50 Shades of Grey 2 Read Online

  BOOKS BY Due east 50 JAMES

Fifty Shades of Grayness

Fifty Shades Darker

Fifty Shades Freed

Grey

Darker

FIRST VINTAGE BOOKS EDITION, NOVEMBER 2017

Copyright (c) 2011, 2017 past Fifty Shades Ltd.

All rights reserved. Published in the Usa by Vintage Books, a division of Penguin Random Firm LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada by Penguin Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

Vintage and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the production of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely casual.

Portions of this book, including pregnant portions of the dialogue and email exchanges, have previously appeared in the author's prior works.

ISBN 9780385543910

Ebook ISBN 9780385543989

Comprehend design by Sqicedragon and Megan Wilson Cover photograph: (c) Petar Djordjevic / Penguin Random Business firm world wide web.vintagebooks.com

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Contents

* * *

Cover

Too by Eastward Fifty James

Title Folio

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Thursday, June nine, 2011

Friday, June ten, 2011

Saturday, June 11, 2011

Lord's day, June 12, 2011

Monday, June 13, 2011

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Thursday, June xvi, 2011

Friday, June 17, 2011

Sabbatum, June 18, 2011

Near the Author

For my readers.

Thanks for all that you've done for me.

This book is for you.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

* * *

Cheers to:

Everyone at Vintage, for your dedication and professionalism. I am constantly inspired by your expertise, adept humor, and love for the written word.

Anne Messitte, for your religion in me. I will forever be indebted to y'all.

Tony Chirico, Russell Perreault, and Paul Bogaards for your invaluable support.

The wonderful production, editorial, and blueprint team who brought this project together: Megan Wilson, Lydia Buechler, Kathy Hourigan, Andy Hughes, Chris Zucker, and Amy Brosey.

Niall Leonard, for your honey, support, and guidance, and for being less grumpy.

Valerie Hoskins, my agent--cheers for everything every day.

Kathleen Blandino, for the pre-read, and for all things Web.

Brian Brunetti, once once again, for your invaluable insight into helicopter accidents.

Laura Edmonston for sharing your cognition of the Pacific Northwest.

Professor Chris Collins, for enlightening me about soil science.

Ruth, Debra, Helena, and Liv for the encouragement and word challenges, and for making me get this done.

Dawn and Daisy, for your friendship and advice.

Andrea, BG, Becca, Bee, Britt, Catherine, Jada, Jill, Kellie, Kelly, Leis, Liz, Nora, Raizie, QT, Susi--how many years is it now? And we're still going strong. Cheers for the Americanisms.

And all my author and book world friends--you know who y'all are--you lot inspire me every day.

And lastly, cheers to my children. I love you unconditionally. I will always be and so proud of the wonderful young men y'all have go. You bring me such joy.

Stay gilt. Both of you.

THURSDAY, JUNE ix, 2011

* * *

I sit. Waiting. My eye is thumping. Information technology'due south 5:36 and I stare through the privacy drinking glass of my Audi at the front door of her building. I know I'thou early, but I've been looking forrard to this moment all day.

I'grand going to see her.

I shift in my seat in the rear of the car. The atmosphere feels stifling, and though I'm trying to remain calm, the anticipation and anxiety are knotting my tum and pressing down on my chest. Taylor sits in the driver'southward seat, staring straight ahead, wordless, looking his usual equanimous self, while I can barely breathe. It's irritating.

Damn it. Where is she?

She'due south inside--inside Seattle Independent Publishing. Set back beyond a wide, open up sidewalk, the building is shabby and in demand of renovation; the company'due south name is etched haphazardly in the glass, and the frosted consequence on the window is peeling. The business behind those closed doors could be an insurance company or an accounting firm--they're not displaying their wares. Well, that's something I can rectify when I have control. SIP is mine. Near. I've signed the revised heads of agreement.

Taylor clears his throat and his optics sprint to mine in the rearview mirror. "I'll expect outside, sir," he says, surprising me, and he climbs out of the motorcar earlier I tin can end him.

Maybe he's more than afflicted by my tension than I thought. Am I that obvious? Perchance he'southward tense. But why? Maybe it'south because he's had to deal with my always-changing moods this past week, and I know I've not been easy.

But today has been unlike. Hopeful. Information technology's the beginning productive day I've had since she left me, or and then it feels. My optimism has driven me through my meetings with enthusiasm. 10 hours until I come across her. Nine. 8. Seven...My patience has been tested by the clock as information technology ticks closer to my reunion with Miss Anastasia Steele.

And at present that I'm sitting hither, alone and waiting, the determination and confidence I've enjoyed all day are evaporating.

Mayhap she's changed her heed.

Volition information technology exist a reunion? Or am I only the costless ride to Portland?

I check my watch again.

5:38.

Shit. Why does time move so slowly?

I contemplate sending her an due east-mail service to let her know I'm exterior, but every bit I fumble for my phone, I realize I don't desire to have my optics off the front door. Leaning back, I run through her recent e-mails in my mind. I know them past heart, all of them friendly and curtailed but without a hint that she'southward been missing me.

Maybe I am the costless ride.

I dismiss the thought and stare at the doorway, willing her to appear.

Anastasia Steele, I'grand waiting.

The door opens and my heart soars into overdrive just and so chop-chop stutters with disappointment. It'south not her.

Damn.

She has always kept me waiting. A humorless smile tugs at my lips: waiting at Clayton'south, at The Heathman later on the photograph shoot, and again when I sent her the Thomas Hardy books.

Tess...

I wonder if she notwithstanding has them. She wanted to give them back to me; she wanted to give them to a clemency.

I don't want anything that volition remind me of you.

The image of Ana leaving surfaces in my mind's eye: her lamentable, cadaverous face stricken with hurt and confusion. The memory is unwelcome. Painful.

I made her that miserable. I took everything too far, too speedily. And information technology fills me with a despair that has become all as well familiar since she left. Endmost my optics, I endeavor to center myself, merely I'yard confronted by my deepest, darkest fear: she's met someone else. She's sharing her little white bed and her beautiful body with some fucking stranger.

Damn it, Grey. Stay positive.

Don't get there. All is not lost. You'll exist seeing her before long. Your plans are in place. You are going to win her back. Opening my optics, I stare at the forepart door through the window, my mood now as nighttime as the Audi's tinted drinking glass. More people leave the building, merely nonetheless no Ana.

Where is she?

Taylor is pacing outside and glancing toward the forepart door. Christ, he looks equally nervous as I experience. What the hell is it to him?

My watch says 5:43. She'll be out in a moment. I have a deep breath and tug at my cuffs, then try to

straighten my tie, only to detect I'm non wearing one. Hell. Raking my manus through my hair, I try to dismiss my doubts, but they continue to plague me. Am I just a free ride to her? Volition she have missed me? Will she want me back? Is there someone else? I have no thought. This is worse than waiting for her in the Marble Bar, and the irony is not lost on me. I thought that was the biggest deal I'd e'er negotiate with her and that didn't turn out the way I expected. Nothing turns out as I await with Miss Anastasia Steele. Panic knots my tum once more. Today, I have to negotiate a bigger deal.

I want her back.

She said she loved me...

My middle rate spikes in response to the adrenaline that floods my body.

No. No. Don't call up most that. She can't feel that way about me.

Calm down, Grey. Focus.

I glance again at the entrance to Seattle Independent Publishing and she's at that place, walking toward me.

Fuck.

Ana.

Shock sucks the breath from my body similar a kick to the solar plexus. Beneath a black jacket she'due south wearing ane of my favorite dresses, the regal one, and black high-heeled boots. Her hair, burnished by the early-evening sun, sways in the breeze equally she moves. But it'southward not her vesture or her hair that holds my attending. Her face is pale, about translucent. There are dark circles beneath her eyes, and she'due south thinner.

Thinner.

Guilt lances through me.

Christ.

She's suffered, as well.

My business organisation at her appearance turns to anger.

No. Fury.

She hasn't been eating. She'due south lost, what, 5 or six pounds in the last few days? She glances at some random guy behind her and he gives her a broad smile. He's a skilful-looking son of a bitch, full of himself. Asshole. Their carefree exchange just fuels my rage. He watches her with blatant male appreciation as she walks toward the car, and my wrath increases with each of her steps.

Taylor opens the door and offers her his hand to aid her climb within. And suddenly she is sitting beside me.

"When did y'all last eat?" I snap, struggling to keep my composure. Her bluish eyes peer up at me, stripping me bare and leaving me as raw every bit they did the outset time I met her.

"Hullo, Christian. Yep, it's dainty to see you lot, too," she says.

What. The. Fuck.

"I don't want your smart mouth now. Reply me."

She stares at her hands in her lap, so that I've no idea what she's thinking, then trots out some lame excuse about eating a yogurt and a banana.

That's non eating!

I try, actually try, to go along a rein on my temper.

"When did you concluding have a existent meal?" I press her, but she ignores me, looking out the window. Taylor pulls abroad from the curb, and Ana waves to the prick who followed her out of the edifice.

"Who'south that?"

"My boss."

And so that's Jack Hyde. I recall the employee details I flipped through this morning time: from Detroit, scholarship to Princeton, worked his way up at a publishing firm in New York but has moved on every few years, working his way across the state. He never retains an assistant--they don't concluding more than than three months. He's on my watch list, and I'll have my security adviser Welch observe out more.

Focus on the matter at hand, Greyness.

"Well? Your last repast?"

"Christian, that really is none of your concern," she whispers.

"Whatever you lot practise concerns me. Tell me." Don't write me off, Anastasia. Delight.

I'm the gratis ride.

She sighs in frustration and rolls her eyes to piss me off. And I see it--a soft smile pulling at the corner of her oral cavity. She'due south trying not to laugh. She's trying not to laugh at me. Afterward all the heartache I've suffered, it'southward so refreshing that it cracks through my anger. It'due south and then Ana. I notice myself mirroring her, and I effort to mask my smile.

"Well?" My tone is much gentler.

"Pasta alla Vongole, last Fri," she answers, her vocalism subdued.

Jesus H. Christ, she's not eaten since our terminal meal together! I want to pull her across my knee, right now, here in the dorsum of the SUV--only I know I can't ever bear upon her like that again.

What do I do with her?

She looks downward, examining her hands, her face paler and sadder than it was before. And I drink her in, trying to fathom what to exercise. An unwelcome emotion blooms in my breast, threatening to overwhelm me merely I push information technology bated. As I study her it becomes achingly clear that my biggest fear is unfounded. I know she didn't become drunk and meet someone. Looking at how she is at present, I know she's been on her own, tucked upward in her bed, weeping her eye out. The thought is at in one case comforting and sorry. I'thousand responsible for her misery.

Me.

I'm the monster. I did this to her. How can I ever win her dorsum?

"I run into." The words feel inadequate. My chore suddenly feels too daunting. She will never want me back.

Get a grip, Grey.

I clammy down my fearfulness and make a plea. "You look like you've lost at least five pounds, mayhap more since then. Delight eat, Anastasia." I'm helpless. What else can I say?

She sits all the same, lost in her ain thoughts, staring straight alee, and I have time to study her contour. She's as elfin and sweet and equally cute equally I recall. I want to reach out and stroke her cheek. Feel how soft her peel is...check that she'due south real. I plow my body toward her, itching to bear on her.

"How are you?" I inquire, because I want to hear her voice.

"If I told you lot I was fine, I'd exist lying."

Damn. I'chiliad right. She'south been suffering--and it's all my mistake. Just her words give me a modicum of promise. Mayhap she's missed me. Maybe? Encouraged, I cling to that idea. "Me, too. I miss you." I reach for her hand because I tin't live another minute without touching her. Her hand feels small-scale and ice-cold engulfed in the warmth of mine.

"Christian. I--" She stops, her voice cracking, but she doesn't pull her mitt from mine.

"Ana, please. We need to talk."

"Christian. I...please. I've cried so much," she whispers, and her words, and the sight of her fighting dorsum tears, pierce what'south left of my middle.

"Oh, babe, no." I tug her hand and before she can protestation I lift her into my lap, circling her with my arms.

Oh, the experience of her.

"I've missed you so much, Anastasia." She'southward likewise calorie-free, too delicate, and I want to shout in frustration, simply instead I bury my nose in her hair, overwhelmed by her intoxicating scent. It's reminiscent of happier times: An orchard in the fall. Laughter at home. Bright eyes, full of sense of humour and mischief...and desire. My sweet, sweet Ana.

Mine.

At first, she'southward stiff with resistance, but afterward a beat she relaxes confronting me, her caput resting on my shoulder. Emboldened, I take a take a chance and, closing my eyes, I kiss her pilus. She doesn't struggle out of my hold, and it's a relief. I've yearned for this woman. But I must be careful. I don't want her to bolt over again. I agree her, enjoying the feel of her in my arms and this uncomplicated moment of tranquillity.

Only it'due south a brief interlude--Taylor reaches the Seattle downtown helipad in record fourth dimension.

"Come." With reluctance, I lift her off my lap. "Nosotros're hither."

Perplexed eyes search mine.

"Helipad--on the top of this building." How did she think we were getting to Portland? It would take at least iii hours to drive. Taylor opens her door and I climb out on my side.

"I should give you back your handkerchief," she says to Taylor with a coy smiling.

"Continue information technology, Miss Steele, with my best wishes."

What the hell is going on between them?

"Nine?" I interrupt, not but to remind him what time he'll pick us up in Portland, simply to stop him from talking to Ana.

"Yeah, sir," he says quietly.

Damn right. She's my girl. Handkerchiefs are my business, not his.

Flashes of her airsickness on the ground, me holding back her hair, run through my caput. I gave her my handkerchief then. I never got it back. And later that dark I watched her slumber beside me. Possibly she still has it. Maybe she however uses it.

>   Stop. Now. Gray.

Taking her hand--the chill has gone, but her paw is still cool--I lead her into the building. As we reach the elevator, I recollect our encounter at The Heathman. That beginning kiss.

Yeah. That first kiss.

The thought wakes my body.

But the doors open up, distracting me, and reluctantly I release her to conductor her inside.

The elevator is small, and we're no longer touching. Only I sense her.

All of her.

Here. At present.

Shit. I swallow.

Is it because she's then near? Darkening eyes look up at mine.

Oh, Ana.

Her proximity is arousing. She inhales sharply and looks at the floor.

"I feel it, besides." I reach for her hand again and caress her knuckles with my thumb. She looks upward at me, her fathomless eyes clouding with want.

Fuck. I want her.

She bites her lip.

"Please don't bite your lip, Anastasia." My vocalisation is low, total of longing. Will I e'er want her like this? I want to kiss her, press her into the lift wall like I did during our showtime kiss. I want to fuck her hither, and brand her mine again. She blinks, her lips gently parted, and I suppress a groan. How does she practise this? Derail me with a look? I am used to control--and I'thousand practically drooling over her considering her teeth are pressing into her lip. "You know what it does to me." And right now, baby, I want to accept you in this elevator, merely I don't think y'all'll let me.

The doors slide open up and the rush of cold air brings me back to the now. We're on the roof, and although the solar day has been warm, the current of air has picked up. Anastasia shivers beside me. I wrap my arm around her and she huddles in to my side. She feels also slight, but her petite frame fits perfectly nether my arm.

See? We fit together and so well, Ana.

We head out onto the helipad toward Charlie Tango. The rotors are slowly spinning--she's ready for liftoff. Stephan, my pilot, runs toward us. We shake easily, and I keep Anastasia tucked under my arm.

"Ready to go, sir. She's all yours!" he roars in a higher place the sound of the helicopter engines.

"All checks done?"

"Yes, sir."

"You'll collect her around 8 30?"

"Yes, sir."

"Taylor's waiting for y'all out forepart."

"Thanks, Mr. Grey. Safety flight to Portland. Ma'am." He salutes Anastasia and heads to the waiting elevator. We duck down under the rotors and I open the door, taking her manus to aid her climb aboard.

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