A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the US Congress Library. E L James is currently working on the sequel to Fifty Shades of Grey and a. Fifty Shades of Grey, Fifty Shades. Darker, and Fifty Shades Freed are on file at Library of Congress. . novel, curled up in a chair in the campus Grey?” I don't hear the reply. He turns, sees me, and smiles, his dark eyes crinkling at the. One of the most read books ever Fifty Shades Of Grey. Book File Type: [PDF] Published by Vintage Books, Fifty Shades of Grey book sales reached the
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Would you like some Nyquil or Tylenol? Here are the questions and my mini-disc recorder. Fifty shades of grey pdf download Tumblr Just press record here. Get back to bed. I made you some soup to heat up later. Only for you, Kate, would I do this. I cannot believe I have let Kate talk me into this. Oh, the Merc is a fun drive, and the miles slip away as I floor the pedal to the metal.
My destination is the headquarters of Mr. Behind the solid sandstone desk, a very attractive, groomed, blonde young woman 50 shades of gray pdf for pleasantly at me. Good girl. Katherine asks me to stand as Rodriguez continues to take snaps. His antagonism makes me smile. Oh, man…you have no idea. Seize the day, Grey. I mutter some platitude to those still in the room and usher her out the door, wanting to put some distance between her and Rodriguez. In the corridor she stands fiddling with her hair, then her fingers, as Taylor follows me out.
Her long lashes flicker over her eyes. Thinking about all the ways I could make her stop is distracting. Now can you join me for coffee? She looks directly at me, eyes bright. I have a date! Opening the door, I let her back into the room as Taylor conceals his puzzled look.
I watch him with narrowed eyes as he disappears into the elevator while I lean against the wall and wait for Miss Steele. What the hell am I going to say to her? Steady, Grey. Taylor is back within a couple of minutes, holding my jacket. How long is Anastasia going to be? I check my watch. She must be negotiating the car swap with Katherine. My thoughts darken. As I catch up with her my curiosity is piqued about her relationship with Katherine, specifically their compatibility.
Ana is clearly devoted. She came all the way to Seattle to interview me when Katherine was ill, and I find myself hoping that Miss Kavanagh treats her with the same loyalty and respect. At the elevators I press the call button and almost immediately the doors open. A couple in a passionate embrace spring apart, embarrassed to be caught.
As we travel to the first floor the atmosphere is thick with unfulfilled desire. I want her. Will she want what I have to offer? The thought is disheartening. In our wake we hear embarrassed giggling from the couple. Miss Steele seems that innocent, just like them, and as we walk onto the street I question my motives again. In the coffee shop I direct her to find a table and ask what she wants to drink.
She stutters through her order: English Breakfast tea—hot water, bag on the side. I have to wait in line while the two matronly women behind the counter exchange inane pleasantries with all their customers.
English Breakfast tea. Teabag on the side. And a blueberry muffin. Is she checking me out? A bubble of hope swells in my chest. She jumps and turns red as I set out her tea and my coffee. She sits mute and mortified. Does she really not want to be here? I watch her dunk the teabag in the teapot. She fishes it out almost immediately and places the used teabag on her saucer. My mouth is twitching with my amusement. Get a grip, Grey. At me. At me! Does she like me or not? Oh, sweetheart, he wants to be more than a friend.
The boy is smitten. Okay, so the lust is one-sided, and for a moment I wonder if she realizes how lovely she is. She eyes the blueberry muffin as I peel back the paper, and for a moment I imagine her on her knees beside me as I feed her, a morsel at a time. The thought is diverting—and arousing. She shakes her head. Why is she so jittery? Maybe because of me? I told you yesterday. I remember how uncomfortable she seemed when the kid at the store put his arm around her, staking his claim.
They really are beautiful, the color of the ocean at Cabo, the bluest of blue seas. I should take her there. Where did that come from? She should. Does she like me? Which is it?
I just wish I knew what you were blushing about. That will goad her into a response. Popping a small piece of the blueberry muffin into my mouth, I await her reply. Have I offended you? In all things. And I remember her leaving my office in the elevator—and how my name sounded coming out of her smart mouth. Has she seen through me? Is she deliberately antagonizing me?
I change the subject. I want to know about her. My stepdad lives in Montesano. Her lips soften with a fond smile when she mentions her stepdad. Her expression is clear and bright, and I know that Raymond Steele has been a good father to this girl. Which is great, but not what I want at the moment. Oh, Miss Steele. Game on. You asked me if I was gay.
She starts babbling about herself and a few details hit home. Her mother is an incurable romantic. I suppose someone on her fourth marriage is embracing hope over experience. Is she like her mother? If she says she is—then I have no hope. I ask about her stepfather and she confirms my hunch. Her face is luminous when she talks about him: She preferred to live with him when her mom married the third time.
She straightens her shoulders. They live in Seattle. I give her the short answer that Elliot works in construction and Mia is at cooking school in Paris. She listens, rapt. Have you been?
Of course. Miss Steele wants to travel. But why England? I ask her. To add insult to injury, she looks at her watch.
But should I? Giving her my most dazzling smile, guaranteed to disarm, I offer her my hand. Maybe this could work. I like them accessible. Her pupils dilate and I know I could fall into her gaze and never return. She takes a deep breath. My fingers caress her cheek. Her skin is soft and smooth, and as I brush my thumb against her lower lip, my breath catches in my throat. Her body is pressed against mine, and the feel of her breasts and her heat through my shirt is arousing.
Closing my eyes, I inhale, committing her scent to memory. She wants me to kiss her. And I want to. Just once. Her lips are parted, ready, waiting.
Her mouth felt welcoming beneath my thumb. I close my eyes to blot her out and fight the temptation, and when I open them again, my decision is made. I want to hold her for a moment longer. I slide my hands to her shoulders to ensure she can stand.
Her expression clouds with humiliation. I shudder to think what could have happened to you. She shakes her head, her back ramrod stiff, and wraps her arms around herself in a protective gesture. A moment later she bolts across the street and I have to hurry to keep up with her. When we reach the hotel, she turns and faces me once more, composed.
She disappears into the building, leaving in her wake a trace of regret, the memory of her beautiful blue eyes, and the scent of an apple orchard in the fall. My scream bounces off the bedroom walls and wakes me from my nightmare. Sitting up, I put my head in my hands as I try to calm my escalated heart rate and erratic breathing. I have two major meetings tomorrow…today…and I need a clear head and some sleep. And I have a round of fucking golf with Bastille.
I should cancel the golf; the thought of playing and losing darkens my already bleak mood. Clambering out of bed, I wander down the corridor and into the kitchen. There, I fill a glass with water and catch sight of myself, dressed only in pajama pants, reflected in the glass wall at the other side of the room.
I turn away in disgust. You turned her down. She wanted you. And you turned her down. It was for her own good. This has needled me for days now. Her beautiful face appears in my mind without warning, taunting me. If my shrink was back from his vacation in England I could call him. His psychobabble shit would stop me feeling this lousy.
Grey, she was just a pretty girl. Perhaps I need a distraction; a new sub, maybe. I contemplate calling Elena in the morning. She always finds suitable candidates for me. I want Ana. Her disappointment, her wounded indignation, and her contempt remain with me. She walked away without a backward glance. Perhaps I raised her hopes by asking her out for coffee, only to disappoint her. Maybe I should find some way to apologize, then I can forget about this whole sorry episode and get the girl out of my head.
Leaving the glass in the sink for my housekeeper to wash, I trudge back to bed. This is ridiculous.
The program on the radio is a welcome distraction until the second news item. Even the news reminds me of little Miss Bookworm. But then so do I, but for different reasons. Of course! This is it! This is what I can do. Both are bleak books, with tragic themes. Hardy had a dark, twisted soul. Like me. I shake off the thought and examine the books. And Tess does exact revenge on the man who wronged her. I like to possess things, things that will rise in value, like first editions.
Feeling calmer and more composed, and a little pleased with myself, I head back into my closet and change into my running gear. I read the book years ago and have a hazy recollection of the plot. Fiction was my sanctuary when I was a teenager. My mother always marveled that I read; Elliot not so much.
I craved the escape that fiction provided. The young receptionist greets me with a flirtatious wave. Every day…Like a cheesy tune on repeat. Ignoring her, I make my way to the elevator that will take me straight to my floor. Andrea is on hand to greet me. Ros wants to see you to discuss the Darfur project. Get me Welch on the line and find out when Flynn is back from vacation. Get Olivia to make it for me.
I give her a smile. Three minutes later she has Welch on the line. Anastasia Steele. Studying at WSU. I remember. Anything else? I need to find a quote. But our contacts on the ground are hesitant about the road journey to Darfur.
Fucking red tape. You know the tax breaks in Detroit are huge. I sent you a summary. But God, does it have to be Detroit? It meets our criteria. That was quick. What news? Andrea answers immediately. She trembles as she puts it on my desk. Tuna salad. She also places three different white cards, all different sizes, with corresponding envelopes on my desk. Now go.
She scuttles out. I take one bite of tuna to assuage my hunger, then reach for my pen. A warning. I made the correct choice, walking away from her.
Not all men are romantic heroes. I buzz Andrea. Will that be all? Find me a set of replacements. First editions. Get Olivia on it. Why is she smiling? She never smiles. Dismissing the thought, I wonder if that will be the last I see of the books, and I have to acknowledge that deep down I hope not. As I shave, the asshole in the mirror stares back at me with cool, gray eyes.
She has my number. Jones looks up when I walk into the kitchen. Thank you. What the hell does my big brother want? I need to get out of Seattle this weekend. You would know if you had any. We could go this afternoon. Stay down there. Come home Sunday. In the chopper, or do you want to drive?
I owe you. Elliot has always had a problem containing himself. As do the women he associates with: What would you like to do for food this weekend? I may be back on Saturday. Poor fucker must be fried. Working and fucking: He sprawls out in the passenger seat and snores.
As we cruise down I-5 my excitement mounts. Have the books been delivered yet? Why did you send them in the first place? Because I want to see her again. Remember when Dad used to take us? My father is a polymath, a real renaissance man: But before I hit adolescence we had a bond. He used to love taking us camping and doing all the outdoor pursuits I now enjoy: Puberty ruined all that for me. You know that.
No strings. Anyway, enough of me. Beneath his somewhat casual exterior my brother is an eco-warrior. His passion for sustainable living makes for some heated Sunday dinner conversations with the family, and his latest project is an eco-friendly development of low-cost housing north of Seattle. It will mean all the homes will reduce their water usage and their bills by twenty-five percent.
Give your dick a rest and watch baseball. He tears down the trail with the same devil-may-fucking-care attitude he applies to most situations. But riding at this pace I have no chance to appreciate our surroundings. Her warmth, her breasts pressed against me, her scent invading my senses. We check our phones in the elevator as we head up to the top floor.
The thought depresses me: Or that often. The Mariners are in the lead and it looks like it might be a blowout. Go Mariners! Elliot and I clink beer bottles. Elliot glances at me, so I get up off the sofa and out of his earshot. You sound strange.
Who is she with? The photographer? Where are you? Anxiety blooms in my gut. Will she drive? Tell me now. In any other situation I would find this charming. But right now—I want to show her how domineering I can be. I stare at the phone in disbelief. No one has ever hung up on me. What the fuck! Do you want to come? With a chick? This I have to see. Barney is the most senior engineer in the telecommunications division of my company. But what I want is not strictly legal.
Best to keep this away from my company. I speed-dial Welch and within seconds his rasping voice answers. It makes me feel old. Elliot has followed me in through the front door.
Scanning the room, I spot Katherine Kavanagh. She looks at me in surprise when we arrive at her table. The three guys at the table regard Elliot and me with hostile wariness. What an exasperating woman. Elliot, Katherine Kavanagh.
She has eyes only for Mr. That way. Pushing through the throng, I make my way to the door, leaving the three disgruntled men and Kavanagh and Elliot engaged in a grin-off.
Ironically, it leads to the parking lot where Elliot and I have just been. Walking outside, I find myself in a gathering space adjacent to the parking lot—a hangout flanked by raised flowerbeds, where a few people are smoking, drinking, chatting.
Making out. I spot her. For a moment I want to rip his head off. With my hands fisted at my side I march up to them. He releases Ana and she squints at me with a dazed, drunken expression. Ana heaves, then buckles over and vomits on the ground.
Oh, shit! Fucking idiot. With my arm around her shoulders I lead her away from the curious onlookers toward one of the flowerbeds. She can puke in peace. She vomits again and again, her hands on the brick. Once her stomach is empty, she continues to retch, long dry heaves.
Releasing her, I give her my handkerchief, which by some miracle I have in the inside pocket of my jacket. Thank you, Mrs. Gone is my fury at the photographer. She puts her head in her hands, cringes, then peeks up at me, still mortified. Turning to the door, she glares over my shoulder. Being sick. Do you make a habit of this kind of behavior? The thought is worrying, and I consider whether I should call my mother for a referral to a detox clinic. Ana frowns for a moment, as if angry, that little v forming between her brows, and I suppress the urge to kiss it.
But when she speaks she sounds contrite. She might pass out, so without giving it a thought I scoop her up into my arms. Too light. The thought irks me. I want to drive her home. Christian, please, I need to tell Kate.
What kind of friend is she? The lights from the bar illuminate her anxious face. As much as it pains me, I put her down and agree to take her inside. One of the young men is still sitting there, looking annoyed and abandoned. Ana collects her jacket and purse and, reaching out, she unexpectedly clutches my arm. I freeze. My heart rate catapults into overdrive as the darkness surfaces, stretching and tightening its claws around my throat.
And suddenly the darkness disappears and the pounding in my heart ceases. I roll my eyes to hide my confusion and take her to the bar, order a large glass of water, and pass it to her. My mood sinks. And I think of what just happened to me. Her touch. My reaction. My mood plummets further. I like the connection—me touching her. Hmm…flowery, Grey. She finishes her drink, and retrieving the glass, I place it on the bar.
She wants to talk to her so-called friend.
I survey the crowded dance floor, uneasy at the thought of all those bodies pressing in on me as we fight our way through. Steeling myself, I grab her hand and lead her toward the dance floor. Update Your Review. Since you've already submitted a review for this product, this submission will be added as an update to your original review. Submit Your Reply. Thank You for Submitting a Reply,! E-mail This Review. E-mail this to: Enter the e-mail address of the recipient Add your own personal message: Thank You,!
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