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  “This is next-generation tech.” She raises her eyebrows at me. “Most women get flowers or maybe jewelry,” she says suggestively, trying to suppress a smile.

  I scowl at her but can’t keep a straight face. We both burst into a fit of giggles, and computer man gapes at us, bemused. He finishes up and asks me to sign the delivery note.

  As Kate shows him out, I sit with my cup of tea and open the e-mail program, and waiting for me is an e-mail from Christian. My heart leaps into my mouth. I have an e-mail from Christian Grey. Nervously, I open it.

  * * *

  From: Christian Grey

  Subject: Your New Computer

  Date: May 22 2011 23:15

  To: Anastasia Steele

  Dear Miss Steele,

  I trust you slept well. I hope that you put this laptop to good use, as discussed.

  I look forward to dinner Wednesday.

  Happy to answer any questions before then, via e-mail, should you so desire.

  Christian Grey

  CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

  I hit “reply.”

  * * *

  From: Anastasia Steele

  Subject: Your New Computer (on loan)

  Date: May 23 2011 08:20

  To: Christian Grey

  I slept very well, thank you—for some strange reason—Sir. I understood that this computer was on loan, ergo not mine.

  Ana

  Almost instantaneously there is a response.

  * * *

  From: Christian Grey

  Subject: Your New Computer (on loan)

  Date: May 23 2011 08:22

  To: Anastasia Steele

  The computer is on loan. Indefinitely, Miss Steele.

  I note from your tone that you have read the documentation I gave you.

  Do you have any questions so far?

  Christian Grey

  CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

  I can’t help but grin.

  * * *

  From: Anastasia Steele

  Subject: Inquiring Minds

  Date: May 23 2011 08:25

  To: Christian Grey

  I have many questions, but not suitable for e-mail, and some of us have to work for a living.

  I do not want or need a computer indefinitely.

  Until later, good day. Sir.

  Ana

  His reply again is instant, and it makes me smile.

  * * *

  From: Christian Grey

  Subject: Your New Computer (again on loan)

  Date: May 23 2011 08:26

  To: Anastasia Steele

  Laters, baby.

  P.S.: I work for a living, too.

  Christian Grey

  CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

  I shut the computer down, grinning like an idiot. How can I resist playful Christian? I am going to be late for work. Well, it is my last week—Mr. and Mrs. Clayton will probably cut me some slack. I race into the shower, unable to shake my face-splitting grin. He e-mailed me. I’m like a small, giddy child. And all the contract angst fades. As I wash my hair, I try to think of what I could possibly ask him via e-mail. Surely it’s better to talk these things through. Suppose someone hacked into his account? I flush at the thought. I dress quickly, shout a hasty good-bye to Kate, and I’m off to work my last week at Clayton’s.

  JOSÉ PHONES AT ELEVEN.

  “Hey, are we doing coffee?” He sounds like the old José. José my friend, not a—what did Christian call him? Suitor. Ugh.

  “Sure. I’m at work. Can you make it here for, say, twelve?”

  “See you then.”

  He hangs up, and I go back to restocking the paintbrushes and thinking about Christian Grey and his contract.

  José is punctual. He comes bounding into the shop like a gamboling dark-eyed puppy.

  “Ana.” He smiles his dazzling toothy all-Hispanic-American smile, and I can’t be angry with him anymore.

  “Hi, José.” I hug him. “I’m starving. I’ll just let Mrs. Clayton know I’m going for lunch.”

  As we stroll to the local coffee shop, I slip my arm through José’s. I’m so grateful for his … normality. Someone I know and understand.

  “Hey, Ana,” he murmurs. “You’ve really forgiven me?”

  “José, you know I can never stay mad at you for long.”

  He grins.

  I CAN’T WAIT TO get home, the lure of e-mailing Christian, and maybe I can begin my research project. Kate is out somewhere, so I fire up the new laptop and open my e-mail. Sure enough, there’s a message from Christian sitting in the inbox. I’m practically bouncing out of my seat with glee.

  * * *

  From: Christian Grey

  Subject: Working for a Living

  Date: May 23 2011 17:24

  To: Anastasia Steele

  Dear Miss Steele,

  I do hope you had a good day at work.

  Christian Grey

  CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

  I hit “reply.”

  * * *

  From: Anastasia Steele

  Subject: Working for Living

  Date: May 23 2011 17:48

  To: Christian Grey

  Sir … I had a very good day at work.

  Thank you.

  Ana

  * * *

  From: Christian Grey

  Subject: Do the Work!

  Date: May 23 2011 17:50

  To: Anastasia Steele

  Miss Steele,

  Delighted you had a good day.

  While you are e-mailing, you are not researching.

  Christian Grey

  CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

  * * *

  From: Anastasia Steele

  Subject: Nuisance

  Date: May 23 2011 17:53

  To: Christian Grey

  Mr. Grey, stop e-mailing me, and I can start my assignment.

  I’d like another A.

  Ana

  I hug myself.

  * * *

  From: Christian Grey

  Subject: Impatient

  Date: May 23 2011 17:55

  To: Anastasia Steele

  Miss Steele,

  Stop e-mailing me—and do your assignment.

  I’d like to award another A.

  The first one was so well deserved. ;)

  Christian Grey

  CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

  Christian Grey just sent me a winking smiley … Oh my. I fire up Google.

  * * *

  From: Anastasia Steele

  Subject: Internet Research

  Date: May 23 2011 17:59

  To: Christian Grey

  Mr. Grey,

  What would you suggest I put into a search engine?

  Ana

  * * *

  From: Christian Grey

  Subject: Internet Research

  Date: May 23 2011 18:02

  To: Anastasia Steele

  Miss Steele,

  Always start with Wikipedia.

  No more e-mails unless you have questions.

  Understood?

  Christian Grey

  CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

  * * *

  From: Anastasia Steele

  Subject: Bossy!

  Date: May 23 2011 18:04

  To: Christian Grey

  Yes … Sir.

  You are so bossy.

  Ana

  * * *

  From: Christian Grey

  Subject: In Control

  Date: May 23 2011 18:06

  To: Anastasia Steele

  Anastasia, you have no idea.

  Well, maybe an inkling now.

  Do the work.

  Christian Grey

  CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

  I type “Submissive” into Wikipedia.

  Half an hour later, I feel slight queasy and frankly shocked to my core. Do I really want this stuff in my head? Jeez—is this what he gets u
p to in the Red Room of Pain? I sit staring at the screen, and part of me, a very moist and integral part of me that I’ve only become acquainted with very recently, is seriously turned on. Oh my, some of this stuff is HOT. But is it for me? Holy shit … could I do this? I need space. I need to think.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  * * *

  For the first time in my life, I voluntarily go for a run. I find my nasty, never-used sneakers, some sweatpants, and a T-shirt. I put my hair in pigtails, blushing at the memories they bring back, and I plug in my iPod. I can’t sit in front of that marvel of technology and look at or read any more disturbing material. I need to expend some of this excess, enervating energy. Quite frankly, I have a mind to run to the Heathman Hotel and just demand sex from the control freak. But that’s five miles, and I don’t think I’ll be able to run one mile, let alone five, and, of course, he might turn me down, which would be beyond humiliating.

  Kate is walking from her car as I head out of the door. She nearly drops her shopping bags 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 terms? I 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 that? Am I even capable?

  I am plagued by one question—why is he like this? Is it because he was seduced at such a young age? I 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 feel my resolve hardening. Yes. I need to tell him what’s okay and what isn’t. I need to e-mail 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 vacation 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 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 e-mail 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 earbuds in, listen to Snow Patrol, and sit down at my small desk to reread 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 gray flannel pants and a white linen shirt, gently twirling his car keys. I pull my earbuds 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, unshowered, 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 e-mail 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 Americana 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 this? If I tell him it was a joke, I don’t think he’ll be impressed.

  “I thought you’d reply by e-mail.” 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 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.

  “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, rhythmically, he tugs my earlobe. It’s so sexual.

  “I needed time to think,” I whisper. I’m all deer/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 mouth.

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

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

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

  His 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
preemptive 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 finding 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, delicious 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.