Subject:Kinky Fuckery

Date:June 18, 2011 13:15

To:Anastasia Steele

What aspect was most mind-blowing?

I’m taking notes.

Christian Grey

Famished and Wasting Away After the Mornings Exertions CEO, Grey Enterprises Hold-

ings Inc.

PS: I love your signature

PPS: What happened to the art of conversation?

From:Anastasia Steele

Subject:Famished?

Date:June 18, 2011 13:18

To:Christian Grey

Dear Mr. Grey

May I draw your attention to the first line of my previous e-mail informing you that your

lunch is indeed almost ready . . . so none of this famished and wasting away nonsense.

With regard to the mind-blowing aspects of the kinky fuckery . . . frankly—all of it. I’d be

interested in reading your notes. And I like my bracketed signature, too.

A x

(Your fiancée)

PS: Since when have you been so loquacious? And you’re on the phone!

I press send and look up, and he’s standing in front of me, smirking. Before I can say

anything, he bounds around the kitchen island, sweeps me up in his arms, and kisses me

soundly.

“That is all, Miss Steele,” he says, releasing me, and he saunters—in his jeans, bare

feet and untucked white shirt—back to his office, leaving me breathless.

I’ve made a watercress, cilantro, and sour cream dip to accompany the salmon, and I’ve

set the breakfast bar. I hate interrupting him while he’s working, but now I stand in the

doorway of his office. He’s still on the phone, all thoroughly fucked hair and bright gray

eyes—a visually nourishing feast. He looks up when he sees me and doesn’t take his eyes

off me. He frowns slightly, and I don’t know if it’s at me or because of his conversation.

“Just let them in and leave them alone. Do you understand, Mia?” he hisses and rolls

his eyes. “Good.”

I mime eating, and he grins at me and nods.

“I’ll see you later.” He hangs up. “One more call?” he asks.

“Sure.”

“That dress is very short,” he adds.

“You like it?” I give him a quick twirl. It’s one of Caroline Acton’s purchases. A soft

turquoise sundress, probably more suitable for the beach, but it’s such a lovely day on so

many levels. He frowns and my face falls.

“You look fantastic in it, Ana. I just don’t want anyone else to see you like that.”

“Oh!” I scowl at him. “We’re at home, Christian. No one but the staff.”

His mouth twists, and either he’s trying to hide his amusement or he really doesn’t

think that’s funny. But eventually he nods, reassured. I shake my head at him—he’s actu-

ally being serious? I head back to the kitchen.

Five minutes later, he’s back in front of me, holding the phone.

“I have Ray for you,” he murmurs, his eyes wary.

All the air leaves my body at once. I take the phone and cover the mouthpiece.

“You told him!” I hiss. Christian nods, and his eyes widen at my obvious look of dis-

tress. Shit!I take a deep breath. “Hi, Dad.”

“Christian has just asked me if he can marry you,” Ray says.

Oh Shit.The silence stretches between us as I desperately think what to say. Ray as

usual stays silent, giving me no clue as to his reaction to this news.

“What did you say?” I crack first.

“I said I wanted to talk to you. It’s kind of sudden, don’t you think, Annie? You’ve not

known him long. I mean, he’s a nice guy, knows his fishing . . . but so soon?” His voice is

calm and measured.

“Yes. It is sudden . . . hang on.” Hastily, I leave the kitchen area away from Christian’s

anxious gaze and head toward the great window. The doors to the balcony are open, and I

step out into the sunshine. I can’t quite walk to the edge. It’s just too far up.

“I know it’s sudden and all—but . . . well, I love him. He loves me. He wants to marry

me, and there’ll never be anyone else for me.” I flush thinking this is probably the most

intimate conversation I have ever had with my stepfather.

Ray is silent on the other end of the phone.

“Have you told your mother?”

“No.”

“Annie . . . I know he’s all kinds of rich and eligible, but marriage? It’s such a big step.

You’re sure?”

“He’s my happily ever after,” I whisper.

“Whoa.” Ray says after a moment, his tone softer.

“He’s everything.”

“Annie, Annie, Annie. You’re such a headstrong young woman. I hope to God you

know what you’re doing. Hand me back to him, will you?”

“Sure, Dad, and will you give me away at the wedding?” I ask quietly.

“Oh, honey.” His voice cracks, and he’s quiet for a few moments, the emotion in his

voice bringing tears to my eyes. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” he says even-

tually.

Oh, Ray. I love you so much . . . I swallow, to keep from crying. “Thank you, Dad. I’ll

hand you back to Christian. Be gentle with him. I love him,” I whisper.

I think Ray is smiling on the other end of the line, but it’s hard to tell. It’s always hard

to tell with Ray.

“Sure thing, Annie. And come and visit this old man and bring that Christian with you.”

I march back into the room—pissed at Christian for not warning me—and hand him

the phone, my expression letting him know just how pissed I am. He’s amused as he takes

the phone and heads back into his study.

Two minutes later, he reappears.

“I have your stepfather’s rather begrudging blessing,” he says proudly, so proudly, in

fact, that it makes me giggle, and he grins at me. He’s acting like he’s just negotiated a

major new merger or acquisition, which I suppose on one level, he has.

“Damn, you’re a good cook, woman.” Christian swallows his last mouthful and raises his

glass of white wine to me. I blossom under his praise, and it occurs to me I’ll only get to

cook for him on weekends. I frown. I enjoy cooking. Perhaps I should have made him a

cake for his birthday. I check my watch. I still have time.

“Ana?” He interrupts my thoughts. “Why did you ask me not to take your photo?” His

question startles me all the more because his voice is deceptively soft.

Oh . . . shit.The photos. I stare down at my empty plate, twisting my fingers in my lap.

What can I say? I’d promised myself not to mention that I’d found his version of Readers’

Wives.

“Ana,” he snaps. “What is it?” He makes me jump, and his voice commands me to look

at him. When did I think he didn’t intimidate me?

“I found your photos,” I whisper.

His eyes widen in shock. “You’ve been in the safe?” he asks, incredulous.

“Safe? No. I didn’t know you had a safe.”

He frowns. “I don’t understand.”

“In your closet. The box. I was looking for your tie, and the box was under your

jeans . . . the ones you normally wear in the playroom. Except today.” I flush.

He gapes at me, appalled, and nervously runs his hand through his hair as he processes

this information. He rubs his chin, lost in thought, but he can’t mask the perplexed annoy-

ance etched on his face. Abruptly he shakes his head, exasperated—but amused, too—and

a faint smile of admiration kisses the corner of his mouth. He steeples his hands in front of

him and focuses on me once more.

“It’s not what you think. I’d forgotten all about them. That box has been moved. Those

photographs belong in my safe.”

“Who moved them?” I whisper.

He swallows. “There’s only one person who could have done that.”

“Oh. Who? And what do you mean, ‘it’s not what I think’?”

He sighs and tilts his head to one side, and I think he’s embarrassed. So he should be!

My subconscious snarls.