Grey: Fifty Shades of Grey Told.by Christian Read Online Free
BOOKS By Eastward Fifty JAMES
Fifty Shades of Grey
L Shades Darker
50 Shades Freed
Grey
Commencement VINTAGE BOOKS EDITION, JUNE 2015
Copyright (c) 2011, 2015 by Fifty Shades Ltd.
All rights reserved. Published in the Us by Vintage Books, a division of Penguin Random Business firm LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada past Penguin Random House of Canada Express, Toronto.
Vintage and colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the production of the writer's imagination or are used fictitiously. Whatsoever resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Portions of this book, including significant parts of the dialogue and east-postal service exchanges, have previously appeared in the author'southward prior works.
ISBN: 9781101946343
eBook ISBN: 9781101946350
Book design past Claudia Martinez
Cover pattern by Sqicedragon and Megan Wilson www.vintagebooks.com
v4.1
prh-vii
This book is dedicated to those readers who asked...
and asked...and asked...and asked for this.
Thank you for all that you lot've done for me.
You stone my world every day.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
* * *
Thanks to:
Anne Messitte for her guidance, good humor, and belief in me. For her generosity with her fourth dimension and for her unstinting effort to untangle my prose, I am forever indebted.
Tony Chirico and Russell Perreault for ever looking out for me, and the fabulous production editorial and design squad who saw this book across the finish line: Amy Brosey, Lydia Buechler, Katherine Hourigan, Andy Hughes, Claudia Martinez, and Megan Wilson.
Niall Leonard for his love, support, and guidance, and for existence the only man who can really, really make me express mirth.
Valerie Hoskins, my agent, without whom I'd still be working in Idiot box. Thank you for everything.
Kathleen Blandino, Ruth Clampett, and Belinda Willis: thanks for the pre-read.
The Lost Girls for their precious friendship and the therapy.
The Bunker Babes for their constant wit, wisdom, support, and friendship.
The FP ladies for help with my Americanisms.
Peter Branston for his help with SFBT.
Brian Brunetti for his guidance in flying a helicopter.
Professor Dawn Carusi for help in navigating the U.Southward. higher pedagogy organization.
Professor Chris Collins for an education in soil science.
Dr. Raina Sluder for her insights into behavioral health.
And last but by no means least, my children. I love yous more than words tin can always say. You bring such joy to my life and to those around you. You are beautiful, funny, bright, compassionate immature men, and I could not be more proud of you.
CONTENTS
* * *
Cover
Other Titles
Title Folio
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Mon, May 9, 2011
Sabbatum, May xiv, 2011
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Friday, May 20, 2011
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Mon, May 23, 2011
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Fri, May 27, 2011
Sat, May 28, 2011
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Monday, May 30, 2011
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Wednesday, June one, 2011
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Friday, June three, 2011
Saturday, June four, 2011
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Monday, June 6, 2011
Tuesday, June seven, 2011
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Virtually the Writer
MONDAY, MAY nine, 2011
* * *
I have three cars. They go fast beyond the floor. So fast. One is cherry-red. One is green. Ane is yellow. I like the green i. Information technology'south the all-time. Mommy likes them, too. I similar when Mommy plays with the cars and me. The red is her best. Today she sits on the burrow staring at the wall. The green auto flies into the rug. The red auto follows. Then the yellow. Crash! But Mommy doesn't see. I do it once again. Crash! Just Mommy doesn't see. I aim the green machine at her feet. But the green car goes under the couch. I tin can't achieve it. My manus is too big for the gap. Mommy doesn't see. I desire my light-green car. But Mommy stays on the burrow staring at the wall. Mommy. My car. She doesn't hear me. Mommy. I pull her mitt and she lies back and closes her eyes. Not now, Maggot. Non now, she says. My green car stays under the burrow. Information technology'southward always under the couch. I can see it. But I can't attain it. My dark-green machine is fuzzy. Covered in gray fur and clay. I want it back. But I can't reach it. I can never achieve it. My light-green car is lost. Lost. And I can never play with information technology again.
I open up my eyes and my dream fades in the early on-morning calorie-free. What the hell was that about? I grasp at the fragments as they recede, but fail to catch any of them.
Dismissing information technology, like I do most mornings, I climb out of bed and discover some newly laundered sweats in my walk-in closet. Outside, a leaden heaven promises rain, and I'm not in the mood to exist rained on during my run today. I head upstairs to my gym, switch on the Tv set for the forenoon business news, and footstep onto the treadmill.
My thoughts stray to the day. I've nil but meetings, though I'thousand seeing my personal trainer later for a workout at my office--Guardhouse is always a welcome claiming.
Maybe I should call Elena?
Yeah. Maybe. We tin can exercise dinner later this week.
I stop the treadmill, breathless, and head downwardly to the shower to starting time another monotonous day.
"TOMORROW," I MUTTER, DISMISSING Claude Bastille as he stands at the threshold of my office.
"Golf game, this week, Grey." Guardhouse grins with easy airs, knowing that his victory on the golf course is assured.
I scowl at him as he turns and leaves. His parting words rub table 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 some other pound of flesh on the golf course. I detest golf, but so much business organization is done on the fairways, I take to endure his lessons there, likewise...and though I hate to admit it, playing against Guardhouse 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 greyness as the conditions. My days are blending together with no distinction, and I need some kind of diversion. I've worked all weekend, and at present, in the connected confines of my office, I'm restless. I shouldn't experience this way, not after several bouts with Bastille. But I do.
I pout. The sobering truth is that the only thing to capture my involvement recently has been my determination to ship ii 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 accomplish for the phone.
Damn. I have to endure an interview with the persistent Miss Kavanagh for the WSU student newspaper. Why the hell did I agree to this? I loathe interviews--inane questions from sick-informed, envious people intent on probing my private life. And she's a pupil. The phone buzzes.
"Yes," I snap at Andrea, as if she's to blame. At to the lowest degree I can keep this interview curt.
"Miss Anastasia Steele is hither to see yous, Mr. Grey."
"Steele? I was expecting Katherine Kavanagh."
"It's Miss Anastasia Steele who's her
e, sir."
I hate the unexpected. "Show her in."
Well, well...Miss Kavanagh is unavailable. I know her father, Eamon, the owner of Kavanagh Media. We've done business together, and he seems like a shrewd operator and a rational human. This interview is a favor to him--1 that I hateful to cash in on later when it suits me. And I have to admit I was vaguely curious well-nigh his daughter, interested to run across if the apple has fallen far from the tree.
A commotion at the door brings me to my anxiety as a whirl of long chestnut hair, pale limbs, and brownish boots dives headfirst into my role. Repressing my natural annoyance at such clumsiness, I hurry over to the daughter who has landed on her easily and knees on the floor. Clasping slim shoulders, I assistance her to her feet.
Clear, embarrassed optics meet mine and halt me in my tracks. They are the about boggling colour, powder blue, and guileless, and for one awful moment, I think she can see right through me and I'm left...exposed. The thought is unnerving, so I dismiss it immediately.
She has a small, sweet face that is blushing now, an innocent stake rose. I wonder briefly if all her peel is like that--flawless--and what information technology would look like pinkish and warmed from the bite of a cane.
Damn.
I terminate my wayward thoughts, alarmed at their direction. What the hell are y'all thinking, Grayness? This girl is much too immature. She gapes at me, and I resist rolling my eyes. Yeah, aye, babe, information technology's merely a face up, and it's only pare deep. I need to dispel that admiring await from those eyes but permit's accept some fun in the process!
"Miss Kavanagh. I'g Christian Gray. Are you all right? Would you like to sit?"
There's that blush again. In command one time more, I report her. She'due south quite bonny--slight, pale, with a mane of dark hair barely contained past a hair tie.
A brunette.
Yes, she'southward bonny. I extend my manus as she stutters the kickoff of a mortified apology and places her hand in mine. Her skin is cool and soft, but her handshake surprisingly firm.
"Miss Kavanagh is indisposed, so she sent me. I promise you don't mind, Mr. Greyness." Her vox is placidity with a hesitant musicality, and she blinks erratically, long lashes fluttering.
Unable to keep the amusement from my voice every bit I call back her less-than-elegant entrance into my office, I inquire who she is.
"Anastasia Steele. I'm studying English literature with Kate, um...Katherine...um...Miss Kavanagh, at WSU Vancouver."
A inconversable, academic type, eh? She looks information technology: poorly dressed, her slight frame hidden beneath a shapeless sweater, an A-line dark-brown brim, and utilitarian boots. Does she have whatsoever sense of style at all? She looks nervously effectually my part--everywhere but at me, I note, with amused irony.
How can this immature woman exist a journalist? She doesn't have an assertive bone in her body. She's flustered, meek...submissive. Bemused at my inappropriate thoughts, I shake my head and wonder if first impressions are reliable. Muttering some platitude, I ask her to sit, so find her discerning gaze appraising my function paintings. Before I can cease myself, I observe I'k explaining them. "A local creative person. Trouton."
"They're lovely. Raising the ordinary to boggling," she says dreamily, lost in the exquisite, fine artistry of Trouton's work. Her profile is delicate--an upturned olfactory organ, soft, full lips--and in her words she has captured my sentiments exactly. Raising the ordinary to extraordinary. It's a not bad ascertainment. Miss Steele is bright.
I concur and watch, fascinated, as that flush creeps slowly over her skin once again. As I sit down contrary her, I endeavour to determent my thoughts. She fishes some crumpled sheets of paper and a digital recorder out of her large bag. She's all thumbs, dropping the damned matter twice on my Bauhaus coffee tabular array. It'southward obvious she's never done this earlier, simply for some reason I can't fathom, I find it amusing. Under normal circumstances her maladroitness would irritate the hell out of me, but now I hibernate 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 assist of a riding crop. Adeptly used, it tin bring even the near skittish to heel. The errant thought makes me shift in my chair. She peeks up at me and bites downwards on her full bottom lip.
Fuck! How did I not discover how inviting that mouth is?
"South-Distressing, I'm non used to this."
I tin tell, babe, but right now I don't requite a damn because I can't take my eyes off your rima oris.
"Take all the time y'all demand, Miss Steele." I need another moment to marshal my wayward thoughts.
Greyness...end this, now.
"Do you mind if I record your answers?" she asks, her face candid and expectant.
I want to laugh. "After you've taken so much trouble to set upwardly the recorder, y'all ask me at present?"
She blinks, her eyes large and lost for a moment, and I'm overcome past an unfamiliar twinge of guilt.
Stop beingness such a shit, Grey. "No, I don't mind." I don't desire to be responsible for that expect.
"Did Kate, I mean, Miss Kavanagh, explain what the interview was for?"
"Yes, to appear in the graduation event of the pupil newspaper, every bit I shall exist giving the commencement address at this twelvemonth's graduation ceremony." Why the hell I've agreed to do that, I don't know. Sam in PR tells me that WSU's environmental sciences department needs the publicity in order to attract additional funding to match the grant I've given them, and Sam volition go to any lengths for media exposure.
Miss Steele blinks once more, every bit if this is news to her--and she looks disapproving. Hasn't she done whatever background work for this interview? She should know this. The idea cools my blood. It's...displeasing, not what I await from someone who'due south imposing on my time.
"Good. I have some questions, Mr. Grey." She tucks a lock of hair backside her ear, distracting me from my badgerer.
"I idea you might," I say dryly. Let'south make her squirm. Obligingly, she does, and then pulls herself upright and squares her pocket-sized shoulders. She ways business. Leaning forward, she presses the beginning button on the recorder 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?"
Surely she can do ameliorate than this. What a dull question. Not one iota of originality. It'southward disappointing. I trot out my usual response about having exceptional people working for me. People I trust, insofar as I trust anyone, and pay well--blah, blah, apathetic...Merely Miss Steele, the uncomplicated fact is, I'm brilliant at what I do. For me it's like falling off a log. Buying ailing, mismanaged companies and fixing them, keeping some or, if they're really broken, stripping their assets and selling them off to the highest bidder. Information technology'southward only a question of knowing the deviation betwixt the two, and invariably it comes down to the people in accuse. To succeed in business you lot demand good people, and I can judge a person, better than about.
"Maybe you lot're simply lucky," she says quietly.
Lucky? A frisson of annoyance runs through me. Lucky? How dare she? She looks unassuming and placidity, simply this question? No one has ever suggested that I was lucky. Hard work, bringing people with me, keeping a close lookout on them, and 2d-guessing them if I demand to, and if they aren't up to the task, ditching them. That's what I do, and I practice information technology well. It's nothing to practice with luck! Well, to hell with that. Flaunting my erudition, I quote the words of Andrew Carnegie, my favorite industrialist. "The growth and development of people is the highest calling of leadership."
"You sound like a control freak," she says, and she'south perfectly serious.
What the hell? Maybe she can see through me.
"Control" is my middle proper name, sweetheart.
I glare at her, hoping to intimidate her. "Oh, I exercise control in all things, Miss Steele." And I'd similar to practice it over you, correct hither, correct now.
That attractive chroma steals across her face, 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
experience that you take immense power?" she asks in a soft, soothing voice, but she arches a frail brow with a look that conveys her censure. Is she deliberately trying to goad me? Is information technology her questions, her attitude, or the fact that I observe her attractive that's pissing me off? My annoyance grows.
"I employ over forty thousand people. That gives me a certain sense of responsibleness--power, if yous will. If I were to decide I was no longer interested in the telecommunications business and sell, twenty thousand people would struggle to brand their mortgage payments after a month or so."
Her mouth pops open at my response. That'due south more than like it. Suck it upward, babe. I experience my equilibrium returning.
"Don't y'all have a board to answer to?"
"I own my company. I don't have to answer to a board." She should know this.
"And do you accept whatsoever interests outside your work?" she continues hastily, correctly gauging my reaction. She knows I'm pissed, and for some inexplicable reason this pleases me.
"I have varied interests, Miss Steele. Very varied." Images of her in contrasted positions in my playroom flash through my mind: shackled on the cross, spread-eagled on the 4-poster, splayed over the whipping bench. And behold--at that place's that blush again. It'due south like a defense mechanism.
"Merely if you piece of work and then hard, what do you lot exercise to arctic out?"
"Chill out?" Those words out of her smart mouth sound odd but amusing. Besides, when exercise I get fourth dimension to chill out? She has no idea what I practice. But she looks at me again with those ingenuous big eyes, and to my surprise I find myself considering her question. What practice I practice 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.
"Y'all invest in manufacturing. Why, specifically?"
"I similar 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 tin I say?" They send food around the planet.
"That sounds like your middle talking, rather than logic and facts."
Heart? Me? Oh no, baby.
My heart was savaged beyond recognition a long time agone. "Perhaps. Though there are people who'd say I don't have a center."
"Why would they say that?"
Grey: Fifty Shades of Grey Told.by Christian Read Online Free
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