Fifty Shades of Grey (book 1+ 2)

Chapter 57

Kate is walking from her car as I head out of the door. She nearly drops her shopping when she sees

me. Ana Steele in sneakers. I wave and don't stop for the inquisition. I need some serious alone time.

Snow Patrol blaring in my ears, I set off into the opal and aquamarine dusk.

I pace through the park. What am I going to do I want him, but on his termsI just don't know. Perhaps I

should negotiate what I want. Go through that ridiculous contract line by line and say what is

acceptable and what isn't. My research has told me that legally it's unenforceable. He must know that. I

figure that it just sets up the parameters of the relationship. It illustrates what I can expect from him and

what he expects from me - my total submission. Am I prepared to give him thatAm I even capable?

I am plagued by one question - why is he like thisIs it because he was seduced at such a young ageI

just don't know. He's still such a mystery.

I stop beside a large spruce and put my hands on my knees, breathing hard, dragging precious air into

my lungs. Oh, this feels good, cathartic. I can feel my resolve hardening.

Yes. I need to tell him what's okay and what isn't. I need to email him my thoughts, and then we can

discuss these on Wednesday. I take a deep cleansing breath, then jog back to 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 inadequateTaking the awesome free technology with me, Content is property of NôvelDrama.Org.

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 funnyOh 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 nice knowing me?"

Holy cow, is he offended I stare down at my fingers. How am I going to dig myself out of thisIf 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 charging, 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 cannot 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.

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