his clothes. I push off his jacket, and as
　　the elevator arrives at the apartment, we tumble out into
　　the foyer.
　　Christian pins me to the wall by the elevator, his jacket
　　Christian pins me to the wall by the elevator, his jacket
　　falling to the floor, and his hand travels up my leg, his lips
　　never leaving mine. He hoists up my dress.
　　“First surface here,” he breathes and abruptly he lifts
　　me. “Wrap your legs around me.”
　　I do as I’m told, and he turns and lays me down on the
　　foyer table, so he’s standing between my legs. I’m aware
　　that the usual vase of flowers is missing. Huh? Reaching
　　into his jeans pocket, he fishes out a foil packet and hands
　　it to me, undoing his fly.
　　“Do you know how much you turn me on?”
　　“What?” I pant. “No . . . I . . .”
　　“Well, you do,” he mutters, “all the time.” He grabs the
　　foil packet from my hands. Oh, this is so quick, but after
　　all his tantalizing teasing, I want him badly—right now. He
　　gazes down at me as he rolls on the condom, then puts his
　　hands under my thighs, spreading my legs wider.
　　Positioning himself, he pauses. “Keep your eyes open.
　　I want to see you,” he whispers and clasping both my
　　hands with his, he sinks slowly into me.
　　I try, I really do, but the feeling is so exquisite. What
　　I’ve been waiting for after all his teasing. Oh, the fullness,
　　this feeling . . . I groan and arch my back off the table.
　　“Open!” he growls, tightening his hands on mine and
　　thrusting sharply into me so that I cry out.
　　I blink my eyes open, and he stares down at me wideeyed.
　　Slowly he withdraws then sinks into me once more,
　　his mouth slackening and then forming an Ah . . . , but he
　　says nothing. Seeing his arousal, his reaction to me—I light
　　up inside, my blood scorching through my veins. His gray
　　up inside, my blood scorching through my veins. His gray
　　eyes burn into mine. He picks up the rhythm, and I revel in
　　it, glory in it, watching him, watching me—his passion,
　　his love—as we come apart, together.
　　I call out as I explode around him, and Christian
　　follows.
　　“Yes, Ana!” he cries. He collapses on me, releasing
　　my hands and resting his head on my chest. My legs are
　　still wrapped around him, and under the patient, maternal
　　eyes of the Madonna paintings, I cradle his head against
　　me and struggle to catch my breath.
　　He raises his head to look at me. “I’m not finished with
　　you yet,” he murmurs and leaning up, he kisses me.
　　I lie naked in Christian’s bed, sprawled over his chest,
　　panting. Holy cow—does his energy ever wane? Christian
　　trails his fingers up and down my back.
　　“Satisfied, Miss Steele?”
　　I murmur my assent. I have no energy left for talking.
　　Raising my head, I turn unfocused eyes to him and bask in
　　his warm, fond gaze. Very deliberately, I angle my head
　　down so he knows I am going to kiss his chest.
　　He tenses momentarily, and I plant a soft kiss in his
　　chest hair, breathing in his unique Christian smell, mixed
　　with sweat and sex. It’s heady. He rolls onto his side so
　　I’m lying beside him and gazes down at me.
　　“Is sex like this for everyone? I’m surprised anyone
　　ever goes out,” I murmur, feeling suddenly shy.
　　He grins. “I can’t speak for everyone, but it’s pretty
　　He grins. “I can’t speak for everyone, but it’s pretty
　　damned special with you, Anastasia.” He bends and kisses
　　me.
　　“That’s because you’re pretty damned special, Mr.
　　Grey,” I agree, smiling up at him and caressing his face. He
　　blinks down at me at a loss.
　　“It’s late. Go to sleep,” he says. He kisses me, then lies
　　down and pulls me to him so we’re spooning in bed.
　　“You don’t like compliments.”
　　“Go to sleep, Anastasia.”
　　Hmm . . . But he is pretty damned special. Jeez . . .
　　why doesn’t he realize this?
　　“I loved the house,” I murmur.
　　He says nothing for a moment, but I sense his grin.
　　“I love you. Go to sleep.” He nuzzles my hair, and I
　　drift into sleep, safe in his arms, dreaming of sunsets and
　　French doors and wide staircases . . . and a small copperhaired
　　boy running through a meadow, laughing and
　　giggling as I chase him.
　　“Gotta go, baby.” Christian kisses me just below my ear.
　　I open my eyes and it’s morning. I turn to face him, but
　　he’s up and dressed and fresh and delicious, leaning over
　　me.
　　“What time is it?” Oh no . . . I don’t want to be late.
　　“What time is it?” Oh no . . . I don’t want to be late.
　　“Don’t panic. I have a breakfast meeting.” He rubs his
　　nose against mine.
　　“You smell good,” I murmur, stretching out beneath
　　him, my limbs pleasurably tight and creaky from all our
　　exploits yesterday. I wrap my arms around his neck.
　　“Don’t go.”
　　He cocks his head to one side and raises his eyebrow.
　　“Miss Steele—are you trying to keep a man from an
　　honest day’s work?”
　　I nod sleepily at him, and he smiles his new shy smile.
　　“As tempting as you are, I have to go.” He kisses me
　　and stands. He’s wearing a really sharp dark navy suit,
　　white shirt and navy tie, and he looks every inch the
　　CEO . . . the hot CEO.
　　“Laters, baby,” he murmurs and he’s off.
　　Glancing at the clock I note it’s already seven—I must
　　have slept through the alarm. Well, time to get up.
　　In the shower, inspiration hits me. I’ve thought of another
　　birthday present for Christian. It’s so difficult to buy
　　something for the man who has everything. I’ve already
　　given him my main present, and I still have the other item I
　　bought at the tourist shop, but this is one present that will
　　really be for me. I hug myself in anticipation as I switch off
　　the shower. I just have to prepare it.
　　In the walk-in closet, I put on a dark red fitted dress
　　with a square neckline, cut quite low. Yes, this will do for
　　work.
　　Now for Christian’s present . I start rummaging
　　through his drawers, looking for his ties. In the bottom
　　drawer I find those faded, ripped jeans, the ones he wears
　　in the playroom—the ones he looks so hot in. I stroke
　　them gently, using my whole hand. Oh my, the material is
　　so soft.
　　Beneath them, I find a large, black, flat cardboard box.
　　It piques my interest immediately. What’s in here? I stare
　　at it, feeling like I’m trespassing again. Taking it out, I
　　shake it. It’s heavy as if it holds papers or manuscripts. I
　　cannot resist, I open the lid—and quickly shut it again.
　　Holy fuck—photographs from the Red Room. The shock
　　makes me sit back on my heels as I try to wipe the image
　　from my brain. Why did I open the box? Why has he
　　kept them?
　　I shudder. My subconscious scowls at me—this is
　　before you. Forget them.
　　She’s right. Standing up I notice his ties are hanging at
　　the end of his clothes rail. I find my favorite and exit
　　quickly.
　　I try to tell myself those photos are BA—Before Ana.
　　My subconscious nods with approval, but it’s with a
　　heavier heart that I head into the main room for breakfast.
　　Mrs. Jones smiles at me warmly and then frowns.
　　“Everything all right, Ana?” she asks kindly.
　　“Yes,” I murmur, distracted. “Do you have a key to
　　the . . . um, playroom?”
　　She pauses momentarily, surprised.
　　“Yes, of course.” She unclips a small bunch of keys
　　from her belt. “What would you like for breakfast, dear?”
　　she asks as she hands me the keys.
　　“Just granola. I won’t be long.”
　　I feel more ambivalent about this gift now but only
　　since the discovery of those photographs. Nothing’s
　　changed, my subconscious barks at me again, glaring at
　　me over her half-moon winged glasses. That picture was
　　hot, my inner goddess chips in, and mentally I scowl at
　　her. Yes it was—too hot for me.
　　What else does he have hidden away? Quickly I ferret
　　through the museum chest, take what I need, and lock the
　　playroom door behind me. Wouldn’t do for José to
　　discover this!
　　I hand the keys back to Mrs. Jones and sit down to
　　devour my breakfast, feeling odd that Christian is absent.
　　The photograph image dances unwelcome around my
　　mind. I wonder who it was? Leila perhaps?
　　On my drive in to work, I debate whether or not to tell
　　Christian I found his photographs. No, screams my
　　subconscious, her Edvard Munch face on. I decide she’s
　　probably right.
　　As I sit down at my desk, my Blackberry buzzes.
　　From: Christian Grey
　　Subject: Surfaces
　　Date: June 17, 2011 08:59
　　To: Anastasia Steele
　　I calculate that there are at least 30 surfaces to go. I am looking
　　forward to each and every one of them. Then there’s the floors,
　　the walls—and let’s not forget the balcony.
　　After that there’s my office . . .
　　Miss you. x
　　Christian Grey
　　Priapic CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
　　His e-mail makes me smile, and all my earlier reservations
　　evaporate. It’s me he wants now, and memories of last
　　night’s sexcapades flood my mind . . . the elevator, the
　　foyer, the bed. Priapic is right. I wonder idly what the
　　female equivalent might be?
　　From: Anastasia Steele
　　Subject: Romance?
　　Date: June 17, 2011 09:03
　　To: Christian Grey
　　To: Christian Grey
　　Mr. Grey
　　You have a one-track mind.
　　I missed you at breakfast
　　But Mrs. Jones was very accommodating.
　　A x
　　From: Christian Grey
　　Subject: Intrigued
　　Date: June 17, 2011 09:07
　　To: Anastasia Steele
　　What was Mrs. Jones accommodating about?
　　What are you up to Miss Steele?
　　Christian Grey
　　Curious CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
　　How does he know?
　　From: Anastasia Steele
　　Subject: Tapping Nose
　　Date: June 17, 2011 09:10
　　To: Christian Grey
　　Wait and see—it’s a surprise.
　　I need to work . . . let me be.
　　Love you.
　　A x
　　From: Christian Grey
　　Subject: Frustrated
　　Date: June 17, 2011 09:12
　　To: Anastasia Steele
　　I hate it when you keep things from me.
　　Christian Grey
　　CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
　　I stare at the small screen of my Blackberry. The
　　vehemence implicit in his e-mail takes me by surprise. Why
　　does he feel like this? It’s not like I’m hiding erotic
　　photographs of my exes.
　　From: Anastasia Steele
　　Subject: Indulging you
　　Subject: Indulging you
　　Date: June 17, 2011 09:14
　　To: Christian Grey
　　It’s for your birthday.
　　Another surprise.
　　Don’t be so petulant.
　　A x
　　He doesn’t reply immediately, and I’m called into a
　　meeting so I can’t dwell on it for too long.
　　When I next glance at my Blackberry, to my horror I
　　realize it’s four in the afternoon. Where has the day gone?
　　Still no message from Christian. I decide to e-mail him
　　again.
　　From: Anastasia Steele
　　Subject: Hello
　　Date: June 17, 2011 16:03
　　To: Christian Grey
　　Are you not talking to me?
　　Don’t forget I am going for a drink with José, and that he’s
　　staying with us tonight.
　　Please rethink about joining us.
　　Please rethink about joining us.
　　A x
　　He doesn’t reply, and I feel a frisson of unease. I hope
　　he’s okay. Calling his mobile, I get his voicemail. The
　　announcement simply says Grey, leave a message in his

　　most clipped tone.
　　“Hi . . . um . . . it’s me. Ana. Are you okay? Call me,”
　　I stutter through my message. I’ve never had to leave one
　　for him before. I flush as I hang up. Of course he’ll know
　　it’s you, idiot! My subconscious rolls her eyes at me. I am
　　tempted to ring his PA Andrea but decide that’s a step too
　　far. Reluctantly I continue my work.
　　My phone rings unexpectedly and my heart jumps.
　　Christian! But no—it’s Kate, my best friend finally!
　　“Ana!” she shouts from wherever she is.
　　“Kate! Are you back? I’ve missed you.”
　　“Me, too. I have so much to tell you. We’re at Sea-
　　Tac—me and my man.” She giggles in a most un-Katelike
　　way.
　　“Cool. I have so much to tell you, too.”
　　“See you back at the apartment?”
　　“I’m having drinks with José. Join us.”
　　“José’s in town? Sure! Text me where.”
　　“Okay.” I beam. My best friend is home. After all this
　　time!
　　“You good, Ana?”
　　“Yeah, I’m fine.”
　　“Still with Christian?”
　　“Yes.”
　　“Good. Laters!”
　　Oh, not her as well. Elliot’s influence knows no
　　bounds.
　　“Yeah—laters, baby.” I grin and she hangs up.
　　Wow. Kate is home. How am I going to tell her all that
　　has happened? I should write it down so I don’t forget
　　anything.
　　An hour later my office phone rings—Christian? No, it’s
　　Claire.
　　“You should see the guy asking for you in reception.
　　How come you know all these hot guys, Ana?”
　　José must be here. I glance at the clock—it’s five fiftyfive,
　　and a small thrill of excitement pulses through me. I
　　haven’t seen him in ages.
　　“Ana, wow! You look great. So grown up.” He grins
　　at me.
　　Just because I’m wearing a smart dress . . . jeez!
　　He hugs me hard. “And tall,” he mutters in amazement.
　　“It’s just the shoes, José. You don’t look so bad
　　yourself.”
　　He’s wearing jeans, a black T-shirt, and a black and
　　white check flannel shirt.
　　“I’ll grab my things and we can go.”
　　“I’ll grab my things and we can go.”
　　“Cool. I’ll wait here.”
　　I pick up two Rolling Rocks from the crowded bar and
　　head over to the table where José is seated.
　　“You found Christian’s place okay?”
　　“Yeah. I haven’t been inside. I just delivered the
　　photos to the service elevator. Some guy named Taylor
　　took them up. Looks like quite a place.”
　　“It is. You should see inside.”
　　“Can’t wait. Salud, Ana. Seattle agrees with you.”
　　I flush as we clink bottles. It’s Christian that agrees
　　with me. “Salud. Tell me about your show and how it
　　went.”
　　He beams and launches into the story. He sold all but
　　three of his photos, which has taken care of his student
　　loans and left him some cash to spare.
　　“And I’ve been commissioned to do some landscapes
　　for the Portland Tourist Authority. Pretty cool, huh?” he
　　finishes proudly.
　　“Oh José—that’s wonderful. Not interfering with your
　　studies though?” I frown at him.
　　“Nah. Now that you guys have gone and three of the
　　guys I used to hang out with, I have more time.”
　　“No hot babe to keep you busy? Last time I saw you,
　　you had half a dozen women hanging on your every
　　word.” I arch an eyebrow at him.
　　“Nah, Ana. None of them are woman enough for me.”
　　He’s all bravado.
　　He’s all bravado.
　　“Oh sure. José Rodriguez, lady killer.” I giggle.
　　“Hey—I have my moments, Steele.” He looks vaguely
　　hurt, and I am chastened.
　　“Sure you do.” I mollify him.
　　“So, how’s Grey?” he asks, his tone changing,
　　becoming cooler.
　　“He’s good. We’re good,” I murmur.
　　“Serious, you say?”
　　“Yes. Serious.”
　　“He’s not too old for you?”
　　“Oh José. You know what my mom says—I was born
　　old.”
　　José’s mouth twists wryly.
　　“How is your mom?” And like that, we are out of the
　　danger zone.
　　“Ana!”
　　I turn and there’s Kate with Ethan. She looks
　　gorgeous: sun-kissed, bleached strawberry-blond hair,
　　golden tan, and beaming white smile, and so shapely in her
　　white cami and tight white jeans. All eyes are on Kate. I
　　leap up from my seat to give her a hug. Oh how I’ve
　　missed this woman!
　　She pushes me away from her and holds me at arm’s
　　length, examining me closely. I flush under her intense
　　gaze.
　　“You’ve lost weight. A lot of weight. And you look
　　different. Grown up. What’s been going on?” she says, all
　　mother hen, concerned and bossy. “I like your dress. Suits
　　you.”
　　you.”
　　“A lot’s happened since you went away. I’ll tell you
　　later when we’re on our own.” I am not ready for the
　　Katherine Kavanagh Inquisition just yet. She regards me
　　suspiciously.
　　“You’re okay?” she asks gently.
　　“Yes,” I smile, though I’d be happier knowing where
　　Christian is.
　　“Cool.”
　　“Hi, Ethan.” I grin at him, and he gives me a quick hug.
　　“Hi, Ana,” he whispers in my ear.
　　José frowns at him.
　　“How was lunch with Mia?” I ask Ethan.
　　“Interesting,” he says cryptically.
　　Oh?
　　“Ethan—you know José?”
　　“We’ve met once,” José mutters, assessing Ethan as
　　they shake hands.
　　“Yeah, at Kate’s place in Vancouver,” Ethan says,
　　smiling pleasantly at José. “Right—who’s for a drink?”
　　I make my way to the restrooms. While there I text
　　Christian our location; perhaps he’ll join us. There are no
　　missed calls from him and no e-mails. This is not like him.
　　“Whassup, Ana?” José asks as I come back to the
　　table.
　　“I can’t reach Christian. I hope he’s okay.”
　　“He’ll be fine. Like another beer?”
　　“Sure.”
　　“Sure.”
　　Kate leans across. “Ethan says some mad stalker exgirlfriend
　　was in the apartment with a gun?”
　　“Well . . . yeah.” I shrug apologetically. Oh jeez—do
　　we have to do this now?
　　“Ana—what the hell’s been going on?” Kate stops
　　abruptly and checks her phone.
　　“Hi, baby,” she says when she answers it. Baby! She
　　frowns and looks at me. “Sure,” she says and turns to me.
　　“It’s Elliot . . . he wants to talk to you.”
　　“Ana.” Elliot’s voice is clipped and quiet, and my scalp
　　prickles ominously.
　　“What’s wrong?”
　　“It’s Christian. He’s not back from Portland.”
　　“What? What do you mean?”
　　“His helicopter has gone missing.”
　　“Charlie Tango?” I whisper as all the breath leaves my
　　body. “No!”
　　I stare at the flames, mesmerized. They dance and weave
　　bright blazing orange with tips of cobalt blue in the
　　fireplace in Christian’s apartment. And despite the heat
　　pumping out of the fire and the blanket draped around my
　　shoulders, I’m cold. Bone-chillingly cold.
　　I’m aware of hushed voices, many hushed voices. But
　　they’re in the background, a distant buzz. I don’t hear the
　　words. All I can hear, all I can focus on, is the soft hiss of
　　the gas from the fire.
　　My thoughts turn to the house we saw yesterday and
　　My thoughts turn to the house we saw yesterday and
　　the huge fireplaces—real fireplaces for burning wood. I’d
　　like to make love with Christian in front of a real fire. I’d
　　like to make love with Christian in front of this fire. Yes,
　　that would be fun. No doubt, he’d think of some way to
　　make it memorable like all the times we’ve made love. I
　　snort wryly to myself, even the times when we were just
　　fucking. Yes, those were pretty memorable, too. Where is
　　he?
　　The flames shimmy and flicker, holding me captive,
　　keeping me numb. I focus solely on their flaring, scorching
　　beauty. They are bewitching.
　　Anastasia, you’ve bewitched me.
　　He said that the first time he slept with me in my bed.
　　Oh no . . .
　　I wrap my arms around myself, and the world falls
　　away from me and reality bleeds into my consciousness.
　　The creeping emptiness inside expands some more.
　　Charlie Tango is missing.
　　“Ana. Here,” Mrs. Jones gently coaxes me, her voice
　　“Ana. Here,” Mrs. Jones gently coaxes me, her voice
　　bringing me back into the room, into the now, into the
　　anguish. She hands me a cup of tea. I take the cup and
　　saucer gratefully, the rattle betraying my shaking hands.
　　“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice hoarse from unshed
　　tears and the large lump in my throat.
　　Mia sits across from me on the larger-than-large Ushaped
　　couch, holding hands with Grace. They gaze at me,
　　pain and anxiety etched on their lovely faces. Grace looks
　　older—a mother worried for her son. I blink
　　dispassionately at them. I can’t offer a reassuring smile, a
　　tear even—there’s nothing, just blankness and the growing
　　emptiness. I gaze at Elliot, José, and Ethan, who stand
　　around the breakfast bar, all serious faces, talking quietly.
　　Discussing something in soft subdued voices. Behind them,
　　Mrs. Jones busies herself in the kitchen.
　　Kate is in the TV room, monitoring the local news. I
　　hear the faint squawk from the big plasma TV. I can’t bear
　　to see the news item again—CHRISTIAN GREY MISSING—
　　his beautiful face on TV.
　　Idly, it occurs to me that I’ve never seen so many
　　people in this room, yet they are still dwarfed by its sheer
　　size. Little islands of lost, anxious people in my Fifty’s
　　home. What would he think about them being here?
　　Somewhere, Taylor and Carrick are talking to the
　　authorities who are drip-feeding us information, but it’s all
　　meaningless. The fact is—he’s missing. He’s been missing
　　for eight hours. No sign, no word from him. The search
　　has been called off—this much I do know. It’s just too
　　dark. And we don’t know where he is. He could be hurt,
　　hungry, or worse. No!
　　I offer another silent prayer to God. Please let
　　Christian be okay. Please let Christian be okay. I
　　repeat it over and over in my head—my mantra, my
　　lifeline, something concrete to cling to in my desperation. I
　　refuse to think the worst. No, don’t go there. There is
　　hope.
　　“You’re my lifeline.”
　　Christian’s words come back to haunt me. Yes, there
　　is always hope. I must not despair. His words echo
　　is always hope. I must not despair. His words echo
　　through my mind.
　　“I’m now a firm advocate of instant gratification.
　　Carpe diem, Ana.”
　　Why didn’t I seize the day?
　　“I’m doing this because I’ve finally met someone I
　　want to spend the rest of my life with.”
　　I close my eyes in silent prayer, rocking gently. Please,
　　let the rest of his life not be this short. Please, please.
　　We haven’t had enough time . . . we need more time.
　　We’ve done so much in the last few weeks, come so far.
　　It can’t end. All our tender moments: the lipstick, when he
　　made love to me for the first time at the Olympic hotel, on
　　his knees in front of me offering himself to me, finally
　　touching him.
　　“I am just the same, Ana. I love you and I need
　　you. Touch me. Please.”
　　Oh, I love him so. I will be nothing without him, nothing
　　but a shadow—all the light eclipsed. No, no, no . . . my
　　poor Christian.
　　poor Christian.
　　“This is me, Ana. All of me . . . and I’m all yours.
　　What do I have to do to make you realize that? To
　　make you see that I want you any way I can get you.
　　That I love you.”
　　And I you, my Fifty Shades.
　　I open my eyes and gaze unseeing into the fire once
　　more, memories of our time together flitting through my
　　mind: his boyish joy when we were sailing and gliding; his
　　suave, sophisticated, hot-as-hell look at the masked ball;
　　dancing, oh yes, dancing here in the apartment to Sinatra,
　　whirling round the room; his quiet, anxious hope yesterday
　　at the house—that stunning view.
　　“I will lay my world at your feet, Anastasia. I want
　　you, body and soul, forever.”