the apartment.

Kate has been shopping, as only she can, for clothes for her holiday to Barbados.

Mainly bikinis and matching sarongs. She will look fabulous in all of them, yet she still

makes me sit and comment while she tries on each and every one. There are only so many

ways one can say – you look fabulous Kate.She has a curvy, slim figure to die for. She

doesn’t do it on purpose, I know, but I haul my sorry, perspiration clad, old t-shirt, sweat

pants, and sneakers ass into my room on the pretext of packing more boxes. Could I feel

any more inadequate? Taking the awesome free technology with me, I set the laptop up on

my desk. I email Christian.

__________________________________________________________________

From:Anastasia Steele

Subject:Shocked of WSUV

Date:May 23 2011 20:33

To:Christian Grey

Okay, I’ve seen enough.

It was nice knowing you.

Ana

I press send, hugging myself, laughing at my little joke. Will he find it as funny? Oh shit

– probably not. Christian Grey is not famed for his sense of humor. But I know it exists,

I’ve experienced it. Perhaps I’ve gone too far. I wait for his answer.

I wait… and wait. I glance at my alarm clock. Ten minutes have passed.

To distract myself from the anxiety that blooms in my belly, I start doing what I told

Kate I would be doing – packing up my room. I begin by cramming my books into a crate.

By nine, I’ve heard nothing. Perhaps he’s out.I pout petulantly as I plug my iPod ear buds

in, listen to Snow Patrol, and sit down at my small desk to re-read the contract and make

my comments.

I don’t know why I glance up, maybe I catch a slight movement from the corner of my

eye, I don’t know, but when I do, he’s standing in the doorway of my bedroom watching

me intently. He’s wearing his grey flannel pants and a white linen shirt, gently twirling his

car keys. I pull my ear buds out and freeze . Fuck!

“Good evening, Anastasia.” His voice is cool, his expression completely guarded and

unreadable. The capacity to speak deserts me. Damn Kate for letting him in here with no

warning. Vaguely, I’m aware that I’m still in my sweats, un-showered, yucky, and he’s just

gloriously yummy, his pants doing that hanging from the hips thing, and what’s more, he’s

here in my bedroom.

“I felt that your email warranted a reply in person,” he explains dryly.

I open my mouth and then close it again, twice. The joke is on me. Never in this or any

alternative universe did I expect him to drop everything and turn up here.

“May I sit?” he asks, his eyes now dancing with humor – thank heavens – maybe he’ll

see the funny side?

I nod. The power of speech remains elusive. Christian Grey is sitting on my bed.

“I wondered what your bedroom would look like,” he says.

I glance around it, plotting an escape route, no – there’s still only the door or window.

My room is functional but cozy – sparse white wicker furniture and a white iron double bed

with a patchwork quilt, made by my mother when she was in her folksy American quilting

phase. It’s all pale blue and cream.

“It’s very serene and peaceful in here,” he murmurs. Not at the moment… not with you

here.Finally, my medulla oblongata recalls its purpose, I breathe.

“How… ?”

He smiles at me.

“I’m still at the Heathman.”

I know that.

“Would you like a drink?” Politeness wins out over everything else I’d like to say.

“No, thank you, Anastasia.” He smiles a dazzling, crooked smile, his head cocked

slightly to one side.

Well, I might need one.

“So, it was niceknowing me?”

Holy cow, is he offended?I stare down at my fingers. How am I going to dig myself

out of this? If I tell him it was a joke, I don’t think he’ll be impressed.

“I thought you’d reply by email.” My voice is small, pathetic.

“Are you biting your lower lip deliberately?” he asks darkly.

I blink up at him, gasping, freeing my lip.

“I wasn’t aware I was biting my lip,” I murmur softly.

My heart is pounding. I can feel that pull, that delicious electricity between us charg-

ing, filling the space between us with static. He’s sitting so close to me, his eyes dark

smoky gray, his elbows resting on his knees, his legs apart. Leaning forward, he slowly

undoes one of my pigtails, his fingers freeing my hair. My breathing is shallow, and I can-

not move. I watch hypnotized as his hand moves to my second pigtail, and pulling the hair

tie, he loosens the braid with his long, skilled fingers.

“So you decided on some exercise,” he breathes, his voice soft and melodious. His

fingers gently tuck my hair behind my ear. “Why, Anastasia?” His fingers circle my ear,

and very softly, he tugs my earlobe, rhythmically. It’s so sexual.

“I needed time to think,” I whisper. I’m all rabbit/headlights, moth/flame, bird/snake…

and he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

“Think about what, Anastasia?”

“You.”

“And you decided that it was nice knowing me? Do you mean knowing me in the

biblical sense?”

Oh shit. I flush.

“I didn’t think you were familiar with the Bible.”

“I went to Sunday School, Anastasia. It taught me a great deal.”

“I don’t remember reading about nipple clamps in the Bible. Perhaps you were taught

from a modern translation.”

His lips arch with a trace of a smile, and my eyes are drawn to his beautiful sculptured

mouth.

“Well, I thought I should come and remind you how niceit was knowing me.”

Holy crap. I stare at him open mouthed, and his fingers move from my ear to my chin.

“What do you say to that, Miss Steele?”

His gray eyes blaze at me, his challenge intrinsic in his stare. His lips are parted – he’s

waiting, coiled to strike. Desire – acute, liquid and smoldering, combusts deep in my belly.

I take pre-emptive action and launch myself at him. Somehow he moves, I have no idea

how, and in the blink of an eye I’m on the bed pinned beneath him, my arms stretched out

and held above my head, his free hand clutching my face, and his mouth finds mine.

His tongue is in my mouth, claiming and possessing me, and I revel in the force he

uses. I feel him against the length of my body. He wants me, and this does strange, deli-

cious things to my insides. Not Kate in her little bikinis, not one of the fifteen, not evil

Mrs. Robinson. Me. This beautiful man wants me. My inner goddess glows so bright

she could light up Portland. He stops kissing me, and opening my eyes, I find him gazing

down at me.

“Trust me?” he breathes.

I nod, wide-eyed, my heart bouncing off my ribs, my blood thundering around my

body.He reaches down, and from his pants pocket, he takes out his silver grey silk tie… that

silver grey woven tie that leaves small impressions of its weave on my skin. He moves so

quickly, sitting astride me as he fastens my wrists together, but this time, he ties the other

end of the tie to one of the spokes of my white iron headboard. He pulls at my binding

checking it’s secure. I’m not going anywhere. I’m tied, literally, to my bed, and I’m so

aroused.

He slides off me and stands beside the bed, staring down at me, his eyes dark with

want. His look is triumphant, mixed with relief.

“That’s better,” he murmurs and smiles a wicked, knowing smile. He bends and starts

undoing one of my sneakers. Oh no… no… my feet. No. I’ve just been running.

“No,” I protest, trying to kick him off.