Fifty Shades Trilogy 01 - Fifty Shades of Grey

be more comfortable taking them,” I stammer.
    “Thank you.” He grabs my backpack and my newly acquired wheelie case for the clothes my mother has bought me. “This way, ma’am.”
    I sigh. He’s so polite. I remember, though I would like to erase it from my memory, that this man has bought me underwear. In fact – and the thought unsettles me – he’s the only man who’s ever bought me underwear. Even Ray’s never had to endure that hardship. We walk in silence to the black Audi SUV outside in the airport parking lot, and he holds the door open for me. I clamber in, wondering if wearing such a short skirt for the return to Seattle was a good idea. It was cool and welcome in Georgia. Here I feel exposed. Once Taylor has stowed my bags in the trunk, we set off for Escala.
    The journey is slow, caught up in rush hour traffic. Taylor keeps his eyes on the road ahead. Taciturn does not begin to describe him.
    I can bear the silence no longer.
    “How’s Christian, Taylor?”
    “Mr. Grey is preoccupied, Miss Steele.”
    Oh, this must be ‘the situation.’ I am mining a seam of gold.
    “Preoccupied?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    I frown at Taylor, and he glances at me in the rear-view mirror, our eyes meet. He’s saying no more. Jeez, he can be as tightlipped as the control freak himself.
    “Is he okay?”
    “I believe so, ma’am.”
    “Are you more comfortable calling me Miss Steele?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “Oh, okay.”
    Well, that curtails our conversation, and we continue in silence. I begin to think that Taylor’s recent slip, when he told me that Christian had been hell on wheels, was an anomaly. Perhaps he’s embarrassed about it, worried that he’s been disloyal. The silence is suffocating.
    “Could you put some music on, please?”
    “Certainly, ma’am. What would you like to hear?”
    “Something soothing.”
    I see a smile play on Taylor’s lips as our eyes meet briefly again in the mirror.
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    He pushes a few buttons on the steering wheel, and the gentle strains of Pachelbel’s canon fills the space between us. Oh yes … this is what I need.
    “Thank you.” I sit back as we drive slowly but steadily along the I-5 into Seattle.
    Twenty-five minutes later he drops me outside the impressive façade that is the entrance to Escala.
    “In you go, ma’am,” he says, holding the door open for me. “I’ll bring up your luggage.” His expression is soft, warm, avuncular even.
    Jeez … Uncle Taylor, what a thought.
    “Thank you for meeting me.”
    “It’s a pleasure, Miss Steele.” He smiles, and I head into the building. The doorman nods and waves.
    As I ride up to the thirtieth floor, a thousand butterflies stretch their wings and flutter erratically in my stomach. Why am I so nervous? And I know it’s because I have no idea what kind of mood Christian’s going to be in when I arrive. My inner goddess is hopeful for one type of mood; my subconscious, like me, is fraught with nerves.
    The elevator doors open, and I’m in the foyer. It is so strange not to be met by Taylor. Of course, he’s parking the car. In the great room, Christian is on his BlackBerry talking quietly as he stares out of the glass doors at the early evening Seattle skyline. He’s wearing a gray suit with the jacket undone, and he’s running his hand through his hair. He’s agitated, tense even. Oh no – what’s wrong? Agitated or not, he’s still beyond beautiful. How can he look so… arresting? It’s such a pleasure to stand and drink in the sheer sight of him.
    “No trace… Okay… Yes.” He turns and sees me, and his whole demeanor changes. From tension to relief to something else: a look that calls directly to my inner goddess, a look of sensual carnality, gray eyes blazing.
    My mouth goes dry and desire blooms in my body… whoa.
    “Keep me informed,” he snaps and shuts off his phone as he strides purposefully toward me. I stand paralyzed as he closes the distance between us, devouring me with his eyes. Holy shit … something’s amiss – the strain in his jaw, the anxiety around his eyes. He shrugs out of his jacket, undoes his dark tie, and slings them both on to the couch en route to me. Then his arms are wrapped around me, and he’s pulling me to him, hard, fast, gripping my ponytail to tilt my head up, kissing me like his life depends on it. What the hell? He drags the hair tie painfully out of my hair, but I don’t care. There’s a desperate, primal quality