Fifty Shades Freed

“I’ll take that one,” I say. 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.

Fuck!

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 quickly 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 efficiently measures out five yards. 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?” I catch her gaze, and her irises dilate as I stare. Yes!

“Books,” she whispers.

“What kind of books?”

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

British literature? Bronte and Austen, I bet. All those romantic hearts and flowers types. Fuck. 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 is checking me out! Fuck me.

“Coveralls,” she blurts out.

It’s the most unexpected thing I’ve heard out of her sweet, smart mouth since the “are you gay” question.

“You wouldn’t want to ruin your clothing.” She gestures to my jeans, embarrassed once more.

“You wouldn’t want to ruin your clothing.” She gestures to my jeans, embarrassed once more.

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

“Um.” She flushes beet red and gazes down at the floor.

“I’ll take some coveralls. Heaven forbid I should ruin any clothing,” I murmur to put her out of her misery. Without a word, she turns and walks briskly up the

aisle, and once again I follow in her enticing wake.

“Do you need anything else?” she says breathlessly, handing me a pair of blue coveralls. She’s mortified, eyes still cast down, face flushed. 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 magazine, and she was devastated that she couldn’t do the interview in person.”

It’s the longest sentence she’s addressed to me 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 some more time with the delectable Miss Steele.

“What sort of photographs does she want?”

She gazes at me for a moment, then shakes her head.

“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 attend a photo shoot?” She ca

I give her a brief nod. You’d be amazed what I’d do to spend more time with you, Miss Steele . . . in fact, so am I.

“Kate will be delighted—if we can find a photographer.” She smiles and her face lights up like a summer dawn. Christ, she’s breathtaking.

“Let me know about tomorrow.” I pull my card out of my wallet. “It has my cell number on it. You’ll need to call before ten in the morning.” And if she doesn’t,

I’ll head on back to Seattle and forget about this stupid venture. The thought depresses me.

“Okay.” She continues to grin.

“Ana!” We both turn as a young man, casually but expensively dressed, appears at the far end of the aisle. He’s all fucking smiles for Miss Anastasia Steele. Who

the hell is this prick?

“Er . . . excuse me for a moment, Mr. Grey.” She walks toward him, and the fucker engulfs her in a gorilla-like hug. My blood runs cold. It’s a primal response.

Get your motherfucking paws off her. I fist my hands and am only slightly mollified when I see her make no move to hug him back.

They fall into a whispered conversation. Shit, maybe Welch’s facts were wrong. Maybe this guy is her boyfriend. He looks the right age, and he can’t take his

greedy little eyes off her. He holds her for a moment at arm’s length, examining her, then stands with his arm leisurely resting on her shoulder. It’s a seemingly

casual gesture, but I know he’s staking a claim and telling me to back off. She seems embarrassed, shifting from foot to foot.

Shit. I should go. Then she says something else to him and moves out of his reach, touching his arm, not his hand. It’s clear they aren’t close. Good.

“Er . . . Paul, this is Christian Grey. Mr. Grey, this is Paul Clayton. His brother owns the place.” She gives me an odd look that I don’t understand and continues,

“I’ve known Paul ever since I’ve worked here, though we don’t see each other that often. He’s back from Princeton where he’s studying business administration.”

The boss’s brother, not a boyfriend. The extent of the relief I feel is unexpected, and it makes me frown. This woman has really gotten under my skin.

“Mr. Clayton.” My tone is deliberately clipped.

“Mr. Grey.” He shakes my hand limply. Wet fucker. “Wait up—not the Christian Grey of Grey Enterprises Holdings?” In a heartbeat I watch him morph from

territorial to obsequious.

Yeah, that’s me, you prick.

“Wow—is there anything I can get you?”

“Anastasia has it covered, Mr. Clayton. She’s been very attentive.” Now fuck off.

“Cool,” he gushes all wide-eyed and deferential. “Catch you later, Ana.”

“Sure, Paul,” she says, and he ambles off, thank Christ. I watch him disappear toward the back of the store.

“Anything else, Mr. Grey?”

“Just these items,” I mutter. Shit, I’m out of time, and I still don’t know if I’m going to see her again. I have to know whether there’s a hope in hell she might

consider what I have in mind. How can I ask her? Am I ready to take on a new submissive, one who knows nothing? Shit. She’s going to need substantial training.

I groan inwardly at all the interesting possibilities this presents . . .fuck me, getting there is going to be half the fun. Will she even be interested? Or do I have this all

wrong?

She heads back to the cashier’s desk and rings up my purchases, all the while keeping her gaze cast down. Look at me, dammit! I want to see her beautiful blue

eyes again and gauge what she’s thinking.

Finally she raises her head. “That will be forty-three dollars, please.”

Is that all?

“Would you like a bag?” she asks, slipping into salesclerk mode as I pass her my Amex.

“Please, Anastasia.” Her name—a beautiful name for a beautiful girl—rolls off my tongue.