Grey (2 page)

“You invest in manufacturing. Why, specifically?”

“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 transport food around the planet.

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

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.”

“Why would they say that?”

“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, awkward, obviously bright, and arousing as hell.

Yes, okay, I admit it. I find her alluring.

She recites the next question by rote. “Would your friends say you're easy to get to know?”

“I'm a very private person. 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?”

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

“That sounds very philanthropic. Is that something you feel passionately about? Feeding the world's poor?” She regards me with a puzzled look, as if I'm a conundrum, but there's no way I want her seeing into my dark soul. This is not an area open to discussion.
Move it along, Grey.

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

She recites her next question, dragging me away from my fantasy. “Do you have a philosophy? If so, what is it?”

“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.”

“So you want to possess things?”

Yes, baby. You, for one.
I frown, startled by the thought.

“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.

“I am.”

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 clothes from some cheap store like Old Navy or H&M—I know that isn't it. She hasn't grown up in an affluent household.

I could really take care of you.

Where the hell did that thought 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 woman. I try an agreeable smile. Nothing wrong
with consumption—after all, it drives what's left of the American economy.

“You were adopted. How much do you think that's shaped the way you are?”

What does this have to do with the price of oil? What a ridiculous question. If I'd stayed with the crack whore, I'd probably be dead. I blow her off with a non-answer, 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!

My tone goes cold. “That's a matter of public record, Miss Steele.”

She should know this, too. Now she looks contrite as she tucks an escaped strand of hair behind her ear.
Good.

“You've had to sacrifice family life for your work.”

“That's not a question,” I snap.

She startles, clearly embarrassed, but she has the grace to apologize and she rephrases the question: “Have you had to sacrifice family life for your work?”

What do I want with a family? “I have a family. I have a brother, a sister, and two loving parents. I'm not interested in extending my family beyond that.”

“Are you gay, Mr. Grey?”

What the hell!

I cannot believe she's said that out loud! Ironically, the question even my own family will not ask. How dare she! I have a sudden urge to drag her out of her seat, bend her over my knee, spank her, and then fuck her over my desk with her hands tied behind her back. That would answer her ridiculous question. I take a deep calming breath. To my vindictive delight, she appears to be mortified by her own question.

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

“I apologize. It's, um…written here.” She's at it again with the hair behind the ear. Obviously it's a nervous habit.

Are these not her questions?
I ask her, and she pales. Damn, she really is attractive, in an understated sort of way.

“Er…no. Kate—Miss Kavanagh—she compiled the questions.”

“Are you colleagues on the student paper?”

“No. She's my roommate.”

No wonder she's all over the place. I scratch my chin, debating whether or not to give her a really hard time.

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

“I was drafted. She's not well.” Her voice is soft.

“That explains a great deal.”

There's a knock at the door, and Andrea appears.

“Mr. Grey, forgive me for interrupting, but your next meeting is in two minutes.”

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

Andrea gapes at me, looking confused. I stare at her.
Out! Now!
I'm busy with little Miss Steele here.

“Very well, Mr. Grey,” she says, recovering quickly, and turning on her heel, she leaves us.

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

“Please, don't let me keep you from anything.”

Oh no, baby. It's my turn now.
I want to know if there are any secrets to uncover behind that lovely face.

“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 of my charms.

“There's not much to know,” she says, her blush returning.

I'm intimidating her. “What are your plans after you graduate?”

“I haven't made any plans, Mr. Grey. I just need to get through my final exams.”

“We run an excellent internship program here.”

What possessed me ever to say that? It's against the rules, Grey. Never fuck the staff…But you're not fucking this girl.

She looks surprised, and her teeth sink into that lip again. Why is that so arousing?

“Oh. I'll bear that in mind,” she replies. “Though I'm not sure I'd fit in here.”

“Why do you say that?” I ask.
What's wrong with my company?

“It's obvious, isn't it?”

“Not to me.” I'm confounded by her response. She's flustered again as she reaches for the recorder.

Shit, she's going.
Mentally I run through my schedule for that afternoon—there is nothing that won't keep. “Would you like me to show you around?”

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

“You're driving back to Vancouver?” I glance out the window. It's one hell of a drive, and it's raining. 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. She fumbles with the recorder. She wants out of my office, and to my surprise, I don't want her to go.

“Did you get everything you need?” I ask in a transparent effort to prolong her stay.

“Yes, sir,” she says quietly. 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.

“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 for a while. The thought is unsettling. She stands and I extend my hand, eager to touch her.

“Until we meet again, Miss Steele.” My voice is low as she places her 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.

“Mr. Grey.” She nods and withdraws her hand quickly, too quickly.

I can't let her go like this. It's obvious she's desperate to leave. It's irritating, but inspiration hits me as I open my office door.

“Just ensuring you make it through the door,” I quip.

Her lips form a hard line. “That's very considerate, Mr. Grey,” she snaps.

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

“Did you have a coat?” I ask.

“A jacket.”

I give Olivia a pointed look and she immediately leaps up to retrieve a navy jacket, passing it to me with her usual simpering expression. Christ, Olivia is annoying—mooning over me all the time.

Hmm.
The jacket is worn and cheap. 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.

Oh, I could stop your fidgeting, baby.

The doors open and she scurries in, then turns to face me. She's more than attractive. I would go as far as to say she's beautiful.

“Anastasia,” I say, in good-bye.

“Christian,” she answers, her voice soft. And the elevator doors close, leaving my name hanging in the air between us, sounding odd and unfamiliar, but sexy as hell.

I need to know more about this girl.

“Andrea,” I bark as I return to my office. “Get me Welch on the line, now.”

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.

My phone buzzes. “I have Mr. Welch on the line for you.”

“Put him through.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Welch, I need a background check.”

SATURDAY, MAY 14, 2011

ANASTASIA ROSE STEELE

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 lip biting gets me every time.

And now here I am, parked outside Clayton's, a mom-and-pop hardware store on the outskirts of Portland where she works.

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

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. I'd tried to resist. I'd waited five days, five tedious days, to see if I'd forget about her.

And I don't do waiting. I hate waiting…for anything.

I've never pursued a woman before. 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. So here I am, an ass, sitting in a suburban parking lot in a dreary part of Portland.

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…I've been suffering from these lascivious thoughts since I met her.

That's why you're here.

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.
No. I don't want him hounding me about his latest solution-based-therapy shit. I just need a distraction, and right now
the only distraction I want is the one 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.

A bell chimes a flat electronic note as I walk into the store. It's much bigger than it looks from the outside, and although it's almost lunchtime the place is quiet, for a Saturday. There are aisles and aisles of the usual junk 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.

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. Absentmindedly, she wipes a crumb from the corner of her lips and into her mouth and sucks on her finger. My cock twitches in response.

What am I, fourteen?

My body's reaction is irritating. Maybe this 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 by her task, and it gives me an opportunity to study her. Salacious thoughts aside, she's attractive, seriously attractive. I've remembered her well.

She looks up and freezes. It's as unnerving as the first time I met her. She pins me with a discerning stare—shocked, I think—and I don't know if this is a good response or a bad response.

“Miss Steele. What a pleasant surprise.”

“Mr. Grey,” she says, 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.”
A real pleasure.
She's dressed in a tight T-shirt and jeans, not the shapeless shit she was wearing earlier this week. She's all long legs, narrow waist, and perfect tits. Her lips are still parted in surprise, and I have to resist the urge to tip her chin
up and close her mouth. I've flown from Seattle just to see you, and the way you look right now, it was really worth the journey.

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

Game on, Miss Steele.

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

My request catches her off guard; she looks stunned.

Oh, this is going to be fun. You'd be amazed what I can do with a few cable ties, baby.

“We stock various lengths. Shall I show you?” she says, finding her voice.

“Please. Lead the way.”

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.

“They're with the electrical goods, aisle eight.” Her voice wavers and she blushes…

She
is
affected by me. Hope blooms in my chest.

She's not gay, then. I smirk.

“After you.” I hold my hand out for her to lead the way. Letting her walk ahead gives me the space and time to admire her fantastic ass. Her long, thick ponytail keeps time like a metronome to the gentle sway of her hips. 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.

“Are you in Portland on business?” she asks, interrupting my thoughts. Her voice is high; she's feigning disinterest. It makes me want to laugh. Women rarely make me laugh.

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

Her face falls, and I feel like a shit.

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

“All part of your feed-the-world plan?” She arches a brow, amused.

“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.

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 accept? 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, as they can accommodate two ankles and two wrists at once.

“These will do.”

“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.

“I'd like some masking tape.”

“Are you redecorating?”

“No, not redecorating.”
Oh, if you only knew…

“This way,” she says. “Masking tape is in the decorating aisle.”

Come on, Grey. You don't have much time. Engage her in some conversation.
“Have you worked here long?” Of course, I already know the answer. Unlike some people, I do my research. For some reason she's embarrassed. 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, like a puppy.

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

“I'll take that one.” 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.
Damn!

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

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

“Some rope, I think.”

“This way.” She 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…”

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

“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.

A tremor runs through her fingers, but she measures out five yards like a pro. 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.

“Were you a Girl Scout?”

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

“What is your thing, Anastasia?” Her pupils dilate as I stare.

Yes!

“Books,” she answers.

“What kind of books?”

“Oh, you know. The usual. The classics. British literature, mainly.”

British literature?
The Brontës and Austen, I bet. All those romantic hearts-and-flowers types.

That's not good.

“Anything else you need?”

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

“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's checking me out!

“Coveralls,” she blurts out.

It's the most unexpected thing I've heard her say since the “Are you gay?” question.

“You wouldn't want to ruin your clothing.” She gestures to my jeans.

I can't resist. “I could always take them off.”

“Um.” She flushes beet red and stares down.

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

“Do you need anything else?” she says, sounding breathless as she hands me a pair of blue coveralls. She's mortified, eyes still cast down.
Christ, she does things to me.

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

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 newspaper, and she was devastated that she couldn't do the interview in person.”

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

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

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

“What sort of photographs does she want?”

She gazes at me for a moment, then shakes her head, perplexed, not knowing what to say.

“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.

“You'd be willing to do a photo shoot?” She cannot contain her surprise.