Fifty Shades Trilogy 03 - Fifty Shades Freed

scowl. I hate the unexpected. “Show her in,” I mutter, aware that I sound like a sulky teen but not giving a fuck.
    Well, well  . . . Miss Kavanagh is unavailable. I know her father, the owner of Kavanagh Media. We’ve done business together, and he seems like a shrewd operator and a rational human being. This interview is a favor to him—one that I mean to cash in later when it suits me. And I have to admit I was vaguely curious about his daughter, interested to see if the apple had fallen far from the tree.
    A commotion at the door brings me to my feet as a whirl of long chestnut hair, pale limbs, and brown boots dives head first into my office. I roll my eyes and repress my natural annoyance at such clumsiness as I hurry over to the girl who has landed on her hands and knees on the floor. Clasping her slim shoulders, I help her to her feet.
    Clear, bright-blue, embarrassed eyes meet mine and halt me in my tracks. They are the most extraordinary color—guileless, powder-blue—and for one awful moment, I think she can see right through me. I feel . . . exposed. The thought is unnerving. She has a small, sweet face that is blushing now, an innocent pale rose. I wonder briefly if all her skin is like that—flawless—and what it would look like pink and warmed from the bite of a cane. Fuck. I stop my wayward thoughts, alarmed at their direction. What the fuck are you thinking, Grey. This girl is much too young. She gapes at me, and I almost roll my eyes again. Yeah, yeah, baby, it’s just a face, and the beauty is only skin-deep. I want to dispel that unguarded, admiring look from those big blue eyes.
    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 beginning of a mortified apology and places her small hand in 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