Jack cocks his head to one side as he leans in toward
　　me, invading my personal space—again.
　　“You’re being very coy, Ana.”
　　“Well, he’s in telecommunications, manufacturing, and
　　agriculture.”
　　Jack raises his eyebrows. “So many things. Who does
　　he work for?”
　　“He works for himself. If you’re happy with the
　　document, I’d like to go, if that’s okay?”
　　He leans back. My personal space is safe again.
　　“Of course. Sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you,” he says
　　disingenuously.
　　“What time does the building close?”
　　“Security is here until eleven.”
　　“Good.” I smile, and my subconscious flops down in
　　her armchair, relieved to know that we are not alone in the
　　building. Switching off my computer, I grab my purse and
　　stand up, ready to leave.
　　stand up, ready to leave.
　　“You like him then? Your boyfriend?”
　　“I love him,” I answer, looking Jack squarely in the
　　eye.
　　“I see.” Jack frowns and he stands up from my desk.
　　“What’s his surname?”
　　I flush.
　　“Grey. Christian Grey,” I mumble.
　　Jack’s mouth drops open. “Seattle’s richest bachelor?
　　That Christian Grey?”
　　“Yes. The same.” Yes, that Christian Grey, your future
　　boss who will have you for breakfast if you invade my
　　personal space again.
　　“I thought he looked familiar,” Jack says darkly and his
　　brow creases again. “Well, he’s a lucky man.”
　　I blink at him. What do I say to that?
　　“Have a good evening, Ana.” Jack smiles, but the smile
　　doesn’t touch his eyes, and he walks stiffly back into his
　　office without a backward glance.
　　I let out a long sigh of relief. Well, that problem might
　　be solved. Fifty works his magic again. Just his name is my
　　talisman, and it has this man retreating with his tail between
　　his legs. I allow myself a small victorious smile. You see,
　　Christian? Even your name protects me—you didn’t
　　have to go to all that trouble of clamping down on
　　expenses. I tidy my desk and check my watch. Christian
　　should be outside.
　　The Audi is parked up against the sidewalk, and
　　Taylor leaps out to open the rear passenger door. I have
　　never been so pleased to see him, and I scramble into the
　　never been so pleased to see him, and I scramble into the
　　car out of the rain.
　　Christian is in the rear seat, gazing at me, his eyes wide
　　and wary. He’s bracing himself for my anger, his jaw tight
　　and tense.
　　“Hi,” I murmur.
　　“Hi,” he replies cautiously. He reaches over and grasps
　　my hand, squeezing it tightly, and my heart thaws a little.
　　I’m so confused. I haven’t even worked out what I need
　　to say to him.
　　“Are you still mad?” he asks.
　　“I don’t know,” I murmur. He raises my hand and
　　lightly grazes my knuckles with soft butterfly kisses.
　　“It’s been a shitty day,” he says.
　　“Yes, it has.” But for the first time since he left for
　　work this morning, I begin to relax. Just being in his
　　company is a soothing balm, and all the shit from Jack, and
　　the snarky e-mails to and fro, and the nuisance that is
　　Elena fade into the background. It’s just me and my
　　control freak in the back of the car.
　　“It’s better now that you’re here,” he murmurs. We sit
　　in silence as Taylor weaves through the evening traffic,
　　both of us brooding and contemplative; but I feel Christian
　　slowly unwind beside me as he, too, relaxes, gently running
　　his thumb across my knuckles in a soft, soothing rhythm.
　　Taylor drops us outside the apartment building, and we
　　both duck inside, out of the rain. Christian clasps my hand
　　as we wait for the elevator, his eyes scanning the front of
　　the building.
　　“I take it you haven’t found Leila yet.”
　　“I take it you haven’t found Leila yet.”
　　“No. Welch is still looking for her,” he mutters
　　despondently.
　　The elevator arrives and in we step. Christian glances
　　down at me, his gray eyes unreadable. Oh, he just looks
　　glorious—tousled hair, white shirt, dark suit. And suddenly
　　it’s there, from nowhere, that feeling. Oh my—the longing,
　　the lust, the electricity. If it were visible, it would be an
　　intense blue aura around and between us it’s so strong. His
　　lips part as he gazes at me.
　　“Do you feel it?” he breathes.
　　“Yes.”
　　“Oh, Ana.” He groans and he grabs me, his arms
　　snaking around me, one hand at the nape of my neck,
　　tipping my head back as his lips find mine. My fingers are
　　in his hair and caressing his cheek as he pushes me back
　　against the elevator wall.
　　“I hate arguing with you,” he breathes against my
　　mouth, and there’s a desperate, passionate quality to his
　　kiss that mirrors mine. Desire explodes in my body, all the
　　tension of the day seeking an outlet, straining against him,
　　seeking more. We’re all tongues and breathing and hands
　　and touch and sweet, sweet sensation. His hand is on my
　　hip, and abruptly he’s pulling up my skirt, his fingers
　　stroking my thighs.
　　“Sweet Jesus, you’re wearing stockings.” He moans in
　　appreciative awe as his thumb caresses the flesh above my
　　stocking line. “I want to see this,” he breathes, and he pulls
　　my skirt right up, exposing the tops of my thighs.
　　Stepping back, he reaches over to press the stop
　　Stepping back, he reaches over to press the stop
　　button, and the elevator coasts smoothly to a halt between
　　the twenty-second and twenty-third floors. His eyes are
　　dark, lips parted, and he’s breathing as hard as am I. We
　　gaze at each other, not touching. I am grateful for the wall
　　against my back, holding me up while I bask in this
　　beautiful man’s sensual, carnal appraisal.
　　“Take your hair down,” he orders, his voice husky. I
　　reach up and undo the tie, releasing my hair so it tumbles in
　　a thick cloud around my shoulders to my breasts. “Undo
　　the top two buttons of your shirt,” he whispers, his eyes
　　wilder now.
　　He makes me feel so wanton. My inner goddess is
　　writhing on her chaise longue, waiting, wanting, and
　　panting. I reach up and undo each button, achingly, slowly,
　　so that the tops of my breasts are tantalizingly revealed.
　　He swallows. “Do you have any idea how alluring you
　　look right now?”
　　Very deliberately, I bite my lip and shake my head. He
　　closes his eyes briefly, and when he opens them again,
　　they are blazing. He steps forward and places his hands on
　　the elevator walls on either side of my face. He’s as close
　　as he can be without touching me.
　　I tip my face up to meet his gaze, and he leans down
　　and runs his nose against mine, so it’s the only contact
　　between us. I am so hot in the confines of this elevator
　　with him. I want him—now.
　　“I think you do, Miss Steele. I think you like to drive
　　me wild.”
　　“Do I drive you wild?” I whisper.
　　“Do I drive you wild?” I whisper.
　　“In all things, Anastasia. You are a siren, a goddess.”
　　And he reaches for me, grasping my leg above my knee
　　and hitching it around his waist, so that I am standing on
　　one leg, leaning into him. I feel him against me, feel him
　　hard and wanting above the apex of my thighs as he runs
　　his lips down my throat. I moan and wrap my arms around
　　his neck.
　　“I’m going to take you now, Anastasia,” he breathes
　　and I arch my back in response, pressing myself against
　　him, eager for the friction. He groans deep and low in the
　　back of his throat and boosts me higher as he undoes his
　　fly.
　　“Hold tight, baby,” he murmurs, and magically
　　produces a foil packet that he holds in front of my mouth. I
　　take it between my teeth, and he tugs, so that between us,
　　we rip it open.
　　“Good girl.” He steps back a fraction as he slides on
　　the condom. “God, I can’t wait for the next six days,” he
　　growls and gazes down at me through hooded eyes. “I do
　　hope you’re not overly fond of these panties.” He tears
　　through them with his adept fingers, and they disintegrate in
　　his hands. My blood is pounding through my veins. I am
　　panting with need.
　　His words are intoxicating, all my angst from the day
　　forgotten. It’s just him and me, doing what we do best.
　　Without taking his eyes off mine, he sinks slowly into me.
　　My body bows and I tilt my head back, closing my eyes,
　　relishing the feel of him inside me. He pulls back and then
　　moves into me again, so slow, so sweet. I groan.
　　“You’re mine, Anastasia,” he murmurs against my
　　throat.
　　“Yes. Yours. When will you accept that?” I pant. He
　　groans and starts to move, really move. And I surrender
　　myself to his relentless rhythm, savoring each push and
　　pull, his ragged breathing, his need for me, reflecting mine.
　　It makes me feel powerful, strong, desired and loved
　　—loved by this captivating, complicated man, whom I love
　　in return with all my heart. He pushes harder and harder,
　　his breathing ragged, losing himself in me as I lose myself in
　　him.
　　“Oh, baby,” Christian moans, his teeth grazing my jaw,
　　and I come hard around him. He stills, clutches me, and
　　follows suit, whispering my name.
　　Now that Christian is spent, calm and kissing me gently,
　　his breathing eases. He holds me upright against the
　　elevator wall, our foreheads pressed together, and my
　　body is like jelly, weak but gratifyingly sated from my
　　climax.
　　“Oh, Ana,” he murmurs. “I need you so much.” He
　　kisses my forehead.
　　“And I you, Christian.”
　　Releasing me, he straightens my skirt and does up the
　　two buttons on my shirt, then punches the combination into
　　the keypad that starts the elevator again. It rises with a jolt
　　so that I reach out and clasp his arms.
　　“Taylor will be wondering where we are,” he grins
　　lasciviously at me.
　　Oh crap. I drag my fingers through my hair in a vain
　　attempt to combat the just-fucked look, then give up and
　　tie it in a ponytail.
　　“You’ll do.” Christian smirks as he does up his fly and
　　puts the condom in his pants pocket.
　　Once more he looks the embodiment of an American
　　entrepreneur, and since his hair looks just fucked most of
　　the time, there’s very little difference. Except now he’s
　　smiling, relaxed, his eyes crinkling with boyish charm. Are
　　all men this easily placated?
　　Taylor is waiting when the doors open.
　　“Problem with the elevator,” Christian murmurs as we
　　both step out, and I cannot look either of them in the face.
　　I scurry through the double doors to Christian’s bedroom
　　in search of some fresh underwear.
　　When I return, Christian has removed his jacket and is
　　sitting at the breakfast bar chatting with Mrs. Jones. She
　　smiles kindly at me as she puts out two plates of hot food
　　for us. Mmm, it smells delicious—coq au vin, if I am not
　　mistaken. I am famished.
　　“Enjoy, Mr. Grey, Ana,” she says and leaves us to it.
　　Christian fetches a bottle of white wine from the fridge,
　　and as we sit and eat, he tells me about how much nearer
　　he’s getting to perfecting a solar-powered mobile phone.
　　He’s animated and excited about the whole project, and I
　　He’s animated and excited about the whole project, and I
　　know then that he hasn’t had an entirely shitty day.
　　I ask him about his properties. He smirks, and it turns
　　out he only has the apartment in New York and Aspen,
　　and Escala. Nothing else. When we’re done, I collect his
　　plate and mine and take them to sink.
　　“Leave that. Gail will do it,” he says. I turn and gaze at
　　him, and he’s watching me intently. Will I ever get used to
　　having someone clean up after me?
　　“Well, now that you are more docile, Miss Steele, shall
　　we talk about today?”
　　“I think you’re the one who’s more docile. I think I’m
　　doing a good job in taming you.”
　　“Taming me?” he snorts, amused. When I nod, he
　　frowns as if reflecting on my words. “Yes. Maybe you are,
　　Anastasia.”
　　“You were right about Jack,” I murmur, serious now,
　　and I lean across the kitchen island gauging his reaction.
　　Christian’s face falls and his eyes harden.
　　“Has he tried anything?” he whispers, his voice deathly
　　cold.
　　I shake my head to reassure him. “No, and he won’t,
　　Christian. I told him today that I’m your girlfriend, and he
　　backed right off.”
　　“You’re sure? I could fire the fucker.” Christian
　　scowls.
　　I sigh, emboldened by my glass of wine. “You really
　　have to let me fight my own battles. You can’t constantly
　　second-guess me and try to protect me. It’s stifling,

　　Christian. I’ll never flourish with your incessant
　　Christian. I’ll never flourish with your incessant
　　interference. I need some freedom. I wouldn’t dream of
　　meddling in your affairs.”
　　He blinks at me. “I only want you safe, Anastasia. If
　　anything happened to you, I—” He stops.
　　“I know, and I understand why you feel so driven to
　　protect me. And part of me loves it. I know that if I need
　　you, you’ll be there, as I am for you. But if we are to have
　　any hope of a future together, you have to trust me and
　　trust my judgment. Yes, I’ll get it wrong sometimes—I’ll
　　make mistakes, but I have to learn.”
　　He stares at me, his expression anxious, spurring me to
　　walk round to him so that I am standing between his legs
　　while he sits on the barstool. Grabbing his hands, I put
　　them around me and place my hands on his arms.
　　“You can’t interfere in my job. It’s wrong. I don’t need
　　you charging in like a white knight to save the day. I know
　　you want to control everything, and I understand why, but
　　you can’t. It’s an impossible goal . . . you have to learn to
　　let go.” I reach up and stroke his face as he gazes at me,
　　his eyes wide. “And if you can do that—give me that—I’ll
　　move in with you,” I add softly.
　　He inhales sharply, surprised. “You’d do that?” he
　　whispers.
　　“Yes.”
　　“But you don’t know me.” He frowns and sounds
　　choked and panicky all of a sudden, very un-Fifty.
　　“I know you well enough, Christian. Nothing you tell
　　me about yourself will frighten me away.” I gently run my
　　knuckles across his cheek. His expression turns from
　　knuckles across his cheek. His expression turns from
　　anxious to dubious. “But if you could just ease up on me,”
　　I plead.
　　“I’m trying, Anastasia. I couldn’t just stand by and let
　　you go to New York with that . . . sleazeball. He has an
　　alarming reputation. None of his assistants have lasted
　　more than three months, and they’re never retained by the
　　company. I don’t want that for you, baby.” He sighs. “I
　　don’t want anything to happen to you. You being hurt . . .
　　the thought fills me with dread. I can’t promise not to
　　interfere, not if I think you’ll come to harm.” He pauses
　　and takes a deep breath. “I love you, Anastasia. I will do
　　everything in my power to protect you. I cannot imagine
　　my life without you.”
　　Holy cow. My inner goddess, my subconscious, and I
　　all gape at Fifty in shock.
　　Jeez, three little words. My world stands still, tilts, then
　　spins on a new axis; and I savor the moment, gazing into
　　his sincere, beautiful gray eyes.
　　“I love you, too, Christian.” I lean over and kiss him,
　　and the kiss deepens.
　　Entering unseen, Taylor clears his throat. Christian pulls
　　back, gazing intently at me. He stands, his arm around my
　　waist.
　　“Yes?” he snaps at Taylor.
　　“Mrs. Lincoln is on her way up, sir.”
　　“What?”
　　Taylor shrugs apologetically. Christian sighs heavily
　　and shakes his head.
　　“Well, this should be interesting,” he mutters and gives
　　“Well, this should be interesting,” he mutters and gives
　　me a crooked grin of resignation.
　　Fuck! Why can’t that damned woman leave us alone?
　　“Yes.”
　　“What did you say?”
　　“I said that you didn’t want to see her, and that I
　　understood your reasons why. I also told her that I didn’t
　　appreciate her going behind my back.” His gaze is
　　impassive, giving nothing away.
　　Oh, good. “What did she say?”
　　“She brushed it off in a way that only Elena can.” His
　　mouth flattens to a crooked line.
　　“Why do you think she’s here?”
　　“I have no idea.” Christian shrugs.
　　Taylor enters the great room again. “Mrs. Lincoln,” he
　　announces.
　　And here she is . . . Why is she so damned attractive?
　　She’s dressed entirely in black: tight jeans, a shirt that
　　emphasizes her perfect figure, and a halo of bright, glossy
　　hair.
　　Christian pulls me close. “Elena,” he says, his tone
　　puzzled.
　　She gapes at me in shock, frozen to the spot. She
　　blinks before finding her soft voice. “I’m sorry. I didn’t
　　realize you had company, Christian. It’s Monday,” she
　　says as if this explains why she’s here.
　　“Girlfriend,” he says by way of explanation and tilts his
　　head to one side and smirks.
　　She smiles, a slow, beaming smile directed entirely at
　　him. It’s unnerving.
　　“Of course. Hello, Anastasia. I didn’t know you’d be
　　here. I know you don’t want to talk to me. I accept that.”
　　“Do you?” I assert quietly, gazing at her and taking all
　　of us by surprise. With a slight frown, she moves farther
　　into the room.
　　“Yes, I get the message. I’m not here to see you. Like
　　I said, Christian rarely has company during the week.” She
　　pauses. “I have a problem, and I need to talk to Christian
　　about it.”
　　“Oh?” Christian straightens up. “Do you want a
　　drink?”
　　“Yes, please,” she murmurs gratefully.
　　Christian fetches a glass while Elena and I stand
　　awkwardly gazing at each other. She fidgets with a large
　　silver ring on her middle finger, while I don’t know where
　　to look. Finally, she gives me a small tight smile and
　　approaches the kitchen island and sits on the bar stool at
　　the end. She obviously knows the place well and feels
　　comfortable moving around here.
　　Do I stay? Do I go? Oh, this is so difficult. My
　　subconscious scowls at the woman with her most hostile
　　subconscious scowls at the woman with her most hostile
　　harpy face.
　　There’s so much I want to say to this woman, and
　　none of it complimentary. But she’s Christian’s friend—his
　　only friend—and for all my loathing of this woman, I am
　　innately polite. Deciding to stay, I sit as gracefully as I can
　　manage on the stool Christian’s vacated. Christian pours
　　wine into each of our glasses and sits between us at the
　　breakfast bar. Can’t he feel how weird this is?
　　“What’s up?” he asks her.
　　Elena looks nervously at me, and Christian reaches
　　over and clasps my hand.
　　“Anastasia’s with me now,” he says to her silent query
　　and squeezes my hand. I flush, and my subconscious
　　beams at him, harpy face forgotten.
　　Elena’s face softens as if she’s pleased for him. Really
　　pleased for him. Oh, I don’t understand this woman at all,
　　and I’m uncomfortable and edgy in her presence.
　　She takes a deep breath and shifts, perching on the
　　edge of her bar stool and looking agitated. She glances
　　nervously down at her hands and starts manically twisting
　　the large silver ring around and around on her middle
　　finger.
　　Jeez, what’s wrong with her? Is it my presence? Do I
　　have that effect on her? Because I feel the same way—I
　　don’t want her here. She raises her head and looks
　　Christian squarely in the eye.
　　“I’m being blackmailed.”
　　Holy shit. Not what I expected out of her mouth.
　　Christian stiffens. Has someone found out about her
　　Christian stiffens. Has someone found out about her
　　penchant for beating and fucking underage boys? I
　　suppress my revulsion, and a fleeting thought about
　　chickens coming home to roost crosses my mind. My
　　subconscious rubs her hands together with ill-disguised
　　glee. Good.
　　“How?” Christian asks, his horror clear in his voice.
　　She reaches into her oversized, patent-leather,
　　designer purse, pulls out a note, and hands it to him.
　　“Put it down, lay it out.” Christian points to the
　　breakfast bar counter with his chin.
　　“You don’t want to touch it?’
　　“No. Fingerprints.”
　　“Christian, you know I can’t go to the police with this.”
　　Why am I listening to this? Is she fucking some other
　　poor boy?
　　She lays the note out for him, and he bends to read it.
　　“They’re only asking for five thousand dollars,” he says
　　almost absentmindedly. “Any idea who it might be?
　　Someone in the community?”
　　“No,” she says in her soft sweet voice.
　　“Linc?”
　　Linc? Who’s that?
　　“What—after all this time? I don’t think so,” she
　　grumbles.
　　“Does Isaac know?”
　　“I haven’t told him.”
　　Who’s Isaac?
　　“I think he needs to know,” Christian says. She shakes
　　her head, and now I feel I’m intruding. I want none of this.
　　her head, and now I feel I’m intruding. I want none of this.
　　I try to retrieve my hand from Christian’s grasp, but he just
　　tightens his hold and turns to gaze at me.
　　“What?” he asks.
　　“I’m tired. I think I’ll go to bed.”
　　His eyes search mine, looking for what? Censure?
　　Acceptance? Hostility? I keep my expression as bland as
　　possible.
　　“Okay,” he says. “I won’t be long.”
　　He releases me and I stand. Elena watches me warily.
　　I stay tightlipped and return her gaze, giving nothing away.
　　“Goodnight, Anastasia.” She gives me a small smile.
　　“Goodnight,” I mutter, my voice sounds cold. I turn to
　　leave. The tension is too much for me to bear. As I exit the
　　room they continue their conversation.
　　“I don’t think there’s a great deal I can do, Elena,”
　　Christian says to her. “If it’s a question of money.” His
　　voice trails off. “I could ask Welch to investigate.”
　　“No, Christian, I just wanted to share,” she says.
　　When I am out of the room, I hear her say, “You look
　　very happy.”
　　“I am,” Christian responds.
　　“You deserve to be.”
　　“I wish that were true.”
　　“Christian,” she scolds.
　　I freeze, listening intently. I can’t help it.
　　“Does she know how negative you are about yourself?
　　About all your issues.”
　　“She knows me better than anyone.”
　　“Ouch! That hurts.”
　　“Ouch! That hurts.”
　　“It’s the truth, Elena. I don’t have to play games with
　　her. And I mean it, leave her alone.”
　　“What is her problem?”
　　“You . . . What we were. What we did. She doesn’t
　　understand.”
　　“Make her understand.”
　　“It’s in the past, Elena, and why would I want to taint
　　her with our fucked-up relationship? She’s good and
　　sweet and innocent, and by some miracle she loves me.”
　　“It’s no miracle, Christian,” Elena scoffs goodnaturedly.
　　“Have a little faith in yourself. You really are
　　quite a catch. I’ve told you often enough. And she seems
　　lovely, too. Strong. Someone to stand up to you.”
　　I can’t hear Christian’s response. So I’m strong, am I?
　　I certainly don’t feel that way.
　　“Don’t you miss it?” Elena continues.
　　“What?”
　　“Your playroom.”
　　I stop breathing.
　　“That really is none of your fucking business,” Christian
　　snaps.
　　Oh.
　　“I’m sorry.” Elena snorts insincerely.
　　“I think you’d better go. And please, call before you
　　come again.”
　　“Christian, I am sorry,” she says, and from her tone,
　　this time she means it. “Since when are you so sensitive?”
　　She’s scolding him again.
　　“Elena, we have a business relationship which has
　　“Elena, we have a business relationship which has
　　profited us both immensely. Let’s keep it that way. What
　　was between us is part of the past. Anastasia is my future,
　　and I won’t jeopardize it in any way, so cut the fucking
　　crap.”
　　His future!
　　“I see.”
　　“Look, I’m sorry for your trouble. Perhaps you should
　　ride it out and call their bluff.” His tone is softer.
　　“I don’t want to lose you, Christian.”
　　“I’m not yours to lose, Elena,” he snaps again.
　　“That’s not what I meant.”
　　“What did you mean?” He’s brusque, angry.
　　“Look, I don’t want to argue with you. Your friendship
　　means a lot to me. I’ll back off from Anastasia. But I’m
　　here if you need me. I always will be.”
　　“Anastasia thinks that you saw me last Saturday. You
　　called, that’s all. Why did you tell her otherwise?”
　　“I wanted her to know how upset you were when she
　　left. I don’t want her to hurt you.”
　　“She knows. I’ve told her. Stop interfering. Honestly,
　　you’re like a mother hen.” Christian sounds more resigned,

　　and Elena laughs, but there’s a sad tone to her laugh.
　　“I know. I’m sorry. You know I care about you. I
　　never thought you’d end up falling in love, Christian. It’s
　　very gratifying to see. But I couldn’t bear it if she hurt
　　you.”
　　“I’ll take my chances,” he says dryly. “Now are you
　　sure you don’t want Welch to sniff around?”
　　She sighs heavily. “I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm.”
　　She sighs heavily. “I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm.”
　　“Okay. I’ll call him in the morning.”
　　I listen to them bickering, trying to figure this out. They
　　do sound like old friends, as Christian says. Just friends.
　　And she cares about him—maybe too much. Well, who
　　wouldn’t, if they knew him?
　　“Thank you, Christian. And I am sorry. I didn’t mean
　　to intrude. I’ll go. Next time I’ll call.”
　　“Good.”
　　She’s going! Shit! I scamper up the hallway to
　　Christian’s bedroom and sit down on the bed. Christian
　　enters a few moments later.
　　“She’s gone,” he says warily, gauging my reaction.
　　I gaze up at him, trying to frame my question. “Will you
　　tell me all about her? I am trying to understand why you
　　think she helped you.” I pause, thinking carefully about my
　　next sentence. “I loathe her, Christian. I think she did you
　　untold damage. You have no friends. Did she keep them
　　away from you?”
　　He sighs and runs his hand through his hair.
　　“Why the fuck do you want to know about her? We
　　had a very long-standing affair, she beat the shit out of me
　　often, and I fucked her in all sorts of ways you can’t even
　　imagine, end of story.”
　　I pale. Shit, he’s angry—with me. I blink at him. “Why
　　are you so angry?”
　　“Because all of that shit is OVER!” he shouts, glowering
　　at me. He sighs in exasperation and shakes his head.
　　I blanch. Shit. I look down at my hands, knotted in my
　　lap. I just want to understand.
　　He sits down beside me. “What do you want to
　　know?” he asks wearily.
　　“You don’t have to tell me. I don’t mean to intrude.”
　　“Anastasia, it’s not that. I don’t like talking about this
　　shit. I’ve lived in a bubble for years with nothing affecting
　　me and not having to justify myself to anyone. She’s
　　always been there as a confidante. And now my past and
　　my future are colliding in a way I never thought possible.”
　　I glance at him and he’s staring at me, his eyes wide.
　　“I never thought I had a future with anyone, Anastasia.
　　You give me hope and have me thinking about all sorts of
　　possibilities.” He drifts off.
　　“I was listening,” I whisper and stare back down at my
　　hands.
　　“What? To our conversation?”
　　“Yes.”
　　“Well?” He sounds resigned.
　　“She cares for you.”
　　“Yes, she does. And I for her in my own way, but it
　　doesn’t come close to how I feel about you. If that’s what
　　this is about.”
　　“I’m not jealous.” I’m wounded that he would think
　　that—or am I? Shit. Maybe that’s what this is. “You don’t
　　love her,” I murmur.
　　He sighs again. He really is pissed. “A long time ago, I
　　thought I loved her,” he says through gritted teeth.
　　Oh. “When we were in Georgia . . . you said you
　　didn’t love her.”
　　“That’s right.”
　　I frown.
　　“I loved you then, Anastasia,” he whispers. “You’re
　　the only person I’d fly three thousand miles to see.”
　　Oh my. I don’t understand. He still wanted me as a
　　sub then. My frown deepens.
　　“The feelings I have for you are very different from any
　　I ever had for Elena,” he says by way of explanation.
　　“When did you know?”
　　He shrugs. “Ironically, it was Elena who pointed it out
　　to me. She encouraged me to go to Georgia.”
　　I knew it! I knew it in Savannah. I gaze at him,
　　blankly.
　　What do I make of this? Maybe she is on my side and
　　just worried that I’ll hurt him. The thought is painful. I
　　would never want to hurt him. She’s right—he’s been hurt
　　enough.
　　Perhaps she’s not so bad. I shake my head. I don’t
　　want to accept his relationship with her. I disapprove. Yes,
　　that’s what this is. She’s an unsavory character who
　　preyed on a vulnerable adolescent, robbing him of his
　　teenage years, no matter what he says.
　　“So you desired her? When you were younger.”
　　“Yes.”
　　Oh.
　　“She taught me a great deal. She taught me to believe
　　in myself.”
　　Oh. “But she also beat the shit out of you.”
　　He smiles fondly. “Yes, she did.”
　　He smiles fondly. “Yes, she did.”
　　“And you liked that?”
　　“At the time I did.”
　　“So much that you wanted to do it to others?”
　　His eyes grow wide and serious. “Yes.”
　　“Did she help you with that?”
　　“Yes.”
　　“Did she sub for you?”
　　“Yes.”
　　Holy fuck. “Do you expect me to like her?” My voice
　　sounds brittle and bitter.
　　“No. Though it would make my life a hell of a lot
　　easier,” he says wearily. “I do understand your reticence.”
　　“Reticence! Jeez, Christian—if that were your son,
　　how would you feel?”
　　He blinks at me as though he doesn’t comprehend the
　　question. He frowns. “I didn’t have to stay with her. It was
　　my choice, too, Anastasia,” he murmurs.
　　This is getting me nowhere.
　　“Who’s Linc?”
　　“Her ex-husband.”
　　“Lincoln Timber?”
　　“The very same,” he smirks.
　　“And Isaac?”
　　“Her current submissive.”
　　Oh no.
　　“He’s in his mid-twenties, Anastasia. You know—a
　　consenting adult,” he adds quickly, correctly deciphering
　　my look of disgust.
　　I flush. “Your age,” I mutter.
　　I flush. “Your age,” I mutter.
　　“Look, Anastasia, as I said to her, she’s part of my
　　past. You are my future. Don’t let her come between us,
　　please. And quite frankly, I’m really bored of this subject.
　　I’m going to do some work.” He stands and gazes down
　　at me. “Let it go. Please.”
　　I stare mulishly up at him.
　　“Oh, I almost forgot,” he adds. “Your car arrived a
　　day early. It’s in the garage. Taylor has the key.”
　　Whoa . . . the Saab? “Can I drive it tomorrow?”
　　“No.”
　　“Why not?”
　　“You know why not. And that reminds me. If you are
　　going to leave your office, let me know. Sawyer was there,
　　watching you. It seems I can’t trust you to look after
　　yourself at all.” He scowls down at me, making me feel
　　like an errant child—again. And I would argue with him,
　　but he’s pretty worked up over Elena, and I don’t want to
　　push him any further, but I can’t resist one comment.
　　“Seems I can’t trust you either,” I mutter. “You could
　　have told me Sawyer was watching me.”
　　“Do you want to fight about that, too?” he snaps.
　　“I wasn’t aware we were fighting. I thought we were
　　communicating,” I mumble petulantly.
　　He closes his eyes briefly as he struggles to contain his
　　temper. I swallow and watch anxiously. Jeez, this could go
　　either way.
　　“I have to work,” he says quietly, and with that, he
　　leaves the room.
　　I exhale. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath. I
　　I exhale. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath. I
　　flop back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.
　　Can we ever have a normal conversation without it
　　disintegrating into an argument? It’s exhausting.
　　We just don’t know each other that well. Do I really
　　want to move in with him? I don’t even know if I should
　　make him a cup of tea or coffee while he’s working.
　　Should I disturb him at all? I have no idea of his likes and
　　dislikes.
　　Evidently he’s bored with the whole Elena thing—he’s
　　right, I need to move on. Let it go. Well, at least he’s not
　　expecting me to be friends with her, and I hope that she’ll
　　now stop hassling me for a meeting.
　　I get off the bed and wander to the window. Unlocking
　　the balcony door, I open it and stroll over to the glass
　　railing. Its transparency is unnerving. The air’s chilly and
　　fresh, as I’m up so high.
　　I gaze out over the twinkling lights of Seattle. He’s so
　　far removed from everything up here in his fortress.
　　Answerable to no one. He’d just told me he loves me,
　　then all this crap comes up because of that dreadful
　　woman. I roll my eyes. His life is so complicated. He’s so
　　complicated.
　　With a heavy sigh and a last glance at Seattle spread
　　like cloths of gold at my feet, I decide to call Ray. I
　　haven’t spoken to him for a while. It’s a brief conversation
　　as per usual, but I ascertain he’s fine and that I’m
　　interrupting an important soccer match.
　　“Hope all is well with Christian,” he says casually, and
　　I know he’s fishing for information but doesn’t really want
　　I know he’s fishing for information but doesn’t really want
　　to know.
　　“Yeah. We’re cool.” Sort of, and I’m moving in with
　　him. Though we haven’t discussed a timetable.
　　“Love you, Dad.”
　　“Love you, too, Annie.”
　　I hang up and check my watch. It’s only ten. Because
　　of our discussion, I am feeling strangely innervated and
　　restless.
　　I shower quickly, and back in the bedroom, decide to
　　wear one of the nightdresses that Caroline Acton procured
　　for me from Neiman Marcus. Christian’s always moaning
　　about my T-shirts. There are three. I choose the pale pink
　　and put it on over my head. The fabric skims across my
　　skin, caressing and clinging to me as it falls around my
　　body. It feels luxurious—the finest, thinnest satin. Holy
　　crap. In the mirror, I look like a 1930s movie star. It’s
　　long, elegant—and very un-me.
　　I grab the matching robe and decide to hunt out a
　　book in the library. I could read on my iPad—but right
　　now, I want the comfort and reassurance of a physical
　　book. I’ll leave Christian alone. Perhaps he’ll recover his
　　good humor once he’s finished working.
　　There are so many books in Christian’s library.
　　Scanning every title will take forever. I glance occasionally
　　at the billiard table and flush as I recall our previous
　　evening. I smile when I see that the ruler is still on the floor.
　　Picking it up, I swat my palm. Ow! It stings.
　　Why can’t I take a little more pain for my man?
　　Disconsolately, I place it on the desk and continue my hunt
　　Disconsolately, I place it on the desk and continue my hunt
　　for a good read.
　　Most of the books are first editions. How can he have
　　amassed a collection like this in such a short time? Perhaps
　　Taylor’s job description includes book buying. I settle on
　　Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier. I haven’t read this for a
　　long time. I smile as I curl up in one of the overstuffed
　　armchairs and read the first line:
　　Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again . . .
　　I am jostled awake as Christian lifts me in his arms.
　　“Hey,” he murmurs, “you fell asleep. I couldn’t find
　　you.” He nuzzles my hair. Sleepily, I put my arms around
　　his neck and breathe in his scent—oh, he smells so good
　　—as he carries me back to the bedroom. He lays me
　　down on the bed and covers me.
　　“Sleep, baby,” he whispers and he presses his lips
　　against my forehead.
　　I wake suddenly from a disturbing dream and am
　　momentarily disorientated. I find myself anxiously checking
　　the end of the bed, but there’s no one there. Drifting from
　　the great room, I hear the faint strains of a complex
　　melody from the piano.
　　What time is it? I check the alarm clock—two in the
　　morning. Has Christian come to sleep at all? I disentangle
　　my legs from my robe, which I’m still wearing, and
　　my legs from my robe, which I’m still wearing, and
　　clamber out of bed.
　　In the great room, I stand in the shadows, listening.
　　Christian is lost to the music. He looks safe and secure in
　　his bubble of light. And the tune he plays has a lilting
　　melody, parts of which sound familiar, but so elaborate.
　　Jeez, he’s good. Why does this always take me by
　　surprise?
　　The whole scene looks different somehow, and I
　　realize that the piano lid is down, giving me an unhindered
　　view. He glances up and our eyes lock, his gray and softly
　　luminous in the diffuse glow of the lamp. He continues to

　　play, not faltering at all, as I make my way over to him. His
　　eyes follow me, drinking me in, burning brighter. As I
　　reach him, he stops.
　　“Why did you stop? That was lovely.”
　　“Do you have any idea how desirable you look at the
　　moment?” he says, his voice soft.
　　Oh. “Come to bed,” I whisper and his eyes heat as he
　　holds out his hand. When I take it, he tugs unexpectedly so
　　I fall into his lap. He wraps his arms around me and
　　nuzzles my neck behind my ear, sending shivers down my
　　spine.
　　“Why do we fight?” he whispers, as his teeth graze my
　　earlobe.
　　Holy cow. My heart skips a beat, then starts pounding,
　　coursing heat throughout my body.
　　“Because we’re getting to know each other, and
　　you’re stubborn and cantankerous and moody and
　　difficult,” I murmur breathlessly, shifting my head to give
　　difficult,” I murmur breathlessly, shifting my head to give
　　him better access to my throat. He runs his nose down my
　　neck, and I feel his smile.
　　“I’m all those things, Miss Steele. It’s a wonder you
　　put up with me.” He nips my earlobe and I moan. “Is it
　　always like this?” he sighs.
　　“I have no idea.”
　　“Me neither.” He yanks the sash of my robe so it falls
　　open, and his hand skims down my body, over my breast.
　　My nipples harden beneath his gentle touch and strain
　　against the satin. He continues down to my waist, down to
　　my hip.
　　“You feel so fine under this material, and I can see
　　everything—even this.” He tugs gently on my pubic hair
　　through the fabric, making me gasp, while his other hand
　　fists in my hair at my nape. Pulling my head back, he kisses
　　me, his tongue urgent, relentless, needy. I moan in
　　response and caress his dear, dear face. His hand gently
　　pulls my nightdress up, slowly, tantalizingly until he’s
　　fondling my naked behind and then running his thumbnail
　　down the inside of my thigh.
　　Suddenly he rises, startling me, and he lifts me bodily
　　onto the piano. My feet rest on the keys, sounding
　　discordant, disjointed notes, and his hands skim up my
　　legs and part my knees. He grabs my hands.
　　“Lie back,” he orders, holding my hands while I sink
　　back on top of the piano. The lid is hard and
　　uncompromising against my back. He lets go and pushes
　　my legs open wider, my feet dancing over the keys, over
　　the lower and higher notes.
　　the lower and higher notes.
　　Oh boy. I know what he’s going to do, and the
　　anticipation . . . I groan loudly as he kisses the inside of my
　　knee, then kisses and sucks and nips his way higher up my
　　leg to my thigh. The soft satin of my nightgown rises higher,
　　skimming over my sensitized skin, as he pushes the fabric.
　　I flex my feet and the chords sound again. Closing my
　　eyes, I surrender myself to him as his mouth reaches the
　　apex of my thighs.
　　He kisses me . . . there . . . Oh boy . . . then gently
　　blows before his tongue circles my clitoris. He pushes my
　　legs wider. I feel so open—so exposed. He holds me in
　　place, his hands just above my knees as his tongue tortures
　　me, giving no quarter, no respite . . . no reprieve. Tilting
　　my hips up, meeting and matching his rhythm, I am
　　consumed.
　　“Oh, Christian, please.” I moan.
　　“Oh no, baby, not yet,” he teases, but I feel myself
　　quicken as does he, and he stops.
　　“No,” I whimper.
　　“This is my revenge, Ana,” he growls softly. “Argue
　　with me, and I am going to take it out on your body
　　somehow.” He trails kisses along my belly, his hands
　　traveling up my thighs, stroking, kneading, tantalizing. His
　　tongue circles my navel as his hands—and his thumbs . . .
　　oh his thumbs—reach the summit of my thighs.
　　“Ah!” I cry out as he pushes one inside me. The other
　　persecutes me, slowly, agonizingly, circling round and
　　round. My back arches off the piano as I writhe beneath
　　his touch. It’s almost unbearable.
　　his touch. It’s almost unbearable.
　　“Christian!” I cry, spiraling out of control with need.
　　He takes pity on me and stops. Lifting my feet off the
　　keys, he pushes me; and suddenly, I’m sliding effortlessly
　　up the piano, gliding on satin, and he’s following me up
　　there, briefly kneeling between my legs to roll on a
　　condom. He hovers over me and I’m panting, gazing up at
　　him with raging need, and I realize he’s naked. When did
　　he take off his clothes?
　　He stares down at me, and there’s wonder in his eyes,
　　wonder and love and passion, and it’s breathtaking.
　　“I want you so badly,” he says and very slowly,
　　exquisitely, he sinks into me.
　　I am sprawled on top of him, wrung out, my limbs heavy
　　and languid, as we lie on top of his grand piano. Oh my.
　　He’s much more comfortable to lie on than the piano.
　　Careful not to touch his chest, I rest my cheek against him
　　and keep perfectly still. He doesn’t object, and I listen to
　　his breathing as it slows like mine. Gently he strokes my
　　hair.
　　“Do you drink tea or coffee in the evening?” I ask
　　sleepily.
　　“What a strange question,” he says dreamily.
　　“I thought I could bring you tea in your study, and then
　　I realized I didn’t know what you would like.”
　　“Oh, I see. Water or wine in the evening, Ana. Though
　　maybe I should try tea.”
　　His hand moves rhythmically down my back, stroking
　　me tenderly.
　　“We really know very little about each other,” I
　　murmur.
　　“I know,” he says, and his voice is mournful. I sit up to
　　gaze at him.
　　“What is it?” I ask. He shakes his head as if to rid
　　himself of some unpleasant thought, and raising his hand,
　　he caresses my cheek, his eyes bright and earnest.
　　“I love you, Ana Steele,” he says.
　　The alarm blasts on with the six am traffic news, and I am
　　rudely awakened from my disturbing dream of over-blond
　　and dark-haired women. I can’t grasp what it’s about, and
　　I’m immediately distracted because Christian Grey is
　　wrapped around me like silk, his unruly-haired head on my
　　chest, his hand on my breast, his leg over me, holding me
　　down. He’s still asleep, and I am too warm. But I ignore
　　my discomfort, tentatively reaching up to run my fingers
　　gently through his hair, and he stirs. Raising bright gray
　　eyes, he grins sleepily. Holy cow . . . he’s adorable.
　　“Good morning, beautiful,” he says.
　　“Good morning, beautiful yourself.” I smile back at
　　him. He kisses me, disentangles himself, and leans up on
　　his elbow, staring down at me.
　　his elbow, staring down at me.
　　“Sleep okay?” he asks.
　　“Yes, despite the interruption to my sleep last night.”
　　His grin broadens. “Hmm. You can interrupt me like
　　that anytime.” He kisses me again.
　　“How about you? Did you sleep well?”
　　“I always sleep well with you, Anastasia.”
　　“No more nightmares?”
　　“No.”
　　I frown and chance a question. “What are your
　　nightmares about?”
　　His brow creases and his grin fades. Shit—my stupid
　　curiosity.
　　“They’re flashbacks of my early childhood, or so Dr.
　　Flynn says. Some vivid, some less so.” His voice drops
　　and a distant, harrowed look crosses his face.
　　Absentmindedly, he begins to trace my collarbone with his
　　finger, distracting me.
　　“Do you wake up crying and screaming?” I try in vain
　　to joke.
　　He looks at me, puzzled. “No, Anastasia. I’ve never
　　cried. As far as I can remember.” He frowns, as if
　　reaching into the depths of his memories. Oh no—that’s
　　too dark a place to go at this hour, surely.
　　“Do you have any happy memories of your
　　childhood?” I ask quickly, mainly to distract him. He looks
　　pensive for a moment, still running his finger along my skin.
　　“I recall the crack whore baking. I remember the smell.
　　A birthday cake I think. For me. And then there’s Mia’s
　　arrival with my mom and dad. My mom was worried
　　arrival with my mom and dad. My mom was worried
　　about my reaction, but I adored baby Mia immediately.
　　My first word was Mia. I remember my first piano lesson.
　　Miss Kathie, my tutor, was awesome. She kept horses,
　　too.” He smiles wistfully.
　　“You said your mom saved you. How?”
　　His reverie is broken, and he gazes at me as if I don’t
　　understand the elementary math of two plus two.
　　“She adopted me,” he says simply. “I thought she was
　　an angel when I first met her. She was dressed in white
　　and so gentle and calm as she examined me. I’ll never
　　forget that. If she’d said no or if Carrick had said no . . .”
　　He shrugs and glances over his shoulder at the alarm
　　clock. “This is all a little deep for so early in the morning,”
　　he mutters.
　　“I have made a vow to get to know you better.”
　　“Did you now, Miss Steele? I thought you wanted to
　　know if I preferred coffee or tea.” He smirks. “Anyway, I
　　can think of one way you can get to know me.” He pushes
　　his hips suggestively against me.
　　“I think I know you quite well enough that way.” My
　　voice is haughty and scolding, and it makes him smile more
　　broadly.
　　“I don’t think I’ll ever get to know you well enough
　　that way,” he murmurs. “There are definite advantages to
　　waking up beside you.” His voice is soft and bonemeltingly
　　seductive.
　　“Don’t you have to get up?” My voice is low and
　　husky. Jeez, what he does to me . . .
　　“Not this morning. Only one place I want to be up right
　　“Not this morning. Only one place I want to be up right
　　now, Miss Steele.” And his eyes sparkle salaciously.
　　“Christian!” I gasp, shocked. He shifts suddenly so that
　　he’s on top of me, pressing me into the bed. Grabbing my
　　hands, he pulls them up above my head and begins to kiss
　　my throat.
　　“Oh, Miss Steele.” He smiles against my skin, sending
　　delicious tingles through me, as his hand travels down my
　　body and starts to slowly hitch up my satin nightdress.
　　“Oh, what I’d like to do to you,” he murmurs.
　　And I am lost, interrogation over.
　　Mrs. Jones sets down my breakfast of pancakes and
　　bacon, and for Christian an omelet and bacon. We sit side
　　by side at the bar in a comfortable silence.
　　“When am I going to meet your trainer, Claude, and
　　put him through his paces?” I ask. Christian glances down
　　at me, grinning.
　　“Depends if you want to go to New York this
　　weekend or not—unless you’d like to see him early one
　　morning this week. I’ll ask Andrea to check on his
　　schedule and come back to you.”
　　“Andrea?”
　　“My PA.”
　　Oh yes. “One of your many blondes,” I tease him.
　　“She’s not mine. She works for me. You’re mine.”
　　“I work for you,” I mutter sourly.
　　He grins as if he’s forgotten. “So you do.” His beaming
　　smile is infectious.
　　“Maybe Claude can teach me to kickbox,” I warn.
　　“Oh yeah? Fancy your chances against me?” Christian
　　raises an eyebrow, amused. “Bring it on, Miss Steele.” He
　　is so damned happy compared to yesterday’s foul mood
　　after Elena left. It’s totally disarming. Maybe it’s all the
　　sex . . . perhaps that’s what’s making him so buoyant.
　　I glance behind me at the piano, savoring the memory
　　of last night. “You put the lid of the piano back up.”
　　“I closed it last night so as not to disturb you. Guess it
　　didn’t work, but I’m glad it didn’t.” Christian’s lips twitch
　　into a lascivious smile as he takes a bite of omelet. I go
　　crimson and smirk back at him.
　　Oh yes . . . fun times on the piano.
　　Mrs. Jones leans over and places a paper bag
　　containing my lunch in front of me, making me flush guiltily.
　　“For later, Ana. Tuna okay?”
　　“Oh yes. Thank you, Mrs. Jones.” I give her a shy
　　smile, which she reciprocates warmly before leaving the
　　great room. I suspect it’s to give us some privacy.
　　“Can I ask you something?” I turn back to Christian.
　　His amused expression slips. “Of course.”
　　“And you won’t be angry?”
　　“Is it about Elena?”
　　“No.”
　　“Then I won’t be angry.”
　　“But I now have a supplementary question.”
　　“Oh?”
　　“Which is about her.”
　　He rolls his eyes. “What?” he says, and now he’s
　　exasperated.
　　“Why do you get so mad when I ask you about her?”
　　“Honestly?”
　　I scowl at him. “I thought you were always honest with
　　me.”
　　“I endeavor to be.”