The right of E L James to be identified as the author of this work has been E L James is currently working on the sequel to Fifty Shades of Grey and a new. Vintage and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc. Fifty Shades of Grey, Fifty Shades. Darker, and Fifty Shades Freed are works of fiction. Read Grey PDF - Fifty Shades Of Grey As Told By Christian by E. L. James Turtleback Books | FOR USE IN SCHOOLS AND LIBRARIES ONLY.
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Fifty Shades of Grey stayed on the New York Times Best Seller List for consecutive weeks, and in the film adaptation—on which James worked as . One of the most read books ever Fifty Shades Of Grey. Get your pdf copy download from here. 50 Shades of Grey E L James Vol 3 - Ebook download as PDF File .pdf) or Download as PDF or read online from Scribd Fifty Shades Darker.
Today she sits on the couch staring at the wall. The green car flies into the rug. The red car follows. Then the yellow. I do it again. I aim the green car at her feet. But the green car goes under the couch. My hand is too big for the gap.
I want my green car. But Mommy stays on the couch staring at the wall. My car. I pull her hand and she lies back and closes her eyes. Not now, Maggot. Not now, she says. My green car stays under the couch. I can see it. My green car is fuzzy. Covered in gray fur and dirt. I want it back. I can never reach it. My green car is lost.
And I can never play with it again. I open my eyes and my dream fades in the early-morning light. What the hell was that about? I grasp at the fragments as they recede, but fail to catch any of them.
Dismissing it, like I do most mornings, I climb out of bed and find some newly laundered sweats in my walk-in closet. I head upstairs to my gym, switch on the TV for the morning business news, and step onto the treadmill. My thoughts stray to the day. Maybe I should call Elena? We can do dinner later this week.
I stop the treadmill, breathless, and head down to the shower to start another monotonous day. I scowl at him as he turns and leaves. His parting words rub salt into my wounds because, despite my heroic attempts during our workout today, my personal trainer has kicked my ass. Bastille is the only one who can beat me, and now he wants another pound of flesh on the golf course.
I detest golf, but so much business is done on the fairways, I have to endure his lessons there, too…and though I hate to admit it, playing against Bastille does improve my game. As I stare out the window at the Seattle skyline, the familiar ennui seeps unwelcome into my consciousness.
My mood is as flat and gray as the weather. My days are blending together with no distinction, and I need some kind of diversion.
But I do. I frown. The sobering truth is that the only thing to capture my interest recently has been my decision to send two freighters of cargo to Sudan. This reminds me—Ros is supposed to come back to me with numbers and logistics. What the hell is keeping her? I check my schedule and reach for the phone. Why the hell did I agree to this? I loathe interviews—inane questions from ill-informed, envious people intent on probing my private life.
The phone buzzes. At least I can keep this interview short. I was expecting Katherine Kavanagh. I know her father, Eamon, the owner of Kavanagh Media. This interview is a favor to him—one that I mean to cash in on later when it suits me.
And I have to admit I was vaguely curious about his daughter, interested to see if the apple has fallen far from the tree. A commotion at the door brings me to my feet as a whirl of long chestnut hair, pale limbs, and brown boots dives headfirst into my office. Repressing my natural annoyance at such clumsiness, I hurry over to the girl who has landed on her hands and knees on the floor.
Clasping slim shoulders, I help her to her feet. Clear, embarrassed eyes meet mine and halt me in my tracks. The thought is unnerving, so I dismiss it immediately. She has a small, sweet face that is blushing now, an innocent pale rose. I wonder briefly if all her skin is like that—flawless—and what it would look like pink and warmed from the bite of a cane.
I stop my wayward thoughts, alarmed at their direction. What the hell are you thinking, Grey? This girl is much too young. She gapes at me, and I resist rolling my eyes. Are you all right? Would you like to sit? In command once more, I study her. A brunette. I extend my hand as she stutters the beginning of a mortified apology and places her hand in mine. Her skin is cool and soft, but her handshake surprisingly firm. Unable to keep the amusement from my voice as I recall her less-than-elegant entrance into my office, I ask who she is.
She looks it: Does she have any sense of style at all? She looks nervously around my office—everywhere but at me, I note, with amused irony. How can this young woman be a journalist? Bemused at my inappropriate thoughts, I shake my head and wonder if first impressions are reliable. Muttering some platitude, I ask her to sit, then notice her discerning gaze appraising my office paintings. Her profile is delicate—an upturned nose, soft, full lips—and in her words she has captured my sentiments exactly.
Raising the ordinary to extraordinary. Miss Steele is bright. I agree and watch, fascinated, as that flush creeps slowly over her skin once more. As I sit down opposite her, I try to bridle my thoughts. She fishes some crumpled sheets of paper and a digital recorder out of her large bag.
Under normal circumstances her maladroitness would irritate the hell out of me, but now I hide my smile beneath my index finger and resist the urge to set it up for her myself. As she fumbles and grows more and more flustered, it occurs to me that I could refine her motor skills with the aid of a riding crop.
Adeptly used, it can bring even the most skittish to heel. The errant thought makes me shift in my chair. She peeks up at me and bites down on her full bottom lip. How did I not notice how inviting that mouth is? Grey…stop this, now. I want to laugh. Stop being such a shit, Grey. Miss Steele blinks once more, as if this is news to her—and she looks disapproving. She should know this. The thought cools my blood. I have some questions, Mr. Obligingly, she does, then pulls herself upright and squares her small shoulders.
She means business. Leaning forward, she presses the start button on the recorder and frowns as she glances down at her crumpled notes. To what do you owe your success? What a dull question. Not one iota of originality. I trot out my usual response about having exceptional people working for me. To succeed in business you need good people, and I can judge a person, better than most. A frisson of annoyance runs through me. How dare she? She looks unassuming and quiet, but this question?
No one has ever suggested that I was lucky. Well, to hell with that. Flaunting my erudition, I quote the words of Andrew Carnegie, my favorite industrialist. What the hell? Maybe she can see through me. I glare at her, hoping to intimidate her. That attractive blush steals across her face, and she bites that lip again. I ramble on, trying to distract myself from her mouth. Is she deliberately trying to goad me?
My annoyance grows. That gives me a certain sense of responsibility—power, if you will. If I were to decide I was no longer interested in the telecommunications business and sell, twenty thousand people would struggle to make their mortgage payments after a month or so. Suck it up, baby. I feel my equilibrium returning. Very varied.
Besides, when do I get time to chill out? She has no idea what I do. But she looks at me again with those ingenuous big eyes, and to my surprise I find myself considering her question.
What do I do to chill out? Sailing, flying, fucking…testing the limits of attractive brunettes like her, and bringing them to heel…The thought makes me shift in my seat, but I answer her smoothly, omitting a few favorite hobbies. Why, specifically? I like to know how things work: And I have a love of ships. What can I say? Oh no, baby. My heart was savaged beyond recognition a long time ago.
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: Yes, okay, I admit it. I find her alluring. She recites the next question by rote. I go a long way to protect my privacy.
She badgered and badgered my PR people, and I admire that kind of tenacity. Why are you interested in this area? Is that something you feel passionately about? This is not an area open to discussion. Move it along, Grey. 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. If so, what is it? I like control—of myself and those around me.
You, for one. I frown, startled by the thought. 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. And here I am, salivating over this woman. I try an agreeable smile. What a ridiculous question.
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. Now she looks contrite as she tucks an escaped strand of hair behind her ear. She startles, clearly embarrassed, but she has the grace to apologize and she rephrases the question: I have a brother, a sister, and two loving parents.
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. I like the way my tongue rolls around it.
Are these not her questions? I ask her, and she pales. Damn, she really is attractive, in an understated sort of way. Kate—Miss Kavanagh—she compiled the questions. I scratch my chin, debating whether or not to give her a really hard time. I like the effect I have on her. Grey, forgive me for interrupting, but your next meeting is in two minutes.
Please cancel my next meeting. I stare at her. I turn my attention back to the intriguing, frustrating creature on my couch. I want to know if there are any secrets to uncover behind that lovely face. Oh yes—the usual effect. I just need to get through my final exams. She looks surprised, and her teeth sink into that lip again.
Why is that so arousing? Grey, and I do have a long drive. The thought irritates me. She fumbles with the recorder. 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. The thought is unsettling. She stands and I extend my hand, eager to touch her.
Yes, I want to flog and fuck this girl in my playroom. Have her bound and wanting…needing me, trusting me. I swallow. Her lips form a hard line. 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. Christ, Olivia is annoying—mooning over me all the time. 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. 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. 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. My phone buzzes. Welch on the line for you. Montesano Jr. Franklin A. Lambert, DOB: July 18, m. Frank Lambert March 1, , widowed Sept. Raymond Steele June 6, , divorced July 12, m. Stephen M.
Morton Aug. Bob Adams April 6, Political Affiliations: None Found Religious Affiliations: None Found Sexual Orientation: Not Known Relationships: None Indicated at Present 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.
Her fumbling fingers on the recorder, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the lip biting. The lip biting gets me every time.
Why are you here? I knew it would lead to this. I hate waiting…for anything. 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. Why no boyfriend, Miss Steele?
I snort, thinking that unlikely. Perhaps I should let him know. I just need a distraction, and right now the only distraction I want is the one working as a salesclerk in a hardware store. Showtime, Grey. A bell chimes a flat electronic note as I walk into the store.
Velcro, split rings—Yeah. It takes me all of three seconds to spot her. 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? Maybe this will stop if I fetter, fuck, and flog her…and not necessarily in that order. She is thoroughly absorbed by her task, and it gives me an opportunity to study her. She looks up and freezes.
What a pleasant surprise. Ah, a good response. I need to stock up on a few things. Her lips are still parted in surprise, and I have to resist the urge to tip her chin up and close her mouth. What can I help you with, Mr. Game on, Miss Steele. Oh, this is going to be fun. Shall I show you? Lead the way. Louboutins…nothing but Louboutins. Hope blooms in my chest. I smirk. 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: 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. It makes me want to laugh.
Women rarely make me laugh. Her face falls, and I feel like a shit. Is she laughing at me? But how to start? Maybe with dinner, rather than the usual interview…now, that would be novel: 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?
I select the longer ties. They are more flexible, after all, as they can accommodate two ankles and two wrists at once.
Engage her in some conversation. Unlike some people, I do my research. Christ, this girl is shy.
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I follow her eagerly, like a puppy. She bends down and grasps two rolls, each a different width. As she passes it to me, the tips of our fingers touch, briefly.
It resonates in my groin. She pales. I groan inwardly, trying to chase away the image of her suspended from the ceiling in my playroom. 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. The usual. The classics. British literature, mainly.
All those romantic hearts-and-flowers types. What else would you recommend? 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. I put her out of her misery. Heaven forbid I should ruin any clothing.
Christ, she does things to me. She looks up and gives me a brief relieved smile. Miss Kavanagh. Publicity stills, eh? I can do that. It will allow me to spend time with the delectable Miss Steele. Work from a hotel.
You are here
A room at The Heathman, perhaps. I give her a brief nod. Yeah, I want to spend more time with you… Steady, Grey. It has my cell number on it.
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The thought depresses me. His eyes are all over Miss Anastasia Steele. Who the hell is this prick? My blood runs cold. Get your fucking paws off her. They fall into a whispered conversation. Maybe this guy is her boyfriend. She seems embarrassed, shifting from foot to foot. I should go. Then she says something else to him and moves out of his reach, touching his arm, not his hand, shrugging him off. Grey, this is Paul Clayton. His brother owns the place. This woman has really gotten under my skin.
Of Grey Enterprises Holdings? In a heartbeat I watch him morph from territorial to obsequious. I watch him disappear.
How can I ask her? Am I ready to take on a submissive who knows nothing?
Closing my eyes, I imagine the interesting possibilities this presents…getting there is going to be half the fun.
Will she even be up for this? Or do I have it all wrong? Look at me, damn it! Finally she raises her head. She packs the items briskly.
This is it. I have to go. Until tomorrow, perhaps. This is good. I sling the bag over my shoulder and exit the store. Yes, against my better judgment, I want her. Now I have to wait…fucking wait…again. Utilizing willpower that would make Elena proud, I keep my eyes ahead as I take my cell out of my pocket and climb into the rental car. My eyes flick to the rearview mirror, where I can see the shop door, but all I see is the quaint storefront.
I press 1 on speed dial and Taylor answers before the phone has a chance to ring. And Charlie Tango? So I have a few hours in Portland while I wait to see if this girl is interested in me. What to do? Time for a hike, I think. Maybe I can walk this strange hunger out of my system. What the hell was I thinking? I watch the street from the window of my suite at The Heathman. I loathe waiting. I always have. The weather, now cloudy, held for my hike through Forest Park, but the walk has done nothing to cure my agitation.
When have I ever chased a woman? Grey, get a grip. At least Taylor has arrived and I have all my shit. The prospect of a night alone again is depressing. While I contemplate what to do my phone vibrates against the polished wood of the desk and an unknown but vaguely familiar number with a Washington area code flashes on the screen. Is it her? I answer. Well, well. A breathy, nervous, soft-spoken Miss Steele. My evening is looking up.
How nice to hear from you. Where would be convenient for you, sir? Just you, me, and the cable ties. Shall we say nine thirty tomorrow morning? Leaning back in my chair, I gaze at the darkening skyline and run both my hands through my hair. How the hell am I going to close this deal? Last night I dreamed of her. I wonder what Flynn would make of that. The thought is disconcerting, so I ignore it and concentrate on pushing my body to its limits along the bank of the Willamette.
As my feet pound the walkway, sunshine breaks through the clouds and it gives me hope. Maybe I should take her for coffee. Like a date? Not a date. I laugh at the ridiculous thought. Just a chat—an interview of sorts. Sitting down to breakfast in my sweats, I decide to eat before I shower. I open it and Taylor stands on the threshold. They ready for me? One glance at the louche fucker in the mirror and I exit to follow Taylor to the elevator. Room is crowded with people, lights, and camera boxes, but I spot her immediately.
Her hair is loose: Are jeans and chucks her signature look? While not very convenient, they do flatter her shapely legs. Her eyes, disarming as ever, widen as I approach. She turns her delicious pink and waves in the direction of her friend, who is standing too close, waiting for my attention. With reluctance I release her and turn to the persistent Miss Kavanagh. That thought makes me feel a little more benevolent toward her. How do you do?
Anastasia said you were unwell last week. I wonder why these women are friends. They have nothing in common. Is it just me who makes her blush? The thought pleases me. Is this the boyfriend? Are they fucking? He likes her. He likes her a lot. Well, game on, kid. Rodriguez, where would you like me? She likes to be in charge. The thought amuses me as I sit. As the glare recedes I search out the lovely Miss Steele.
Does she always shy away like this? Hmm…a natural submissive. I regard Miss Steele as she watches both of us. Our eyes meet; hers are honest and innocent, and for a moment I reconsider my plan.
But then she bites her lip and my breath catches in my throat. Back down, Anastasia. 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.
Fifty Shades of Grey
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. Jun 18, Pages download. Jun 30, Pages download.
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Jun 18, Pages. Jun 30, Pages. Jul 21, Pages. Jul 16, Pages. Jun 18, Minutes. Christian Grey exercises control in all things; his world is neat, disciplined, and utterly empty—until the day that Anastasia Steele falls into his office, in a tangle of shapely limbs and tumbling brown hair.
He tries to forget her, but instead is swept up in a storm of emotion he cannot comprehend and cannot resist. Will being with Ana dispel the horrors of his childhood that haunt Christian every night? Or will his dark sexual desires, his compulsion to control, and the self-loathing that fills his soul drive this girl away and destroy the fragile hope she offers him?
This book is intended for mature audiences. Christian Grey ejerce control sobre todo. Intenta olvidarla, pero se ve inmerso en una tormenta de emociones que no puede comprender y no puede resistir. After twenty-five years working in TV, E L James decided to pursue her childhood dream, and set out to write stories that readers would fall in love with.She needs to know about me. E-mail it to me. No strings. My phone buzzes.
I texted Elliot. She examines her plate, chewing at her lip. Closing my eyes, I inhale, committing her scent to memory. He likes her.