See the world of Fifty Shades of Grey anew through the eyes of Christian Grey--a fresh perspective on the love story that has enthralled millions of readers around the world.
After a brief break-up, Anastasia and Christian change their arrangement and both wrestle with their inner demons, as Anastasia tries to make an important decision. Relive the sensuality, the romance, and the drama of Fifty Shades Freed--the love story that enthralled millions of readers around the world--through the thoughts, reflections, and dreams of Christian Grey.
In Christian's own words, and through his thoughts, reflections, and dreams, E L James offers a fresh perspective on the love story that has enthralled millions of readers around the world.
While Christian wrestles with his inner demons, Anastasia must confront the anger and envy of the women who came before her, and make the most important decision of her life. This book is intended for mature audiences.
E L James revisits the world of Fifty Shades with a deeper and darker take on the love story that has enthralled millions of readers around the globe. Since early childhood she dreamed of writing stories that readers would fall in love with, but put those dreams on hold to focus on her family and her career. Where you want to be. The space is brightly lit and airy. A young woman greets us. She shakes her head and her frown deepens.
I shrug. Well, this is Portland. For his part, he looks really fucking interested in her. Too interested. Anger flares in my chest. He wants more. Tuning him out, I glance at Ana. She looks sensational. Her hair frames her face and falls in a lush cascade to curl at her breasts. Her dress, looser than I remember, still hugs her curves. She might have worn it deliberately.
Hot dress, hot boots…. She nods at something he says and gives him a warm, carefree smile. At least Rodriguez has left her alone. She glances up at me with a guarded expression as I hand her a glass. I take a quick sip from mine.
Rarely does at these kinds of events. It irks me. She admires him and takes an interest in his success because she cares about him. She cares about him too much. An ugly emotion with a bitter sting rises in my chest. Damned paparazzi. I want to tell him to fuck off but decide to be polite. The photographer takes a few snaps. Grey, thank you. She peers at me. Are you gay, Mr. And my annoyance. That seems so long ago. I shake my head and continue. But you know that. Not on dates.
Shopping, you know. However, the gallery is too public a setting. Her cheeks turn that delicious pink that I love, and she stares down at her hands. I need to get her out of here and on her own. Then we can talk seriously and eat. We stroll through the gallery, stopping briefly at each photograph. We turn the corner—and stop. There she is.
Seven full-blown portraits of Anastasia Steele. She looks jaw-droppingly beautiful, natural, and relaxed—laughing, scowling, pouting, pensive, amused, and in one of them, wistful and sad.
As I scrutinize the detail in each photograph, I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that he wants to be much more than her friend. Ana is staring at them in stunned silence, as surprised as I am to see them. I want the pictures. A look of disappointment flits across her face but resolves into a broad smile. Stunning work. When I return to Ana, I find a blond dude chatting with her, trying his luck. I place a territorial hand on her elbow and give him my best fuck-off-now glare.
Her lips part in astonishment, and I try not to let it distract me. I glance back at the pictures. She gasps as my fingers make contact with her chin. Shit, are we doing this here, now? I want to do this in private. She clears her throat and draws herself up to full height. Not talk to you, unless you gave me permission to do so. What do you expect?
Okay, I can see that could be confusing—however, I do not want to discuss it here. We need to leave. She fucking asked me how bad it could get! Anger erupts like Mount St. Helens deep in my chest. I run my hands through my hair to prevent myself from grabbing her and dragging her outside so we can continue this discussion in private.
I take a deep breath. Find the boy, say good-bye. Say good-bye. I recognize that stubborn, mulish set to her mouth. We are leaving if I have to pick her up and carry her. She gives me a withering look and turns with a sharp spin, her hair flying so that it hits my shoulder.
She stalks off to find him. As she moves away I struggle to recover my equilibrium. What is it about her that presses all my buttons? I want to scold her, spank her, and fuck her.
And in that order. I scan the room. The boy—no, Rodriguez—is standing with a flock of female admirers. He listens intently to everything she has to say, then sweeps her into his arms, spinning her around. She glances at me, then weaves her hands into his hair and presses her cheek to his and whispers something in his ear. They continue talking.
His arms around her. Fortunately for him, he releases her as I approach. Oh, Mr. Rodriguez, very impressive. Congratulations again. It takes all my self-control not to haul her over my shoulder. Instead I drag her by the hand to the front door and out onto the street. I grab her face between my hands, pinning her body with mine as rage and desire mix in a heady, explosive cocktail.
I capture her lips with mine and our teeth clash, but then my tongue is in her mouth. She tastes of cheap wine and delicious, sweet, sweet Ana. She ignites around me. Her fingers are in my hair, pulling hard. Her hunger is unexpected. Desire bursts through my body, like a forest fire licking through dry tinder. With one hand, I hold her at the nape of her neck as we kiss. My free hand travels down her body, and I reacquaint myself with her curves: her breast, her waist, her ass, her thigh.
She moans as my fingers find the hem of her dress and start tugging it higher. My goal is to pull it up, fuck her here. Make her mine, again. This is jealousy. This is what it feels like: my insides gutted and raw, my self-control absent. Do you want the photographer, Anastasia? He obviously has feelings for you. Yet you…you bring out feelings in me that are completely alien. I cannot find the vocabulary to describe how I feel.
Her eyes are wide with carnal promise, and her hair is mussed and sexy, falling to her breasts. I run my hand through my hair, taking deep, thought-clearing breaths. I grab her hand. I open the door for her.
The waiter returns with the wine list, giving me a chance to regain my cool. The selection is average: only one drinkable wine on the menu. I know that look. Perhaps she wanted to select her own meal. Oh, tit for tat, Miss Steele. I realize our bickering will get us nowhere. That word, indeed. I remember I last used it while discussing our arrangement on Saturday morning. The day my world fell apart. She swallows and takes a steadying breath.
Perhaps my behavior over the last hour has finally driven her away. I tense. Oh, baby, please believe me. I behaved stupidly, and you—so did you. But before I recover, words tumble from her mouth. I was trying to be what you wanted me to be, trying to deal with the pain, and it went out of my mind. I clutch the table for something to anchor me to the now as I let this alarming information register. Did I remind her of her safe words? The e-mail that she sent me the first time I spanked her comes to mind.
And I want to reiterate we have safe words, okay? Or I will fuck it with you on your knees. Do you understand? What kind of relationship is that? My spirits sink. The irritating prick takes too much time opening the bottle. Is he trying to entertain us? Or is it just Ana he wants to impress? He finally pops the cork and pours a taste for me. I take a quick sip.
Each trying to discern what the other is thinking. When she opens them, I see her despair. I feel like the sun has set and not risen for five days, Ana. It made me relax. She inhales sharply. Her open and honest compassion is written all over her lovely face as she reaches for her wine. This is my chance. I need to know. Can she? I want to stop thinking about that right now, and with impeccable timing, the waiter returns with our meal. And it will have nothing to do with my sexual gratification.
Stow your twitching palm, please. She picks up her cutlery with stubborn reluctance but she takes one bite, closes her eyes, and licks her lips in satisfaction. The sight of her tongue is enough to provoke a response from my body—already in a heightened state from our kiss in the alley.
Hell, not again! I stop my response in its tracks. Slicing into my steak, I take a bite. This is good. Her reaction to the kiss in the alley was…visceral. She still wants me. She interrupts my reverie. Listening to this singer reminds me that I have the iPad for Ana. I hope that she lets me give it to her, and that she likes it.
In addition to the music I uploaded yesterday, I spent some time this morning adding more features—photographs of the glider on my desk and of the two of us at her graduation ceremony and a few apps, too. Is she deliberately trying to goad me? As if on cue, my phone vibrates in my jacket pocket, signaling a message.
I glance at my watch. The thought of deferring my desire displeases me. Besides, this way I have you in the car all to myself—for a few hours, at least. What can we do but talk? I shift uncomfortably in my chair. Stage three of the campaign has not gone as smoothly as I anticipated.
The waiter returns and I give him my card, but I keep my attention on Ana. My heart rate accelerates. I hope she goes for this…or I really will be lost. The waiter hands me the credit card slip to sign. I enter an obscene tip and sign my name with a flourish.
The waiter seems excessively grateful. My phone buzzes and I scan the text. The waiter gives me my card back and disappears. We both stand and I take her hand. Her breathing accelerates. I glance at her face. Her lips are parted, cheeks pink and eyes wide.
The sight fills me with hope and desire. I stifle my impulses and lead her through the restaurant and outside, where Taylor is waiting at the curb in the Q7. I have an idea. Taylor gets out to open the door for me. As ever, he surprises me. Taking a deep breath, I climb into the car. He regards me for a second in the mirror and pulls out into the light evening traffic. Anastasia is watching me when I turn to face her.
I call him again, then lean over and tap his shoulder. He removes an earbud. Do you want a regular vanilla relationship, with no kinky fuckery at all? She knows me. She has seen the monster. I ignore her first comment and concentrate on her second point. Fuck—she might touch me. How can I protect myself from that? And suppose she does something stupid that puts herself at risk?
She shifts in her seat, and a silent, sweet joy unfurls deep in my gut. Oh, baby, I love it when you squirm. Do the vanilla thing and then maybe, once you trust me more—and I trust you to be honest and to communicate with me—we could move on and do some of the things that I like to do. My heart rate escalates; blood thrums through my body, pounding past my eardrums as I wait for her reaction. My well-being hangs in the balance. And she says…nothing! She stares at me as we pass under a streetlight and I see her clearly.
Her eyes still impossibly large in her beautiful, thinner, sadder face. These last few days have been hell. I see your pain. You are exquisite, honest, warm, strong, witty, beguilingly innocent; the list is endless.
I am in awe of you. I want you, and the thought of anyone else having you is like a knife twisting in my dark soul. Last Saturday was such a shock to my system. It was my wake-up call.
Then, after I left, it dawned on me that the physical pain you inflicted was not as bad as the pain of losing you. It swings from north to south and back again in a nanosecond. Anxiety bursts in my chest and my heart starts hammering.
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