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.”