Fifty Shades Freed

Showtime, Grey. Let’s have some fun. “Miss Kavanagh? I’m Christian Grey. Are you all right? Would you like to sit?”

There’s that blush again. In command once more, I study her. She’s quite attractive, in a gauche way—slight, pale, with a mane of mahogany hair barely

contained by a hair tie. A brunette. Yeah, she’s attractive. I extend my hand, and she stutters the begi

contained by a hair tie. A brunette. Yeah, she’s attractive. I extend my hand, and she stutters the begi

mine. Her skin is cool and soft, but her handshake surprisingly firm.

“Miss Kavanagh is indisposed, so she sent me. I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Grey.” Her voice is quiet with a hesitant musicality, and she blinks erratically, long

lashes fluttering over those big blue eyes.

Unable to keep the amusement from my voice as I recall her less-than-elegant entrance into my office, I ask who she is.

“Anastasia Steele. I’m studying English Literature with Kate, um . . . Katherine . . . um . . . Miss Kavanagh at Washington State.”

A nervous, bashful, bookish type, eh? She looks it; hideously dressed, hiding her slight frame beneath a shapeless sweater and an A-line brown skirt. Christ, does

she have no dress sense 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? She doesn’t have an assertive bone in her body. She’s all charmingly flustered, meek, mild . . . submissive. I shake

my head, bemused at where my inappropriate thoughts are going. Muttering some platitude, I ask her to sit, then notice her discerning gaze appraising my office

paintings. Before I can stop myself, I find I’m explaining them. “A local artist. Trouton.”

“They’re lovely. Raising the ordinary to extraordinary,” she says dreamily, lost in the exquisite, fine artistry of my paintings. Her profile is delicate—an upturned

nose, soft, full lips—and in her words she has mirrored my sentiments exactly. “The ordinary raised to extraordinary.” It’s a keen observation. Miss Steele is

bright.

I mutter my agreement and watch that flush creep slowly over her skin once more. As I sit down opposite her, I try to bridle my thoughts.

She fishes a crumpled sheet of paper and a mini-disc recorder out of her overly large bag. Mini-disc recorder? Didn’t those go out with VHS tapes? Christ—she’s

all thumbs, dropping the damned thing twice on my Bauhaus coffee table. She’s obviously never done this before, but for some reason I can’t fathom, I find it

amusing. Normally this kind of fumbling maladroitness irritates the fuck 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 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. Fuck me! How did I not notice that mouth

before?

“Sorry, I’m not used to this.”

I can tell, baby—my thought is ironic—but right now I don’t give a fuck, because I can’t take my eyes off your mouth.

“Take all the time you need, Miss Steele.” I need yet another moment to marshal my wayward thoughts. Grey . . . stop this, now.

“Do you mind if I record your answers?” she asks, her face candid and expectant.

I want to laugh. Oh, thank Christ.

“After you’ve taken so much trouble to set up the recorder, you ask me now?” She blinks, her eyes large and lost for a moment, and I feel an unfamiliar twinge of

guilt. Stop being such a shit, Grey.

“No, I don’t mind,” I mutter, not wanting to be responsible for that look.

“Did Kate—I mean Miss Kavanagh—explain what the interview was for?”

“Yes, to appear in the graduation issue of the student newspaper as I shall be conferring the degrees at this year’s graduation ceremony.” Why the fuck I’ve

agreed to do that, I don’t know. Sam in PR tells me it’s an honor, and the environmental science department in Vancouver needs the publicity in order to attract

additional funding to match the grant I’ve given them.

Miss Steele blinks, all big blue eyes once more, as if my words are a surprise and fuck—she looks disapproving! Hasn’t she done any background work for this

interview? She should know this. The thought cools my blood. It’s . . . displeasing, not what I expect from her or anyone I give my time to.

“Good. I have some questions, Mr. Grey.” She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, distracting me from my a

“I thought you might,” I mutter dryly. Let’s make her squirm. Obligingly she squirms, then pulls herself together, sitting up straight and squaring her small shoulders. Leaning forward she presses the start button on the mini-disc, and frowns as she glances down at her crumpled notes.

“You’re very young to have amassed such an empire. To what do you owe your success?”

Oh Christ! Surely she can do better than this? What a fucking dull question. Not one iota of originality. It’s disappointing. I trot out my usual response about

having exceptional people in the U.S. working for me. People I trust, insofar as I trust anyone, and pay well—blah, blah, blah . . . But Miss Steele, the simple fact

is, I’m a fucking genius at what I do. For me it’s like falling off a log. Buying ailing, mismanaged companies and fixing them, or if they’re really broken, stripping

their assets and selling them off to the highest bidder. It’s simply a question of knowing the difference between the two, and invariably it comes down to the people

in charge. To succeed in business you need good people, and I can judge a person, better than most.

“Maybe you’re just lucky,” she says quietly.

Lucky? A frisson of a

has ever asked me if I was lucky. Hard work, bringing people with me, keeping a close watch on them, second-guessing them if I need to; and if they aren’t up to

the task, ruthlessly ditching them. That’s what I do, and I do it well. It’s nothing to do with luck! Well, fuck that. Flaunting my erudition, I quote the words of my

favorite American industrialist to her.

“You sound like a control freak,” she says, and she’s perfectly serious.

What the fuck?

Maybe those guileless eyes can see though me. Control is my middle name.

I glare at her. “Oh, I exercise control in all things, Miss Steele.” And I’d like to exercise it over you, right here, right now.

Her eyes widen. That attractive blush steals across her face once more, and she bites that lip again. I ramble on, trying to distract myself from her mouth.

“Besides, immense power is acquired by assuring yourself, in your secret reveries, that you were born to control things.”

“Do you feel that you have immense power?” she asks in a soft soothing voice, but she arches her delicate brow, revealing the censure in her eyes. My

a

“I employ over forty thousand people, Miss Steele. 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 up, twenty thousand people would struggle to make their mortgage payments after a month or so.”

Her mouth pops open at my response. That’s more like it. Suck it up, Miss Steele. I feel my equilibrium returning.