Fifty Shades Trilogy Bundle: Fifty Shades of Grey; Fifty Shades Darker; Fifty Shades Freed Read online

  “I like this harness,” he whispers.

  What?

  He sits down beside me and buckles himself into his seat, then begins a protracted procedure of checking gauges and flipping switches and buttons from the mind-boggling array of dials and lights and switches in front of me. Little lights wink and flash from various dials, and the whole of the instrument panel lights up.

  “Put your cans on,” he says, pointing to a set of headphones in front of me. I pull them on, and the rotor blades start. They are deafening. He puts his headphones on and continues flipping various switches.

  “I’m just going through all the preflight checks.” Christian’s disembodied voice is in my ears through the headphones. I turn and grin at him.

  “Do you know what you are doing?” I ask. He turns and smiles at me.

  “I’ve been a fully qualified pilot for four years, Anastasia. You’re safe with me.” He gives me a wolfish grin. “Well, while we’re flying,” he adds, and winks at me.

  Winking … Christian!

  “Are you ready?”

  I nod, wide-eyed.

  “Okay, tower. PDX, this is Charlie Tango Golf–Golf Echo Hotel, cleared for take-off. Please confirm, over.”

  “Charlie Tango—you are clear. PDX to call, proceed to one four thousand, heading zero one zero, over.”

  “Roger, tower, Charlie Tango set, over and out. Here we go,” he adds to me, and the helicopter rises slowly and smoothly into the air.

  Portland disappears in front of us as we head into U.S. airspace, though my stomach remains firmly in Oregon. Whoa! All the bright lights shrink until they are twinkling sweetly below us. It’s like looking out from inside a fish bowl. Once we’re higher, there really is nothing to see. It’s pitch-black, not even the moon to shed any light on our journey. How can he see where we’re going?

  “Eerie, isn’t it?” Christian’s voice is in my ears.

  “How do you know you’re going the right way?”

  “Here.” He points his long index finger at one of the gauges, and it shows an electronic compass. “This is an EC135 Eurocopter. One of the safest in its class. It’s equipped for night flight.” He glances and grins at me.

  “There’s a helipad on top of the building I live in. That’s where we’re heading.”

  Of course there’s a helipad where he lives. I am so out of my league here. His face is softly illuminated by the lights on the instrument panel. He’s concentrating hard, and he’s continually glancing at the various dials in front of him. I drink in his features from beneath my lashes. He has a beautiful profile. Straight nose, square jawed—I’d like to run my tongue along his jaw. He hasn’t shaved, and his stubble makes the prospect doubly tempting. Hmm … I’d like to feel how rough it is beneath my tongue, my fingers, against my face.

  “When you fly at night, you fly blind. You have to trust the instrumentation,” he says, interrupting my erotic reverie.

  “How long will the flight be?” I manage breathlessly. I wasn’t thinking about sex at all, no, no way.

  “Less than an hour—the wind is in our favor.”

  Hmm, less than an hour to Seattle … that’s not bad going. No wonder we’re flying.

  I have less than an hour before the big reveal. All the muscles clench deep in my belly. I have a serious case of butterflies. They are flourishing in my stomach. Holy shit, what has he got in store for me?

  “You okay, Anastasia?”

  “Yes.” My answer is short, clipped, squeezed out through my nerves.

  I think he smiles, but it’s difficult to tell in the darkness. Christian flicks yet another switch.

  “PDX, this is Charlie Tango now at one four thousand, over.” He exchanges information with air traffic control. It all sounds very professional to me. I think we’re moving from Portland’s airspace to Seattle International Airport’s. “Understood, Sea-Tac, standing by, over and out.”

  “Look, over there.” He points to a small pinpoint of light in the far distance. “That’s Seattle.”

  “Do you always impress women this way? ‘Come and fly in my helicopter’?” I ask, genuinely interested.

  “I’ve never brought a girl up here, Anastasia. It’s another first for me.” His voice is quiet, serious.

  Oh, that was an unexpected answer. Another first? Oh, the sleeping thing, perhaps?

  “Are you impressed?”

  “I’m awed, Christian.”

  He smiles.

  “Awed?” And for a brief moment, he’s his age again.

  I nod. “You’re just so … competent.”

  “Why, thank you, Miss Steele,” he says politely. I think he’s pleased, but I’m not sure.

  We ride in the dark night in silence for a while. The bright spot that is Seattle is slowly getting bigger.

  “Sea-Tac tower to Charlie Tango. Flight plan to Escala in place. Please proceed. And stand by. Over.”

  “This is Charlie Tango, understood, Sea-Tac. Standing by, over and out.”

  “You obviously enjoy this,” I murmur.

  “What?” He glances at me. He looks quizzical in the half light of the instruments.

  “Flying,” I reply.

  “It requires control and concentration … how could I not love it? Though my favorite is soaring.”

  “Soaring?”

  “Yes. Gliding, to the layperson. Gliders and helicopters—I fly them both.”

  “Oh.” Expensive hobbies. I remember him telling me during the interview. I like reading and occasionally going to the movies. I am out of my depth here.

  “Charlie Tango, come in, please, over.” The disembodied voice of air traffic control interrupts my reverie. Christian answers, sounding in control and confident.

  Seattle is getting closer. We are on the very outskirts now. Wow! It looks absolutely stunning. Seattle at night, from the sky …

  “Looks good, doesn’t it?” Christian murmurs.

  I nod enthusiastically. It looks otherworldly—unreal—and I feel like I’m on a giant film set; José’s favorite film maybe, Blade Runner. The memory of José’s attempted kiss haunts me. I’m beginning to feel a bit cruel not calling him back. He can wait until tomorrow … surely.

  “We’ll be there in a few minutes,” Christian mutters, and suddenly my blood is pounding in my ears as my heartbeat accelerates and adrenaline spikes through my system. He starts talking to air traffic control again, but I am no longer listening. I think I’m going to faint. My fate is in his hands.

  We are now flying among the buildings, and up ahead I can see a tall skyscraper with a helipad on top. The word “Escala” is painted in white on top of the building. It’s getting nearer and nearer, bigger and bigger … like my anxiety. God, I hope I don’t let him down. He’ll find me lacking in some way. I wish I’d listened to Kate and borrowed one of her dresses, but I like my black jeans, and I’m wearing a soft mint-green shirt and Kate’s black jacket. I look smart enough. I grip the edge of my seat tighter and tighter. I can do this. I can do this. I chant this mantra as the skyscraper looms below us.

  The helicopter slows and hovers, and Christian sets it down on the helipad on top of the building. My heart is in my mouth. I can’t decide if it’s from nervous anticipation, relief that we’ve arrived alive, or fear that I will fail in some way. He switches the ignition off and the rotor blades slow and quiet until all I hear is the sound of my own erratic breathing. Christian takes his headphones off and reaches across and pulls mine off, too.

  “We’re here,” he says softly.

  His look is so intense, half in shadow and half in the bright white light from the landing lights. Dark knight and white knight, it’s a fitting metaphor for Christian. He looks strained. His jaw is clenched and his eyes are tight. He unfastens his seatbelt and reaches over to unbuckle mine. His face is inches from mine.

  “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. You know that, don’t you?” His tone is so earnest, desperate even, his eyes impassioned. He tak
es me by surprise.

  “I’d never do anything I didn’t want to do, Christian.” And as I say the words, I don’t quite feel their conviction, because at this moment in time, I’d probably do anything for this man seated beside me. But this does the trick. He’s mollified.

  He eyes me warily for a moment and somehow, even though he’s so tall, he manages to ease his way gracefully to the door of the helicopter and open it. He jumps out, waiting for me to follow, and takes my hand as I clamber down on to the helipad. It’s very windy on top of the building, and I’m nervous about the fact that I’m standing at least thirty stories high in an unenclosed space. Christian wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me tightly against him.

  “Come,” he shouts above the noise of the wind. He drags me over to an elevator and, after tapping a number into a keypad, the doors open. It’s warm inside and all mirrored glass. I can see Christian to infinity everywhere I look, and the wonderful thing is he’s holding me to infinity, too. Christian taps another code into the keypad, then the doors close and the elevator descends.

  Moments later, we’re in an all-white foyer. In the middle is a round, dark wood table, and on it is an unbelievably huge bunch of white flowers. On the walls there are paintings everywhere. He opens a set of double doors, and the white theme continues across a wide corridor where directly opposite, is the entrance to a palatial room. It’s the main living area, double height. “Huge” is too small a word for it. The far wall is glass and leads onto a balcony that overlooks Seattle.

  To the right is an imposing U-shaped sofa that could seat ten adults comfortably. It faces a state-of-the-art stainless-steel—or maybe platinum, for all I know—modern fireplace. The fire is lit and flaming gently. On the left beside us, by the entry way, is the kitchen area. All white with dark wood worktops and a breakfast bar that seats six.

  Near the kitchen area, in front of the glass wall, is a dining table surrounded by sixteen chairs. And tucked in the corner is a full-sized, shiny black grand piano. Oh yes … he probably plays the piano, too. There is art of all shapes and sizes on all the walls. In fact, this apartment looks more like a gallery than a place to live.

  “Can I take your jacket?” Christian asks. I shake my head. I’m still cold from the wind on the helipad.

  “Would you like a drink?” he asks. I blink at him. After last night! Is he trying to be funny? For one second, I think about asking for a margarita—but I don’t have the nerve.

  “I’m going to have a glass of white wine. Would you like to join me?”

  “Yes, please,” I murmur.

  I am standing in this enormous room feeling out of place. I walk over to the glass wall, and I realize that the lower half of the wall opens concertina style onto the balcony. Seattle is lit up and lively in the background. I walk back to the kitchen area—it takes a few seconds, it’s so far from the glass wall—and Christian is opening a bottle of wine. He’s removed his jacket.

  “Pouilly Fumé okay with you?”

  “I know nothing about wine, Christian. I’m sure it will be fine.” My voice is soft and hesitant. My heart is thumping. I want to run. This is seriously rich. Seriously over-the-top Bill Gates–style wealthy. What am I doing here? You know very well what you’re doing here, my subconscious sneers at me. Yes, I want to be in Christian Grey’s bed.

  “Here.” He hands me a glass of wine. Even the glasses are rich … heavy, contemporary crystal. I take a sip, and the wine is light, crisp, and delicious.

  “You’re very quiet, and you’re not even blushing. In fact, I think this is the palest I’ve ever seen you, Anastasia,” he murmurs. “Are you hungry?”

  I shake my head. Not for food. “It’s a very big place you have here.”

  “Big?”

  “Big.”

  “It’s big,” he agrees, and his eyes glow with amusement. I take another sip of wine.

  “Do you play?” I point my chin at the piano.

  “Yes.”

  “Well?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course you do. Is there anything you can’t do well?”

  “Yes … a few things.” He takes a sip of his wine. He doesn’t take his eyes off me. I feel them following me as I turn and glance around this vast room. “Room” is the wrong word. It’s not a room—it’s a mission statement.

  “Do you want to sit?”

  I nod, and he takes my hand and leads me to the large off-white couch. As I sit, I’m struck by the fact that I feel like Tess Durbeyfield looking at the new house that belongs to the notorious Alec d’Urberville. The thought makes me smile.

  “What’s so amusing?” He sits down beside me, turning to face me. He rests his head on his right hand, his elbow propped on the back of the couch.

  “Why did you give me Tess of the d’Urbervilles specifically?” I ask. Christian stares at me for a moment. I think he’s surprised by my question.

  “Well, you said you liked Thomas Hardy.”

  “Is that the only reason?” Even I can hear the disappointment in my voice. His mouth presses into a hard line.

  “It seemed appropriate. I could hold you to some impossibly high ideal like Angel Clare or debase you completely like Alec d’Urberville,” he murmurs, and his eyes flash dark and dangerous.

  “If there are only two choices, I’ll take the debasement.” I whisper, gazing at him. My subconscious is staring at me in awe. He gasps.

  “Anastasia, stop biting your lip, please. It’s very distracting. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  He frowns.

  “Yes. Would you excuse me for a moment?” He disappears through a wide doorway on the far side of the room. He’s gone for a couple of minutes and returns with a document.

  “This is a nondisclosure agreement.” He shrugs and has the grace to look a little embarrassed. “My lawyer insists on it.” He hands it to me. I’m completely bemused. “If you’re going for option two, debasement, you’ll need to sign this.”

  “And if I don’t want to sign anything?”

  “Then it’s Angel Clare high ideals, well, for most of the book anyway.”

  “What does this agreement mean?”

  “It means you cannot disclose anything about us. Anything, to anyone.”

  I stare at him in disbelief. Holy shit. It’s bad, really bad, and now I’m very curious to know.

  “Okay. I’ll sign.”

  He hands me a pen.

  “Aren’t you even going to read it?”

  “No.”

  He frowns.

  “Anastasia, you should always read anything you sign,” he admonishes me.

  “Christian, what you fail to understand is that I wouldn’t talk about us to anyone anyway. Even Kate. So it’s immaterial whether I sign an agreement or not. If it means so much to you, or your lawyer … whom you obviously talk to, then fine. I’ll sign.”

  He gazes down at me, and he nods gravely.

  “Fair point well made, Miss Steele.”

  I lavishly sign on the dotted line of both copies and hand one back to him. Folding the other, I place it my purse and take a large swig of my wine. I’m sounding so much braver than I’m actually feeling.

  “Does this mean you’re going to make love to me tonight, Christian?” Holy shit. Did I just say that? His mouth drops open slightly, but he recovers quickly.

  “No, Anastasia, it doesn’t. First, I don’t make love. I fuck … hard. Second, there’s a lot more paperwork to do. And third, you don’t yet know what you’re in for. You could still run for the hills. Come, I want to show you my playroom.”

  My mouth drops open. Fuck hard! Holy shit, that sounds so … hot. But why are we looking at a playroom? I am mystified.

  “You want to play on your Xbox?” I ask. He laughs loudly.

  “No, Anastasia, no Xbox, no Playstation. Come.” He stands, holding out his hand. I let him lead me back out to the corridor. On the right of the double doors, where we ca
me in, another door leads to a staircase. We go up to the second floor and turn right. Producing a key from his pocket, he unlocks yet another door and takes a deep breath.

  “You can leave anytime. The helicopter is on standby to take you whenever you want to go; you can stay the night and go home in the morning. It’s fine whatever you decide.”

  “Just open the damn door, Christian.”

  He opens the door and stands back to let me in. I gaze at him once more. I so want to know what’s in here. Taking a deep breath I walk in.

  And it feels like I’ve time-traveled back to the sixteenth century and the Spanish Inquisition.

  Holy fuck.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  * * *

  The first thing I notice is the smell: leather, wood, polish with a faint citrus scent. It’s very pleasant, and the lighting is soft, subtle. In fact, I can’t see the source, but it’s around the cornice in the room, emitting an ambient glow. The walls and ceiling are a deep, dark burgundy, giving a womb-like effect to the spacious room, and the floor is old, old varnished wood. There is a large wooden cross like an X fastened to the wall facing the door. It’s made of high-polished mahogany, and there are restraining cuffs on each corner. Above it is an expansive iron grid suspended from the ceiling, eight-foot square at least, and from it hang all manner of ropes, chains, and glinting shackles. By the door, two long, polished, ornately carved poles, like spindles from a banister but longer, hang like curtain rods across the wall. From them swing a startling assortment of paddles, whips, riding crops, and funny-looking feathery implements.

  Beside the door stands a substantial mahogany chest of drawers, each drawer slim as if designed to contain specimens in a crusty old museum. I wonder briefly what the drawers actually do hold. Do I want to know? In the far corner is an oxblood leather padded bench, and fixed to the wall beside it is a wooden, polished rack that looks like a pool or billiard cue holder, but on closer inspection, it holds canes of varying lengths and widths. There’s a stout six-foot-long table in the opposite corner—polished wood with intricately carved legs—and two matching stools underneath.