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Monday, May 9, 2011

As I stare out at the Seattle skyline, the familiar ennui seeps into my consciousness. My mood is as flat and gray as the weather. My days are blending together with no distinction, and I need some kind of diversion. I've worked all weekend and now, in the continued confines of my office, I'm restless. I shouldn't feel this way, not after several bouts with Bastille. But I do.

Tomorrow," I mutter, dismissing Claude Bastille as he stands on the threshold of my office.

"Golf, this week, Grey." Bastille grins with easy arrogance, knowing that his victory on the golf course is assured.

I scowl after him as he turns and leaves. His parting words rub salt into my wounds because despite my heroic attempts in the gym this morning, my personal trainer has kicked my ass. Bastille is the only one who can beat me, and now he wants another pound of flesh on the golf course. I detest golf, but so much business is done on the fairways I have to endure his lessons there, too… and though I hate to admit it, Bastille does go some way to improving my game.

Oh, Christ! I have to endure an interview with the persistent Miss Kavanagh for the WSU student magazine. Why the fuck did I agree to this? I loathe interviews -- inane questions from inane, ill-informed, vacuous idiots. The phone buzzes.

I frown. The sobering truth is that the only thing to capture my interest recently has been my decision to send two freighters of cargo to Sudan. This reminds me -- Ros is supposed to come back to me with numbers and logistics. What the hell is keeping her? Intent on finding out what she's playing at, I glance at my schedule and reach for the phone.

"Miss Anastasia Steele is here to see you, Mr. Grey."

"Yes," I snap at Andrea as if she's to blame. At least I can keep this interview short.

"Steele? I was expecting Katherine Kavanagh."

"It's Miss Anastasia Steele who's here, sir."

I scowl. I hate the unexpected. "Show her in," I mutter, aware that I sound like a sulky teen but not giving a fuck.

Well, well… Miss Kavanagh is unavailable. I know her father, the owner of Kavanagh Media. We've done business together, and he seems like a shrewd operator and a rational human being. This interview is a favor to him -- one that I mean to cash in later when it suits me. And I have to admit I was vaguely curious about his daughter, interested to see if the apple had fallen far from the tree.

A commotion at the door brings me to my feet as a whirl of long chestnut hair, pale limbs, and brown boots dives headfirst into my office. I roll my eyes and repress my natural annoyance at such clumsiness as I hurry over to the girl who has landed on her hands and knees on the floor. Clasping her slim shoulders, I help her to her feet.

Clear, bright-blue, embarrassed eyes meet mine and halt me in my tracks. They are the most extraordinary color -- guileless, powder-blue -- and for one awful moment, I think she can see right through me. I feel… exposed. The thought is unnerving. She has a small, sweet face that is blushing now, an innocent pale rose. I wonder briefly if all her skin is like that -- flawless -- and what it would look like pink and warmed from the bite of a cane. Fuck. I stop my wayward thoughts, alarmed at their direction. What the fuck are you thinking, Grey? This girl is much too young. She gapes at me, and I almost roll my eyes again. Yeah, yeah, baby, it's just a face, and the beauty is only skin deep. I want to dispel that unguarded, admiring look from those big blue eyes.

"Miss Kavanagh is indisposed, so she sent me. I hope you don't mind, Mr. Grey." Her voice is quiet with a hesitant musicality, and she blinks erratically, long lashes fluttering over those big blue eyes.

Showtime, Grey. Let's have some fun. "Miss Kavanagh? I'm Christian Grey. Are you all right? Would you like to sit?"

There's that blush again. In command once more, I study her. She's quite attractive, in a gauche way -- slight, pale, with a mane of mahogany hair barely contained by a hair tie. A brunette. Yeah, she's attractive. I extend my hand, and she stutters the beginning of a mortified apology and places her small hand in mine. Her skin is cool and soft, but her handshake surprisingly firm.

A nervous, bashful, bookish type, eh? She looks it; hideously dressed, hiding her slight frame beneath a shapeless sweater and an A-line brown skirt. Christ, does she have no dress sense at all? She looks nervously around my office -- everywhere but at me, I note with amused irony.

Unable to keep the amusement from my voice as I recall her less-than-elegant entrance into my office, I ask who she is.

"Anastasia Steele. I'm studying English literature with Kate, um… Katherine… um… Miss Kavanagh at Washington State."

She fishes a crumpled sheet of paper and a digital recorder out of her overly large bag. Digital recorder? Didn't those go out with VHS tapes? Christ -- she's all thumbs, dropping the damned thing twice on my Bauhaus coffee table. She's obviously never done this before, but for some reason I can't fathom, I find it amusing. Normally this kind of fumbling maladroitness irritates the fuck out of me, but now I hide my smile beneath my index finger and resist the urge to set it up for her myself.

"They're lovely. Raising the ordinary to extraordinary," she says dreamily, lost in the exquisite, fine artistry of my paintings. Her profile is delicate -- an upturned nose, soft, full lips -- and in her words she has mirrored my sentiments exactly. "The ordinary raised to extraordinary." It's a keen observation. Miss Steele is bright.

I mutter my agreement and watch that flush creep slowly over her skin once more. As I sit down opposite her, I try to bridle my thoughts.

How can this young woman be a journalist? She doesn't have an assertive bone in her body. She's all charmingly flustered, meek, mild… submissive. I shake my head, bemused at where my inappropriate thoughts are going. Muttering some platitude, I ask her to sit, then notice her discerning gaze appraising my office paintings. Before I can stop myself, I find I'm explaining them. "A local artist. Trouton."

"Sorry, I'm not used to this."

"Take all the time you need, Miss Steele." I need yet another moment to marshal my wayward thoughts. Grey… stop this, now.

I can tell, baby -- my thought is ironic -- but right now I don't give a fuck, because I can't take my eyes off your mouth.

As she grows more and more flustered, it occurs to me that I could refine her motor skills with the aid of a riding crop. Adeptly used it can bring even the most skittish to heel. The errant thought makes me shift in my chair. She peeks up at me and bites down on her full bottom lip. Fuck me! How did I not notice that mouth before?

"Do you mind if I record your answers?" she asks, her face candid and expectant.

"No, I don't mind," I mutter, not wanting to be responsible for that look.

I want to laugh. Oh, thank Christ.

"Did Kate -- I mean Miss Kavanagh -- explain what the interview was for?"

"After you've taken so much trouble to set up the recorder, you ask me now?" She blinks, her eyes large and lost for a moment, and I feel an unfamiliar twinge of guilt. Stop being such a shit, Grey.

"Yes, to appear in the graduation issue of the student newspaper, as I shall be conferring the degrees at this year's graduation ceremony." Why the fuck I've agreed to do that, I don't know. Sam in PR tells me it's an honor, and the Environmental Science Department in Vancouver needs the publicity in order to attract additional funding to match the grant I've given them.

Miss Steele blinks, all big blue eyes once more, as if my words are a surprise and fuck -- she looks disapproving! Hasn't she done any background work for this interview? She should know this. The thought cools my blood. It's… displeasing, not what I expect from her or anyone I give my time to.

"I thought you might," I mutter dryly. Let's make her squirm. Obligingly she squirms, then pulls herself together, sitting up straight and squaring her small shoulders. Leaning forward she presses the "start" button on the recorder, and frowns as she glances down at her crumpled notes.

"Good. I have some questions, Mr. Grey." She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, distracting me from my annoyance.

"You're very young to have amassed such an empire. To what do you owe your success?"

Oh Christ! Surely she can do better than this? What a fucking dull question. Not one iota of originality. It's disappointing. I trot out my usual response about having exceptional people in the United States working for me. People I trust, insofar as I trust anyone, and pay well -- blah, blah, blah… But Miss Steele, the simple fact is, I'm a fucking genius at what I do. For me it's like falling off a log. Buying ailing, mismanaged companies and fixing them or, if they're really broken, stripping their assets and selling them off to the highest bidder. It's simply a question of knowing the difference between the two, and invariably it comes down to the people in charge. To succeed in business you need good people, and I can judge a person, better than most.

Lucky? A frisson of annoyance runs through me. Lucky? No fucking luck involved here, Miss Steele. She looks unassuming and quiet, but this question? No one has ever asked me if I was lucky. Hard work, bringing people with me, keeping a close watch on them, second-guessing them if I need to; and if they aren't up to the task, ruthlessly ditching them. That's what I do, and I do it well. It's nothing to do with luck! Well, fuck that. Flaunting my erudition, I quote the words of my favorite American industrialist to her.

"Maybe you're just lucky," she says quietly.

What the fuck?

Maybe those guileless eyes can see though me. Control is my middle name.

"You sound like a control freak," she says, and she's perfectly serious.

I glare at her. "Oh, I exercise control in all things, Miss Steele." And I'd like to exercise it over you, right here, right now.

Her eyes widen. That attractive blush steals across her face once more, and she bites that lip again. I ramble on, trying to distract myself from her mouth.

"Besides, immense power is acquired by assuring yourself, in your secret reveries, that you were born to control things."

"Do you feel that you have immense power?" she asks in a soft, soothing voice, but she arches her delicate brow, revealing the censure in her eyes. My annoyance grows. Is she deliberately trying to goad me? Is it her questions, her attitude, or the fact that I find her attractive that's pissing me off?

"I employ more than forty thousand people, Miss Steele. That gives me a certain sense of responsibility -- power, if you will. If I were to decide I was no longer interested in the telecommunications business and sell up, twenty thousand people would struggle to make their mortgage payments after a month or so."

"I own my company. I don't answer to a board," I respond sharply. She should know this. I raise a questioning brow.

"Don't you have a board to answer to?"

Her mouth pops open at my response. That's more like it. Suck it up, Miss Steele. I feel my equilibrium returning.

"And do you have any interests outside of your work?" she continues hastily, correctly gauging my reaction. She knows I'm pissed, and for some inexplicable reason this pleases me enormously.

"But if you work so hard, what do you do to chill out?"

"Chill out?" I grin; those words out of her smart mouth sound odd. Besides when do I get time to chill out? Has she no idea of the number of companies I control? But she looks at me with those ingenuous blue eyes, and to my surprise I find myself considering her question. What do I do to chill out? Sailing, flying, fucking… testing the limits of little brown-haired girls like her, and bringing them to heel… The thought makes me shift in my seat, but I answer her smoothly, omitting my two favorite hobbies.

"I have varied interests, Miss Steele. Very varied." I smile. Images of her in assorted positions in my playroom flash through my mind: shackled on the cross, spread-eagled on the four-poster, splayed over the whipping bench. Fucking hell! Where is this coming from? And behold -- there's that blush again. It's like a defense mechanism. Calm down, Grey.

"I like to build things. I like to know how things work, what makes things tick, how to construct and deconstruct. And I have a love of ships. What can I say?" They distribute food around the planet -- taking goods from the haves to the have-nots and back again. What's not to like?

Heart? Me? Oh no, baby. My heart was savaged beyond recognition a long time ago. "Possibly, though there are people who'd say I don't have a heart."

"You invest in manufacturing. Why, specifically?"

"That sounds like your heart talking, rather than logic and facts."

Her question drags me rudely back to the present.

"Why would they say that?"

She recites the next question by rote.

"Because they know me well." I give her a wry smile. In fact, no one knows me that well, except maybe Elena. I wonder what she would make of little Miss Steele here. The girl is a mass of contradictions: shy, uneasy, obviously bright, and arousing as hell. Yes, okay, I admit it. She's an alluring little piece.

"Would your friends say you're easy to get to know?"

"I'm a very private person, Miss Steele. I go a long way to protect my privacy. I don't often give interviews." Doing what I do, living the life I've chosen, I need my privacy.

"Why did you agree to do this one?"

"Because I'm a benefactor of the university, and for all intents and purposes, I couldn't get Miss Kavanagh off my back. She badgered and badgered my PR people, and I admire that kind of tenacity." But I'm glad it's you who turned up and not her.

"You also invest in farming technologies. Why are you interested in this area?"

"It's shrewd business." I shrug, feigning boredom, and I imagine fucking her smart mouth to distract myself from all thoughts of hunger. Yes, that mouth needs training. Now that thought is appealing, and I let myself imagine her on her knees before me.

"That sounds very philanthropic. Is that something you feel passionately about? Feeding the world's poor?" She regards me with a quizzical expression as if I'm some kind of conundrum for her to solve, but there is no way I want those big blue eyes seeing into my dark soul. This is not an area open to discussion. Ever.

"We can't eat money, Miss Steele, and there are too many people on this planet who don't have enough to eat." I stare at her, poker-faced.

"So you want to possess things?" Her eyes widen.

"I don't have a philosophy as such. Maybe a guiding principle, Carnegie's 'A man who acquires the ability to take full possession of his own mind may take possession of anything else to which he is justly entitled.' I'm very singular, driven. I like control… of myself and those around me."

"Do you have a philosophy? If so, what is it?" she recites by rote again.

Yes, baby. You, for one.

"I want to deserve to possess them, but yes, bottom line, I do."

"You sound like the ultimate consumer." Her voice is tinged with disapproval, pissing me off again. She sounds like a rich kid who's had all she ever wanted, but as I take a closer look at her clothes -- she's dressed in Walmart, or Old Navy possibly -- I know that isn't it. She hasn't grown up in an affluent household.

Shit, where the fuck did that come from? Although, now that I consider it, I do need a new sub. It's been, what -- two months since Susannah? And here I am, salivating over this brown-haired girl. I try a smile and agree with her. Nothing wrong with consumption -- after all, it drives what's left of the American economy.

I could really take care of you.

"That's a matter of public record, Miss Steele." My voice is arctic. She should know this shit. Now she looks contrite. Good.

What the fuck does this have to do with the price of oil? I scowl at her. What a ridiculous question. If I'd stayed with the crack whore, I'd probably be dead. I blow her off with a nonanswer, trying to keep my voice level, but she pushes me, demanding to know how old I was when I was adopted. Shut her down, Grey!

"That's not a question," I snap.

She blushes again and bites down on that damned lip. But she has the grace to apologize.

"You've had to sacrifice a family life for your work."

"Are you gay, Mr. Grey?"

"I have a family. I have a brother and a sister and two loving parents. I'm not interested in extending my family beyond that."

What the fuck! I cannot believe she's said that out loud! The unspoken question that my own family dares not ask, much to my amusement. How dare she! I have to fight down the urge to drag her out of her seat, bend her across my knee, and spank the living shit out of her, then fuck her over my desk with her hands tied tightly behind her back. That would answer her question. How frustrating is this female? I take a deep, calming breath. To my vindictive delight, she appears to be acutely embarrassed by her own question.

"Have you had to sacrifice a family life for your work?"

What do I want with a fucking family?

"You were adopted. How far do you think that's shaped the way you are?"

"That explains a great deal."

"No, she's my roommate."

"I was drafted. She's not well," she says softly.

"Did you volunteer to do this interview?" I ask, and I'm rewarded with her submissive look: eyes large, nervous about my reaction. I like the effect I have on her.

"No, Anastasia, I'm not." I raise my eyebrows, but keep my expression impassive. Anastasia. It is a lovely name. I like the way my tongue rolls around it.

No wonder she is all over the place. I scratch my chin, debating whether to give her a really, really hard time.

"I apologize. It's um… written here." Nervously, she tucks her hair behind her ear.

"Are you colleagues on the student paper?"

There's a knock at the door, and Andrea appears. "Mr. Grey, forgive me for interrupting, but your next meeting is in two minutes."

"Er… no. Kate -- Miss Kavanagh -- she compiled the questions."

She doesn't know her own questions? Perhaps they're not hers. I ask her, and she pales. Fuck, she really is very attractive, in an understated sort of way. I would even go so far as to say she is beautiful.

Oh no, baby. It's my turn now. I want to know if there are any secrets to uncover behind those beautiful eyes.

I turn my attention back to the intriguing, frustrating creature on my couch. "Where were we, Miss Steele?"

"We're not finished here, Andrea. Please cancel my next meeting."

Andrea hesitates, gaping at me. I stare at her. Out! Now! I'm busy with little Miss Steele here. Andrea blushes scarlet, but recovers quickly.

"Very well, Mr. Grey," she says and, turning on her heel, she leaves us.

"There's not much to know," she says, her blush returning. I'm intimidating her. Good.

"Please don't let me keep you from anything."

"I want to know about you. I think that's only fair." As I lean back and press my fingers to my lips, her eyes flick to my mouth and she swallows. Oh yes -- the usual effect. And it is gratifying to know she isn't completely oblivious to my charms.

"What are your plans after you graduate?"

She shrugs. "I haven't made any plans, Mr. Grey. I just need to get through my final exams."

"Well, it's obvious, isn't it?"

"Oh. I'll bear that in mind," she mumbles. Then as an afterthought she says, "Though I'm not sure I'd fit in here."

Why the hell not? What's wrong with my company?

"Why do you say that?" I ask.

She's flustered again as she reaches for the digital recorder. Shit, she's going. Mentally I run through my schedule for the afternoon -- there is nothing that won't keep.

"We run an excellent internship program here." Fuck. What possessed me to say that? I'm breaking a golden rule -- never, ever fuck the staff. But Grey, you're not fucking this girl. She looks surprised, and her teeth sink into that lip again. Why is that so arousing?

"Not to me." I'm confounded by her response.

"Would you like me to show you around?"

"You're driving back to WSU in Vancouver?" I glance out the window. It's one hell of a drive, and it's raining. Shit. She shouldn't be driving in this weather, but I can't forbid her. The thought irritates me. "Well, you'd better drive carefully." My voice is sterner than I intend.

"I'm sure you're far too busy, Mr. Grey, and I do have a long drive."

"Did you get everything you need?" I add in a transparent effort to prolong her stay.

She fumbles with the recorder. She wants out of my office, and for some reason I can't explain, I don't want her to go.

Her response floors me -- the way those words sound, coming out of that smart mouth -- and briefly I imagine that mouth at my beck and call.

"Yes, sir," she says quietly.

"Thank you for the interview, Mr. Grey."

"The pleasure's been all mine," I respond -- truthfully, because I haven't been this fascinated by anyone in a long while. The thought is unsettling.

"Mr. Grey." She nods and withdraws her hand quickly… too quickly.

"Until we meet again, Miss Steele." My voice is low as she places her small hand in mine. Yes, I want to flog and fuck this girl in my playroom. Have her bound and wanting… needing me, trusting me. I swallow. It ain't going to happen, Grey.

Shit, I can't let her go like this. It's obvious she is desperate to leave. Irritation and inspiration hit me simultaneously as I see her out.

She stands and I extend my hand, eager to touch her.

She blushes on cue, her delicious shade of pink.

Miss Steele has teeth! I grin behind her as she exits, and I follow in her wake. Both Andrea and Olivia look up in shock. Yeah, yeah. I'm just seeing the girl out.

"Just ensuring you make it through the door, Miss Steele."

"That's very considerate, Mr. Grey," she snaps.

Hmm. The coat is from Walmart. Miss Anastasia Steele should be better dressed. I hold it up for her, and as I pull it over her slim shoulders, I touch the skin at the base of her neck. She stills at the contact and pales. Yes! She is affected by me. The knowledge is immensely pleasing. Strolling over to the elevator, I press the call button while she stands fidgeting beside me.

I scowl at simpering Olivia, who immediately leaps up to retrieve a navy coat. Taking it, I glare at her to sit down. Christ, Olivia is annoying -- mooning over me all the time.

"Did you have a coat?" I ask.

"Yes."

Oh, I could so stop your fidgeting, baby.

The doors open and she scurries in and then turns to face me.

Well, fuck me. What was that?

DOB: Sept 10, 1989, Montesano, WA

"Anastasia," I murmur, saying good-bye.

Social Security No: 987-65-4320

As I sit at my desk and wait for the call, I look at the paintings on the wall of my office, and Miss Steele's words drift back to me. "Raising the ordinary to extraordinary." She could so easily have been describing herself.

Mobile No: 360 959 4352

Saturday, May 14, 2011

"I have Mr. Welch on the line for you."

Occupation: Undergraduate Student

"Yes, sir."

"Christian," she whispers. And the elevator doors close, leaving my name hanging in the air, sounding odd, unfamiliar, but sexy as hell.

Anastasia Rose Steele

Address: 1114 SW Green Street, Apartment 7, Haven Heights, Vancouver, WA 98888

"Put him through."

My phone buzzes.

Banking Details: Wells Fargo Bank, Vancouver, WA 98888

I need to know more about this girl. "Andrea," I snap as I stalk back into my office. "Get me Welch on the line, now."

"Welch, I need a background check."

Acct No: 309361: $683.16 balance

DOB: July 18, 1970

Sexual Orientation: Not known

Employment: Clayton's Hardware Store, NW Vancouver Drive, Portland, OR (part-time)

m Raymond Steele

Father: Franklin A. Lambert

Prior Education: Montesano JR-SR High School

- March 1, 1989, widowed Sept 11, 1989

- August 16, 2006, divorced January 31, 2007

- April 6, 2009

SAT Score: 2150

m Frank Lambert

WSU Vancouver College of Liberal Arts -- English Major

m Stephen M. Morton

GPA: 4.0

Relationships: None indicated at present

Political Affiliations: None Found

Mother: Carla May Wilks Adams

- June 6, 1990, divorced July 12, 2006

DOB: Sept 1, 1969, Deceased Sept 11, 1989

m Robbin (Bob) Adams

I pore over the executive summary for the hundredth time since I received it two days ago, looking for some insight into the enigmatic Miss Anastasia Rose Steele. I cannot get the damned woman out of my mind, and it's seriously beginning to piss me off. This past week, during particularly dull meetings, I've found myself replaying the interview in my head. Her fumbling fingers on the recorder, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the lip biting. Yes. The fucking lip biting gets me every time.

Religious Affiliations: None Found

And now, here I am, parked outside Clayton's, the modest hardware store on the outskirts of Portland where she works.

I knew it would lead to this. All week… I knew I'd have to see her again. I'd known it since she uttered my name in the elevator and disappeared into the depths of my building. I'd tried to resist. I'd waited five days, five fucking days to see if I'd forget about her. And I don't do waiting. I hate waiting… for anything. I've never actively pursued a woman before.

You're a fool, Grey. Why are you here?

Her background check has produced nothing remarkable -- except the last fact, which has been at the forefront of my mind. It's the reason I'm here. Why no boyfriend, Miss Steele? Sexual orientation unknown -- perhaps she's gay. I snort, thinking that unlikely. I recall the question she asked during the interview, her acute embarrassment, the way her skin flushed a pale rose… Shit. I've been suffering from these ludicrous thoughts since I met her.

The women I've had understood what I expected of them. My fear now is that Miss Steele is just too young and that she won't be interested in what I have to offer… will she? Will she even make a good submissive? I shake my head. There's only one way to find out… so here I am, a fucking ass, sitting in a suburban parking lot in a dreary part of Portland.

I'm itching to see her again -- those blue eyes have haunted me, even in my dreams. I haven't mentioned her to Flynn, and I'm glad because I'm now behaving like a stalker. Perhaps I should let him know. I roll my eyes -- I don't want him hounding me about his latest solution-based shit. I just need a distraction… and right now the only distraction I want is working as a salesclerk in a hardware store.

You've come all this way. Let's see if little Miss Steele is as appealing as you remember. Showtime, Grey. I climb out of the car and stroll across the lot to the front door. A bell chimes a flat electronic note as I walk in.

The store is much bigger than it looks from the outside, and although it is almost lunchtime the place is quiet, for a Saturday. There are aisles and aisles of the usual crap you'd expect. I'd forgotten the possibilities that a hardware store could present to someone like me. I mainly shop online for my needs, but while I'm here, maybe I'll stock up on a few items… Velcro, split rings -- Yeah. I'll find the delectable Miss Steele and have some fun.

That's why you're here.

"Miss Steele. What a pleasant surprise."

It takes me all of three seconds to spot her. She's hunched over the counter, staring intently at a computer screen and picking at her lunch -- a bagel. Unthinking, she wipes a crumb from the corner of her lips and into her mouth and sucks on her finger. My cock twitches in response. Fuck! What am I, fourteen? My reaction is fucking irritating. Maybe this adolescent response will stop if I fetter, fuck, and flog her… and not necessarily in that order. Yeah. That's what I need.

She is thoroughly absorbed in her task, and it gives me an opportunity to study her. Salacious thoughts aside, she is attractive, seriously attractive. I've remembered her well.

She glances up and freezes, pinning me with intelligent, discerning eyes -- the bluest of blue that seem to see right through me. It's as unnerving as the first time I met her. She just stares, shocked I think, and I don't know if this is a good response or a bad response.

"Mr. Grey," she whispers, breathy and flustered. Ah… a good response.

"I was in the area. I need to stock up on a few things. It's a pleasure to see you again, Miss Steele." A real pleasure. She's dressed in tight T-shirt and jeans, not the shapeless shit she was wearing earlier this week. She's all long legs, small waist, and perfect tits. She continues to gape, and I have to resist the urge to reach out and tip her chin up to close her mouth. I've flown from Seattle just to see you, and the way you look right now, it was worth the journey.

You'd be amazed what I can do with a few cable ties, Miss Steele.

Game on, Miss Steele.

"There are a few items I need. To start with, I'd like some cable ties."

"Ana. My name's Ana. What can I help you with, Mr. Grey?" She takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders like she did during the interview, and gives me a fake smile that I'm sure she reserves for customers.

"We stock various lengths. Shall I show you?"

"Please. Lead the way, Miss Steele."

She steps out from behind the counter and gestures toward one of the aisles. She's wearing Chucks. Idly I wonder what she'd look like in skyscraper heels. Louboutins… nothing but Louboutins.

Her lips part as she inhales sharply.

"Are you in Portland on business?" she asks, interrupting my thoughts. Her voice is high, trying to feign disinterest. It makes me want to laugh, which is refreshing. Women rarely make me laugh.

She is affected by me. Hope blooms in my chest. Not gay then. I smirk.

She flushes, and I feel like a shit.

"I was visiting the WSU farming division based in Vancouver," I lie. Actually, I'm here to see you, Miss Steele.

"After you," I murmur, holding my hand out for her to lead the way. Letting her walk ahead gives me the space and time to admire her fantastic ass. She really is the whole package: sweet, polite, and beautiful with all the physical attributes I value in a submissive. But the million-dollar question is, Could she be a submissive? She probably knows nothing of the lifestyle -- my lifestyle -- but I very much want to introduce her to it. You are getting way ahead of yourself on this deal, Grey.

"I'm currently funding some research there in crop rotation and soil science." That, at least, is true.

"They're in with the electrical goods, aisle eight." Her voice wavers and she blushes… again.

"All part of your feed-the-world plan?" Her lips shift to a half-smile.

We arrive at the cable ties, which are arranged in an assortment of lengths and colors. Absentmindedly my fingers trace over the packets. I could just ask her out for dinner. Like on a date? Would she come? When I glance at her she's examining her knotted fingers. She can't look at me… this is promising. I select the longer ties. They are more flexible after all -- they can accommodate two ankles and two wrists at once.

"Something like that," I mutter. Is she laughing at me? Oh I'd love to put a stop to that if she is. But how to start? Maybe with dinner, rather than the usual interview… now that would be novel; taking a prospect out to dinner.

"I'd like some masking tape."

"These will do," I murmur, and she blushes again.

"Is there anything else?" she says quickly -- either she's being super attentive or she wants to get me out of the store, I don't know which.

"Are you redecorating?"

I suppress my snort. "No, not redecorating." I haven't held a paintbrush in a long time. The thought makes me smile; I have people to do all that shit.

"This way," she murmurs, looking chagrined. "Masking tape is in the decorating aisle."

Come on, Grey. You don't have long. Engage her in some conversation. "Have you worked here long?" Of course, I already know the answer. Unlike some people, I do my research. She blushes once more -- Christ, this girl is shy. I don't have a hope in hell. She turns quickly and walks down the aisle toward the section labeled DECORATING. I follow her eagerly. What am I, a fucking puppy?

"I'll take that one," I say. The wider tape is much more effective as a gag. As she passes it to me, the tips of our fingers touch, briefly. It resonates in my groin. Fuck!

"Some rope, I think."

"Four years," she mumbles as we reach the masking tape. She bends down and grasps two rolls, each a different width.

"This way." She quickly scoots up the aisle, giving me another chance to appreciate her fine ass.

"What sort were you after? We have synthetic and natural filament rope… twine… cable cord…"

Christ, I'm having the same effect on her that she has on me. Maybe…

She pales. "Anything else?" Her voice is soft and husky.

"Anything else you need?"

Shit -- stop. I groan inwardly, trying to chase away the image of her suspended from the ceiling in my playroom.

"Organized group activities aren't really my thing, Mr. Grey."

"Oh, you know. The usual. The classics. British literature, mainly."

"I'll take five yards of the natural filament rope, please." It's coarser and chafes more if you struggle against it… my rope of choice.

"Books," she whispers.

"What is your thing, Anastasia?" I catch her gaze, and her irises dilate as I stare. Yes!

"Were you a Girl Scout?"

A tremor runs through her fingers, but she efficiently measures out five yards. Pulling a utility knife from her right pocket, she cuts the rope in one swift gesture, coils it neatly, and ties it off with a slipknot. Impressive.

"I don't know. What else would you recommend?" I want to see her reaction.

"What kind of books?"

British literature? Brontë and Austen, I bet. All those romantic hearts and flowers types. Fuck. That's not good.

"For a do-it-yourselfer?" she asks, surprised.

I want to hoot with laughter. Oh baby, DIY is not my thing. I nod, stifling my mirth. Her eyes flick down my body and I tense. She is checking me out! Fuck me.

"Coveralls," she blurts out.

"You wouldn't want to ruin your clothing." She gestures to my jeans, embarrassed once more.

It's the most unexpected thing I've heard out of her sweet, smart mouth since the "are you gay" question.

I can't resist. "I could always take them off."

"Um." She flushes beet red and gazes down at the floor.

"I'll take some coveralls. Heaven forbid I should ruin any clothing," I murmur, to put her out of her misery. Without a word, she turns and walks briskly up the aisle, and once again I follow in her enticing wake.

"Do you need anything else?" she says breathlessly, handing me a pair of blue coveralls. She's mortified, eyes still cast down, face flushed. Christ, she does things to me.

She looks up and gives me a brief relieved smile. Finally. "I'm not writing it, Katherine is. Miss Kavanagh. My roommate, she's the writer. She's very happy with it. She's the editor of the magazine, and she was devastated that she couldn't do the interview in person."

"How's the article coming along?" I ask in the hope she might relax a little.

The tenacious Miss Kavanagh wants photographs. Publicity stills, eh? I can do that. It will allow me to spend some more time with the delectable Miss Steele.

It's the longest sentence she's addressed to me since we first met, and she's talking about someone else, not herself. Interesting.

She gazes at me for a moment, then shakes her head.

"You'd be willing to attend a photo shoot?" She cannot contain her surprise.

"What sort of photographs does she want?"

"Well, I'm around. Tomorrow, perhaps…" I can stay in Portland. Work from a hotel. A room at the Heathman, perhaps. I'll need Taylor to come down, bring my laptop and some clothes. Or Elliot -- unless he's screwing around, which is his usual MO over the weekend.

I give her a brief nod. You'd be amazed what I'd do to spend more time with you, Miss Steele… in fact, so am I.

Before I can comment, she adds, "Her only concern is that she doesn't have any original photographs of you."

"Kate will be delighted -- if we can find a photographer." She smiles and her face lights up like a summer dawn. Christ, she's breathtaking.

"Okay." She continues to grin.

"Let me know about tomorrow." I pull my card out of my wallet. "It has my cell number on it. You'll need to call before ten in the morning." And if she doesn't, I'll head on back to Seattle and forget about this stupid venture. The thought depresses me.

"Ana!" We both turn as a young man, casually but expensively dressed, appears at the far end of the aisle. He's all fucking smiles for Miss Anastasia Steele. Who the hell is this prick?

They fall into a whispered conversation. Shit, maybe Welch's facts were wrong. Maybe this guy is her boyfriend. He looks the right age, and he can't take his greedy little eyes off her. He holds her for a moment at arm's length, examining her, then stands with his arm leisurely resting on her shoulder. It's a seemingly casual gesture, but I know he's staking a claim and telling me to back off. She seems embarrassed, shifting from foot to foot.

"Er… excuse me for a moment, Mr. Grey." She walks toward him, and the fucker engulfs her in a gorilla-like hug. My blood runs cold. It's a primal response. Get your motherfucking paws off her. I fist my hands and am only slightly mollified when I see her make no move to hug him back.

The boss's brother, not a boyfriend. The extent of the relief I feel is unexpected, and it makes me frown. This woman has really gotten under my skin.

"Er… Paul, this is Christian Grey. Mr. Grey, this is Paul Clayton. His brother owns the place." She gives me an odd look that I don't understand and continues, "I've known Paul ever since I've worked here, though we don't see each other that often. He's back from Princeton, where he's studying business administration."

Shit. I should go. Then she says something else to him and moves out of his reach, touching his arm, not his hand. It's clear they aren't close. Good.

"Mr. Clayton." My tone is deliberately clipped.

"Mr. Grey." He shakes my hand limply. Wet fucker. "Wait up -- not the Christian Grey of Grey Enterprises Holdings?" In a heartbeat I watch him morph from territorial to obsequious.

Yeah, that's me, you prick.

"Wow -- is there anything I can get you?"

"Anastasia has it covered, Mr. Clayton. She's been very attentive." Now fuck off.

"Cool," he gushes, all wide-eyed and deferential. "Catch you later, Ana."

"Just these items," I mutter. Shit, I'm out of time, and I still don't know if I'm going to see her again. I have to know whether there's a hope in hell she might consider what I have in mind. How can I ask her? Am I ready to take on a new submissive, one who knows nothing? Shit. She's going to need substantial training. I groan inwardly at all the interesting possibilities this presents… Fuck me, getting there is going to be half the fun. Will she even be interested? Or do I have this all wrong?

She heads back to the cashier's desk and rings up my purchases, all the while keeping her gaze cast down. Look at me, damn it! I want to see her beautiful blue eyes again and gauge what she's thinking.

"Sure, Paul," she says, and he ambles off, thank Christ. I watch him disappear toward the back of the store.

"Anything else, Mr. Grey?"

Finally she raises her head. "That will be forty-three dollars, please."

Is that all?

"Please, Anastasia." Her name -- a beautiful name for a beautiful girl -- rolls off my tongue.

"Would you like a bag?" she asks, slipping into salesclerk mode as I pass her my Amex.

"You'll call me if you want me to do the photo shoot?"

She packs the items briskly and efficiently into the carrier. This is it. I have to go.

That's all… for now.

"Good. Until tomorrow, perhaps." I can't just leave. I have to let her know I'm interested. "Oh, and Anastasia? I'm glad Miss Kavanagh couldn't do the interview." Delighting in her stunned expression, I sling the bag over my shoulder and saunter out of the store.

She nods as she hands back my charge card.

Yes, against my better judgment, I want her. Now I have to wait… fucking wait… again.

E L James

Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading.