Anxiety

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  The Eagle shook his head, and even though he must have been crazy mad, I swear to God he smiled. “He loves me,” Alaska told me as we walked back to the dorm circle. “He loves all y’all, too. He just loves the school more. That’s the thing. He thinks busting us is good for the school and good for us. It’s the eternal struggle, Pudge. The Good versus the Naughty.” “You’re awfully philosophical for a girl that just got busted,” I told her. “Sometimes you lose a battle. But mischief always wins the war.” ninety-eight days before ONE OF THE UNIQUE THINGS about Culver Creek was the Jury. Every semester, the faculty elected twelve students, three from each class, to serve on the Jury. The Jury meted out punishment for nonexpellable offenses, for everything from staying out past curfew to smoking. Usually, it was smoking or being in a girl’s room after seven. So you went to the Jury, you made your case, and they punished you. The Eagle served as the judge, and he had the right to overturn the Jury’s verdict (just like in the real American court system), but he almost never did. I made my way to Classroom 4 right after my last class—forty minutes early, just to be safe. I sat in the hall with my back against the wall and read my American history textbook (kind of remedial reading for me, to be honest) until Alaska showed up and sat down next to me. She was chewing on her bottom lip, and I asked whether she was nervous. “Well, yeah. Listen, just sit tight and don’t talk,” she told me. “You don’t need to be nervous. But this is the seventh time I’ve been caught smoking. I just don’t want — whatever. I don’t want to upset my dad.” “Does your mom smoke or something?” I asked. “Not anymore,” Alaska said. “It’s fine. You’ll be fine.” I didn’t start to worry until it got to be 4:50 and the Colonel and Takumi were still unaccounted for. The members of the Jury filed in one by one, walking past us without any eye contact, which made me feel worse. I counted all twelve by 4:56, plus the Eagle. At 4:58, the Colonel and Takumi rounded the corner toward the classrooms. I never saw anything like it. Takumi wore a starched white shirt with a red tie with a black paisley print; the Colonel wore his wrinkled pink button-down and flamingo tie. They walked in step, heads up and shoulders back, like some kind of action-movie heroes.

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  Ames sifts through the papers in the manila folder Katrina has brought. Beneath the printouts from her doctor are more printouts, from what look like Reddit forums. “What are these?” She drops her hand to her stomach. It’s flat, no baby bump, but she’s already holding herself like a pregnant woman. “Well, I know you said you were sterile now. I was looking it up, and vasectomies are like ninety-nine percent effective, but I found some message boards, from men who still got women pregnant—” He raises a hand. “Wait a sec. I never said I had a vasectomy.” His office, like all the offices in this row, has only a glass wall to separate it from the hallway. He’s at the end of the row, beside an alcove into which is tucked the copy machine, water cooler, coffee maker, and a little kitchenette stocked with—due to a recent human resources campaign—only healthy organic snacks. Coworker hallway traffic remains constant throughout the day. He would not consider his office to be an ideal location to come out as a former transsexual. “No? But we haven’t used condoms for months and this whole time I thought—what did you mean, then? Like low sperm count?” “IT had very low testosterone for a while.” He works to keep his voice casual, to resist the urge to lower it nervously. “And during that time, my testicles atrophied, and my doctor told me that none of my sperm would ever again be viable.” When Ames first went in for an estrogen prescription, he saw a gentle, elderly endocrinologist, who had taken on trans patients not because of any special interest in gender, but because trans patients were, in his words, “so happy to come see me for treatment.” The bulk of the doctor’s other patients suffered from hormonal disorders that made them emotionally volatile. After this endo discovered trans gratitude, he filled his appointments with as many transsexuals as he could find. Ames, who had no history with trans therapy, and none of the paperwork that the hormone gatekeepers tended to require, had spent weeks before the appointment fretting that the endo would declare him “not really trans” and deny him hormones. Upon hearing that the doctor appreciated appreciation, Ames therefore gushed with gratitude, and duly walked out with a prescription for injectable estrogen. At his next appointment, the endo confided, “Perhaps, last time, I prescribed somewhat hastily. I should have said more about sterility.” He told Ames that permanent sterility would set in within the first six months of a hormone replacement therapy regimen, and he gave Ames a recommendation for a sperm bank.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  Chapter OneI scowl with frustration at my reflection in the mirror. Damn my hair—it just won’t behave, and damn Katherine Kavanagh for being ill and subjecting me to this ordeal. I should be studying for my final exams, which are next week, yet here I am trying to brush my hair into submission. I must not sleep with it wet. I must not sleep with it wet. Reciting this mantra several times, I attempt, once more, to bring it under control with the brush. I roll my eyes in exasperation and gaze at the pale, brown-haired girl with blue eyes too big for her face staring back at me and give up. My only option is to restrain my wayward hair in a ponytail and hope I look semi-presentable. Kate is my roommate, and she has chosen today of all days to succumb to the flu. Therefore, she cannot attend the interview she’d arranged to do, with some mega-industrialist tycoon I’ve never heard of, for the student newspaper. So I have been volunteered. I have final exams to cram for and one essay to finish, and I’m supposed to be working this afternoon, but no—today, I have to drive 165 miles to downtown Seattle to meet the enigmatic CEO of Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc. He’s an exceptional entrepreneur and major benefactor of our university and his time is extraordinarily precious—much more precious than mine—but he has granted Kate an interview. A real coup, she tells me. Damn her extracurricular activities. Kate is huddled on the couch in the living room. “Ana, I’m sorry. It took me nine months to get this interview. It will take another six to reschedule, and we’ll both have graduated by then. As the editor, I can’t blow this off. Please,” Kate begs me in her rasping sore-throat voice. How does she do it? Even ill she looks gamine and gorgeous, strawberry-blond hair in place and green eyes bright, although now red-rimmed and runny. I ignore my pang of unwelcome sympathy. “Of course I’ll go, Kate. You should get back to bed. Would you like some NyQuil or Tylenol?” “NyQuil, please. Here are the questions and my digital recorder. Just press Record here. Make notes. I’ll transcribe it all.” “I know nothing about him.” I try and fail to suppress my rising panic. “The questions will see you through. Go. It’s a long drive. I don’t want you to be late.” “Okay, I’m going. Get back to bed. I made you some soup to heat up later.” I stare at her fondly. Only for you, Kate, would I do this. “I will. Good luck. And thanks, Ana. As usual, you’re my lifesaver.” Gathering my backpack, I give her a wry smile, then head out the door to the car. I cannot believe I have let Kate talk me into this. But then Kate can talk anyone into anything. She’ll make an exceptional journalist. She’s articulate, strong, persuasive, argumentative, beautiful—and she’s my dearest, dearest friend.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “Would you like to join us, Christian?” Ray asks. Christian! I stare up at him, imploring him to refuse. I need space to think… What the fuck have I done? “Thank you, Mr. Steele, but I have plans. It’s been great to meet you, sir.” “Likewise,” Ray responds. “Look after my baby girl.” “Oh, I fully intend to.” They shake hands. I feel sick. Ray has no idea how Christian intends to look after me. Christian takes my hand and brings it to his lips, kissing my knuckles tenderly, his scorching eyes intent on mine. “Later, Miss Steele,” he breathes, his voice full of promise. My belly curls at the thought. Hang on…later? Ray takes my elbow and leads me toward the entrance to the tent. “Seems a solid young man. Well off, too. You could do a lot worse, Annie. Though why I had to hear about him from Katherine…” he scolds. I shrug apologetically. “Well, any man who likes and knows his fly-fishing is okay with me.” Holy cow—Ray approves. If only he knew. Ray drops me back at the house at dusk. “Call your mom,” he says. “I will. Thanks for coming, Dad.” “Wouldn’t have missed it for the world, Annie. You make me so proud.” Oh no. I’m not going to get emotional. A huge lump forms in my throat, and I hug him, hard. He puts his arms around me, bemused, and I can’t help it—tears pool in my eyes. “Hey, Annie, sweetheart,” Ray croons. “Big old day, eh? Want me to come in and make you some tea?” I laugh, in spite of my tears. Tea is always the answer, according to Ray. I remember my mother complaining about him, saying that when it came to tea and sympathy, he was always good at the tea, not so hot on the sympathy. “No, Dad, I’m good. It’s been so great to see you. I’ll visit real soon once I’m settled in Seattle.” “Good luck with the interviews. Let me know how they go.” “Sure thing, Dad.” “Love you, Annie.” “Love you, too, Dad.” He smiles, his brown eyes warm, glowing, and he climbs back into his car. I wave him off as he drives into the dusk, and I wander listlessly back into the apartment. First thing I do is check my cell phone. It needs recharging, so I have to hunt down the charger and plug it in before I can collect my messages. Four missed calls, one voice message, and two texts. Three missed calls from Christian…no messages. One missed call from José and a voice mail from him wishing me all the best for graduation. I open the texts. Are you home safe? Call me They are both from Christian. Why didn’t he call the house? I head into my bedroom and fire up the mean machine. From: Christian Grey Subject: Tonight Date: May 25 2011 23:58 To: Anastasia Steele I hope you made it home in that car of yours.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  I feel unsettled as I make my way to my car, though I’m not sure why. I think the interview went well, but it’s so hard to say. Interviews seem such artificial situations; everyone on their best behavior trying desperately to hide behind a professional facade. Did my face fit? I shall have to wait and see. I climb into my Audi A3 and head back to the apartment, though I take my time. I’m on the red-eye with a stopover in Atlanta, but my flight doesn’t leave until 10:25 this evening, so I have plenty of time. Kate is unpacking boxes in the kitchen when I return. “How did they go?” she asks, excited. Only Kate can look gorgeous in an oversize shirt, tattered jeans, and a dark-blue bandana. “Good, thanks, Kate. Not sure this outfit was cool enough for the second interview.” “Oh?” “Boho chic might have done it.” Kate raises an eyebrow. “You and boho chic.” She cocks her head to one side. Gah! Why is everyone reminding me of my favorite Fifty Shades? “Actually, Ana, you’re one of the few people who could really pull that look off.” I grin. “I really liked the second place. I think I could fit in there. The guy who interviewed me was unnerving, though…” Shit, I’m talking to Megaphone Kavanagh here. Shut up, Ana! “Oh?” The Katherine Kavanagh radar for an interesting tidbit of information swoops into action—a tidbit that will only resurface at some inopportune and embarrassing moment, which reminds me. “Incidentally, will you please stop winding Christian up? Your comment about José at dinner yesterday was out of line. He’s a jealous guy. It doesn’t do any good, you know.” “Look, if he wasn’t Elliot’s brother, I’d have said a lot worse. He’s a real control freak. I don’t know how you stand it. I was trying to make him jealous—give him a little help with his commitment issues.” She holds her hands up defensively. “But if you don’t want me to interfere, I won’t,” she says hastily at my scowl. “Good. Life with Christian is complicated enough, trust me.” Jeez, I sound like him. “Ana.” She pauses, staring at me. “You’re okay, aren’t you? You’re not running to your mother’s to escape?” Shit. “No, Kate. It was you who said I needed a break.” She closes the distance between us and takes my hands—a most un-Kate thing to do. Oh no. Tears threaten. “You’re just…I don’t know…different. I hope you’re okay, and whatever issues you’re having with Mr. Moneybags, you can talk to me. And I will try not to wind him up, though frankly it’s like shooting fish in a barrel with him. Look, Ana, if something’s wrong, tell me. I won’t judge. I’ll try to understand.” I blink back tears. “Oh, Kate.” I hug her. “I think I’ve really fallen for him.” “Ana, anyone can see that. And he’s fallen for you. He’s mad about you. Won’t take his eyes off you.”

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  “This isn’t some one-night threesome, Reese,” Katrina says. “It’s kind of insulting that you’d make that comparison, given that I’m the one who is supposed to share my pregnancy. That Ames has asked me to basically alter my life for you two.” Reese feels instant regret, the sense of already losing something that hadn’t even been hers yet. Ames begins to apologize on Reese’s behalf, but Reese speaks over him. “You're right. I’m sorry. It’s a huge thing we're talking about. That’s why I’m not handling well the anxiety of pretending this is just a casual night.” From where she sits, Reese sees Katrina at an angled profile. It’s a strange angle to hold each other’s gazes, but they do, and Katrina says simply, “I have reservations, Reese.” Reservations. Reese has been expecting it, but it still hits with an unexpected force. The prelude to a “no.” The premature ending to what she’d begun to think could be real, despite all her intuitions. An ache opens up in her stomach. “I understand. It was a crazy idea,” Reese says quickly. She needs to cut Katrina off. She can’t bear to hear Katrina enumerate the reasons why Reese is unfit to be a mother, why not just this baby, but no baby would ever be hers. She was such an idiot. When would she fucking learn? Katrina touches her leg then draws back. “Wait,” she says softly, “hear me out.” Now she rests a hand on Ames’s knee to her other side. “Both of you.” “Okay,” Ames says, though he has been silent for much of this exchange. For once Reese has a hard time reading his face, a face that has changed its shape, but whose expressions she usually reads instinctively. “Tm the one who is pregnant,” Katrina begins. And again, the words hurt Reese; just listening is too much. She can’t help herself. She blurts out, “Don’t you think I would be if I could? Don’t you think I wish my body could do that?” Katrina’s face doesn’t harden. “I do get that, Reese. If I didn’t understand that, do you think I’'d have even considered meeting you? I mean, do you know how weird I felt when Ames just asked me to share my baby? Like I was some vessel for him to grow his ex- girlfriend’s dreams inside?” She doesn’t sound angry, but the words sting. “Do you realize how often I’ve been that? A vessel for someone else’s dreams? Sure, just let the Asian lady carry our baby! You'll be like all the other nice white couples with your adopted Asian baby.”

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  they were horses on the same racetrack, released from the gates at the same moment. And that was just for your run-of-the-mill queer. Now imagine that you were trans! You would have to go through at least two puberties! By age thirty, the financial ads said, you should have saved two years’ income for retirement. But at age thirty, the trans girls Reese knew held most of their investment portfolios in the form of old MAC lipstick shades they’d worn once; they spent workdays sending each other animated gifs and occasionally got trolled online by actual thirteen-year-olds. Reese’s own temporal anxiety congealed in the form of a dining room table. At one of her first jobs in New York, an attractive woman name Angela had taken an interest in Reese. Angela had been waitressing and bartending for most of her twenties, scraping by while trying to make it in photography. Reese liked Angela’s photos: textured black- and-whites taken from jarring vantages. Over the course of the year that Reese worked with her, Angela began to date an upwardly mobile mechanical engineer named Chuck, who had cofounded a firm that secured a lucrative contract to weatherproof the city’s new electronic parking meters, which through a previous design flaw, shorted out in the wet weather. By the end of the year Angela had moved into Chuck’s brick townhouse in Jersey City. Soon after, she invited Reese to dinner. Reese arrived to an upsettingly well-appointed interior. Greeting Angela in the living room—softly illuminated by recessed lights—she considered pretending that she hadn’t actually brought wine, so as to avoid them seeing the twelve-dollar bodega brand. Immediately, Chuck apologized for the mess—of which Reese saw none but a box and some tools by a closed door. They had bought new faucets for the downstairs bathroom, Chuck said, and he had been overconfident that he could install them before Reese arrived. “What happened to the old faucet?” Reese asked. “Tt was hideous,” Angela interjected. Reese nodded stupidly. She guessed that Angela was her first-ever friend to replace a faucet that wasn’t broken. “I’m sure the new ones are gorgeous.” Chuck sorted through the pile of tools, unsheathed a faucet from plastic wrap, and held it up for Reese to admire. It looked to Reese like any other faucet. Perhaps a bit more square. “It’s Italian,” Chuck informed her. “T can tell,” Reese replied, unsure if she had spoken ironically or fawningly.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  He frowns and turns his attention back to me. “Where were we, Miss Steele?” Oh, we’re back to Miss Steele now. “Please, don’t let me keep you from anything.” “I want to know about you. I think that’s only fair.” His eyes are alight with curiosity. Double crap. Where’s he going with this? He places his elbows on the arms of the chair and steeples his fingers in front of his mouth. His mouth is very…distracting. I swallow. “There’s not much to know.” “What are your plans after you graduate?” I shrug, thrown by his interest. Move to Seattle with Kate, find a job. I haven’t really thought beyond my finals. “I haven’t made any plans, Mr. Grey. I just need to get through my final exams.” Which I should be studying for right now, rather than sitting in your palatial, swanky, sterile office, feeling uncomfortable under your penetrating gaze. “We run an excellent internship program here,” he says quietly. I raise my eyebrows in surprise. Is he offering me a job? “Oh. I’ll bear that in mind.” I’m confounded. “Though I’m not sure I’d fit in here.” Oh no. I’m musing out loud again. “Why do you say that?” He tilts his head to one side, intrigued, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” I’m uncoordinated, scruffy, and I’m not blond. “Not to me.” His gaze is intense, all humor gone, and strange muscles deep in my belly clench suddenly. I tear my eyes away from his scrutiny and stare blindly down at my knotted fingers. What’s going on? I have to go—now. I lean forward to retrieve the recorder. “Would you like me to show you around?” he asks. “I’m sure you’re far too busy, Mr. Grey, and I have a long drive.” “You’re driving back to Vancouver?” He sounds surprised, anxious even. He glances out the window. It’s begun to rain. “Well, you’d better drive carefully.” His tone is stern, authoritative. Why should he care? “Did you get everything you need?” he adds. “Yes, sir,” I reply, packing the recorder into my backpack. His eyes narrow, speculatively. “Thank you for the interview, Mr. Grey.” “The pleasure’s been all mine,” he says, polite as ever. As I rise, he stands and holds out his hand. “Until we meet again, Miss Steele.” And it sounds like a challenge, or a threat; I’m not sure which. I frown. When will we ever meet again? I shake his hand once more, astounded that the odd current between us is still there. It must be my nerves. “Mr. Grey.” I nod. Moving with athletic grace to the door, he opens it wide. “Just ensuring you make it through the door.” He gives me a small smile. Obviously, he’s referring to my earlier less-than-elegant entry into his office.

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  directly linked to their libido, their erotic desire. When your victims are failure; when the child passively waiting for you, their erotic level is low. When they turn pursuer, realizes that the effort is a getting involved in the process, brimming with tension and anxiety, the failure. And now something very strange temperature is raised. So raise it as high as you can. takes place, something When you withdraw, make it subtle; you are instilling unease. Your which is foreign to our coldness or distance should dawn on your targets when they are alone, in conscious thinking but the form of a poisonous doubt creeping into their mind. Their paranoia which is very near to the infantile way. Instead of will become self-generating. Your subtle step back will make them want to grasping the object directly possess you, so they will willingly advance into your arms without being and taking possession of it pushed. This is different from the strategy in chapter 20, in which you are in an aggressive way, the child identifies with the inflicting deep wounds, creating a pattern of pain and pleasure. There the object as it was before. The goal is to make your victims weak and dependent, here it is to make them child does the same that active and aggressive. Which strategy you prefer to use (the two cannot be the mother did to him in that happy time which has combined) depends on what you want and the proclivities of your victim. passed. The process is very In Søren Kierkegaard's The Seducer's Diary, Johannes aims to seduce the illuminating because it young and beautiful Cordelia. He begins by being rather intellectual with shapes the pattern of love in general. The little boy her, and slowly intriguing her. Then he sends her letters that are romantic thus demonstrates in his and seductive. Now her fascination blossoms into love. Although in person own behavior what he he remains a little distant, she senses in him great depths and is certain that wants his mother to do to he loves her. Then one day, while they're talking, Cordelia has a strange him, how she should behave to him. He sensation: something about him is different. He seems more interested in announces this wish by ideas than in her. Over the next few days, this doubt gets stronger—the let- displaying his tenderness ters are a little less romantic, something is missing. Feeling anxious, she and affection toward his mother who gave these slowly turns aggressive, becomes the pursuer instead of the pursued. The before to him. It is an seduction is now much more exciting, at least for Johannes. attempt to overcome the Johannes's step back is subtle; he merely gives Cordelia the impression despair and sense of loss in taking over the role of the

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “Oh…” Even I hear the disbelief in her voice. Christian blinks rapidly, staring down at me, wide-eyed with humored horror. “Shit! It’s my mother.” Chapter TenHe pulls out of me suddenly and I wince. He sits up on the bed and throws the used condom in a wastebasket. “Come on, we need to get dressed—that’s if you want to meet my mother.” He grins, leaps up off the bed, and pulls on his jeans—no underwear! I struggle to sit up as I’m still tethered. “Christian—I can’t move.” His grin widens, and leaning down, he undoes the tie. The woven pattern has made an indentation around my wrists. It’s…sexy. He gazes at me, amused, his eyes dancing with mirth. He kisses my forehead quickly and beams. “Another first,” he acknowledges, but I have no idea what he’s talking about. “I have no clean clothes in here.” I’m filled with sudden panic, and considering what I’ve just experienced, I’m finding the panic overwhelming. His mother! Holy crap. I have no clean clothes, and she’s practically walked in on us in flagrante delicto. “Perhaps I should stay here.” “Oh no you don’t,” Christian warns. “You can wear something of mine.” He’s slipped on a white T-shirt and runs his hand through his just-fucked hair. In spite of my anxiety, I lose my train of thought. His beauty is derailing. “Anastasia, you could be wearing a sack and you’d look lovely. Please don’t worry. I’d like you to meet my mother. Get dressed. I’ll just go and calm her down.” His mouth presses into a hard line. “I’ll expect you in that room in five minutes; otherwise, I’ll come and drag you out of here myself in whatever you’re wearing. My T-shirts are in this drawer. My shirts are in the closet. Help yourself.” He eyes me speculatively for a moment, then leaves the room. Holy shit. Christian’s mother. This is so much more than I bargained for. Perhaps meeting her will help put a little part of the jigsaw in place. Might help me understand why Christian is the way he is… Suddenly, I want to meet her. I pick up my shirt from the floor, and I’m pleased to discover that it has survived the night well with hardly any creases. I find my blue bra under the bed and dress quickly. But if there’s one thing I hate, it’s not wearing clean panties. I rifle through Christian’s chest of drawers and come across his boxer briefs. After pulling on a pair of tight gray Calvin Kleins, I tug on my jeans and my Converse.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “It’s a pleasure,” he answers, turning his gaze on me, and I flush again. Damn it. “This is José Rodriguez, our photographer.” I grin at José, who smiles back with affection. His eyes cool when he looks from me to Grey. “Mr. Grey.” He nods. “Mr. Rodriguez.” Grey’s expression changes, too, as he appraises José. “Where would you like me?” Grey asks him. His tone sounds vaguely threatening. But Katherine is not about to let José run the show. “Mr. Grey, if you could sit here, please?” She directs him to a chair set up against the wall. “Be careful of the lighting cables. And then we’ll do a few standing, too.” Travis switches on the lights, momentarily blinding Grey, and mutters an apology. Then Travis and I stand back and watch as José proceeds to snap away. He takes several photographs handheld, asking Grey to turn this way, then that, to move his arm, then put it down again. Moving to the tripod, José takes several more while Grey sits and poses, patiently and naturally, for about twenty minutes. My wish has come true: I can stand and admire Grey from not so afar. Twice our eyes lock, and I have to tear myself away from his cloudy gaze. “Enough sitting.” Katherine wades in again. “Standing, Mr. Grey?” she asks. He stands, and Travis scurries in to remove the chair. The shutter on José’s Nikon starts clicking again. “I think we have enough,” José announces five minutes later. “Great,” says Kate. “Thank you again, Mr. Grey.” She shakes his hand, as does José. “I look forward to reading the article, Miss Kavanagh,” murmurs Grey, and turns to me, standing by the door. “Will you walk with me, Miss Steele?” “Sure,” I answer, completely thrown. I glance anxiously at Kate, who shrugs. I ignore José scowling behind her. “Good day to you all,” says Grey as he opens the door and stands aside to allow me out first. Holy hell…what’s this about? What does he want? I pause in the hotel corridor, fidgeting nervously as Grey emerges from the room followed by Mr. Buzz Cut in his sharp suit. “I’ll call you, Taylor,” he says to Buzz Cut. Taylor wanders back down the corridor, and Grey turns his burning gray gaze to me. Crap…have I done something wrong? “I wondered if you would join me for coffee this morning.” My heart slams into my mouth. A date? Christian Grey is asking me on a date. He’s asking if you want a coffee. Maybe he thinks you haven’t woken up yet, my subconscious whines at me in a sneering mood again. I clear my throat, trying to control my nerves. “I have to drive everyone home,” I murmur apologetically, twisting my hands and fingers in front of me. “Taylor,” he calls, making me jump. Taylor, who had been retreating down the corridor, turns and heads back toward us. “Are they based at the university?” Grey asks.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  Apart from the paintings, the rest of the office is cold, clean, and clinical. I wonder if it reflects the personality of the Adonis who sinks gracefully into one of the white leather chairs opposite me. I shake my head, disturbed at the direction of my thoughts, and retrieve Kate’s questions from my backpack. Next, I set up the digital recorder and am all fingers and thumbs, dropping it twice on the coffee table in front of me. Mr. Grey says nothing, waiting patiently—I hope—as I become increasingly flustered. When I pluck up the courage to look at him, he’s watching me, one hand relaxed in his lap and the other cupping his chin and trailing his long index finger across his lips. I think he’s trying to suppress a smile. “S-sorry,” I stutter. “I’m not used to this.” “Take all the time you need, Miss Steele.” “Do you mind if I record your answers?” “After you’ve taken so much trouble to set up the recorder, you ask me now?” Crap. He’s teasing me? I hope. I blink unsure what to say, and I think he takes pity on me because he relents. “No, I don’t mind.” “Did Kate, I mean, Miss Kavanagh, explain what the interview was for?” “Yes. To appear in the graduation issue of the student newspaper, as I shall be giving the commencement address at this year’s graduation ceremony.” Oh! This is news to me, and I’m temporarily preoccupied by the thought that someone not much older than me—okay, maybe six years or so, and okay, mega-successful, but still—has been given the honor to address our class. I frown, dragging my wayward attention back to the task at hand. “Good.” I swallow nervously. “I have some questions, Mr. Grey.” I smooth a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “I thought you might,” he says, deadpan. He’s laughing at me. My cheeks heat at the realization, and I sit up and square my shoulders in an attempt to look taller and more intimidating. Pressing the Start button on the recorder, I try to look professional. “You’re very young to have amassed such an empire. To what do you owe your success?” I glance up at him.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  The Dominant shall provide the Submissive with a personal trainer four times a week in hour-long sessions at times to be mutually agreed between the personal trainer and the Submissive. The personal trainer will report to the Dominant on the Submissive’s progress. Personal Hygiene/Beauty: The Submissive will keep herself clean and shaved and/or waxed at all times. The Submissive will visit a beauty salon of the Dominant’s choosing at times to be decided by the Dominant and undergo whatever treatments the Dominant sees fit. Personal Safety: The Submissive will not drink to excess, smoke, take recreational drugs, or put herself in any unnecessary danger. Personal Qualities: The Submissive will not enter into any sexual relations with anyone other than the Dominant. The Submissive will conduct herself in a respectful and modest manner at all times. She must recognize that her behavior is a direct reflection on the Dominant. She shall be held accountable for any misdeeds, wrongdoings, and misbehavior committed when not in the presence of the Dominant. Failure to comply with any of the above will result in immediate punishment, the nature of which shall be determined by the Dominant. Holy fuck. “Hard limits?” I ask. “Yes. What you won’t do, what I won’t do, we need to specify in our agreement.” “I’m not sure about accepting money for clothes. It feels wrong.” I shift uncomfortably, the word ho rattling around my head. “I want to lavish money on you. Let me buy you some clothes. I may need you to accompany me to functions. And I want you dressed well. I’m sure your salary, when you do get a job, won’t cover the kind of clothes I’d like you to wear.” “I don’t have to wear them when I’m not with you?” “No.” “Okay.” Think of them as a uniform. “I don’t want to exercise four times a week.” “Anastasia, I need you supple, strong, and with stamina. Trust me, you need to exercise.” “But surely not four times a week. How about three?” “I want you to do four.” “I thought this was a negotiation?” He purses his lips. “Okay, Miss Steele, another point well made. How about an hour on three days and one day half an hour?” “Three days, three hours. I get the impression you’re going to keep me exercised when I’m here.” He smiles wickedly, and his eyes glow as if relieved. “Yes, I am. Okay, agreed. Are you sure you don’t want to intern at my company? You’re a good negotiator.” “No, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I stare down at his rules. Waxing! Waxing what? Everything? Ugh. “So, limits. These are mine.” He hands me another piece of paper. Hard Limits No acts involving fire play. No acts involving urination or defecation and the products thereof. No acts involving needles, knives, piercing, or blood. No acts involving gynecological medical instruments. No acts involving children or animals. No acts that will leave any permanent marks on the skin.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “That’s very considerate, Mr. Grey,” I snap, and his smile widens. I’m glad you find me entertaining, I glower inwardly, walking into the foyer. I’m surprised when he follows me out. Andrea and Olivia both look up, equally surprised. “Did you have a coat?” Grey asks. “A jacket.” Olivia leaps up and retrieves my jacket, which Grey takes from her before she can hand it to me. He holds it up, and feeling ridiculously self-conscious, I shrug it on. Grey places his hands for a moment on my shoulders. I gasp at the contact. If he notices my reaction, he gives nothing away. His long index finger presses the button summoning the elevator, and we stand waiting—awkwardly on my part, coolly self-possessed on his. The doors open, and I hurry in, desperate to escape. I really need to get out of here. When I turn to look at him, he’s gazing at me and leaning against the doorway beside the elevator with one hand on the wall. He really is very, very good-looking. It’s unnerving. “Anastasia,” he says as a farewell. “Christian,” I reply. And mercifully, the doors close. Chapter TwoMy heart is pounding. The elevator arrives on the first floor, and I scramble out as soon as the doors slide open, stumbling once but fortunately not sprawling onto the immaculate sandstone floor. I race for the wide glass doors, and suddenly I’m free in the bracing, cleansing, damp air of Seattle. Raising my face, I welcome the cool, refreshing rain. I close my eyes and take a deep, purifying breath, trying to recover what’s left of my equilibrium. No man has ever affected me the way Christian Grey has, and I cannot fathom why. Is it his looks? His civility? Wealth? Power? I don’t understand my irrational reaction. I breathe an enormous sigh of relief. What in heaven’s name was that all about? Leaning against one of the steel pillars of the building, I valiantly attempt to calm down and gather my thoughts. I shake my head. What was that? My heart steadies to its regular rhythm, and when I can breathe normally again, I head for the car. As I leave the city limits behind, I begin to feel foolish and embarrassed as I replay the interview in my mind. Surely I’m overreacting to something that’s imaginary. Okay, so he’s very attractive, confident, commanding, at ease with himself—but on the flip side, he’s arrogant, and for all his impeccable manners, he’s autocratic and cold. Well, on the surface. An involuntary shiver runs down my spine. He may be arrogant, but then he has a right to be—he’s accomplished so much at such a young age. He doesn’t suffer fools gladly, but why should he? Again, I’m irritated that Kate didn’t give me a brief biography.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  He pauses. “First of all, I hope you never have to use them. But if you’re gagged, we’ll use hand signals,” he says simply. I blink up at him. But if I’m trussed up, how’s that going to work? My brain is beginning to fog… Hmm, alcohol. “I’m nervous about the gagging.” “Okay. I’ll take note.” I stare up at him, realization dawning. “Do you like tying your submissives up so they can’t touch you?” He gazes at me, his eyes widening. “That’s one of the reasons,” he says quietly. “Is that why you’ve tied my hands?” “Yes.” “You don’t like talking about that.” “No, I don’t. Would you like another drink? It’s making you brave, and I need to know how you feel about pain.” Holy crap, this is the tricky part. He refills my teacup, and I sip. “So, what’s your general attitude to receiving pain?” Christian looks expectantly at me. “You’re biting your lip,” he says darkly. I stop immediately, but I don’t know what to say. I flush and stare down at my hands. “Were you physically punished as a child?” “No.” “So you have no sphere of reference at all?” “No.” “It’s not as bad as you think. Your imagination is your worst enemy in this,” he says. “Do you have to do it?” “Yes.” “Why?” “Goes with the territory, Anastasia. It’s what I do. I can see you’re nervous. Let’s go through methods.” He shows me the list. My subconscious runs, screaming, and hides behind the couch. Spanking Whipping Biting Genital clamps Hot wax Paddling Caning Nipple clamps Ice Other types/methods of pain “Well, you said no to genital clamps. That’s fine. It’s caning that hurts the most.” I blanch. “We can work up to that.” “Or not do it at all,” I whisper. “This is part of the deal, baby, but we’ll work up to all of this. Anastasia, I won’t push you too far.” “This punishment thing, it worries me the most.” My voice is very small. “Well, I’m glad you’ve told me. We’ll keep caning off the list for now. And as you get more comfortable with everything else, we’ll increase intensity. We’ll take it slow.” I swallow, and he leans forward and kisses me on my lips. “There, that wasn’t so bad was it?” I shrug, my heart in mouth again. “Look, I want to talk about one more thing, then I’m taking you to bed.” “Bed?” I blink rapidly, and my blood pounds through my body, warming places I didn’t know existed until very recently. “Come on, Anastasia, talking through all this, I want to fuck you into next week, right now. It must be having some effect on you, too.” I squirm. My inner goddess is panting. “See? Besides, there’s something I want to try.” “Something painful?” “No—stop seeing pain everywhere. It’s mainly pleasure. Have I hurt you yet?” I flush. “No.”

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “Oh, but when it happens, Miss Steele, ’tis a wonder and joy to behold.” “Very flowery, Mr. Grey,” I mutter, trying to keep my eyes open. His eyes soften, and he smiles. “I’d say you’re thoroughly fucked and in need of sleep.” “That wasn’t flowery at all,” I grumble playfully. He grins and gently lifts me off him and stands, gloriously naked. I wish momentarily that I were more awake to really appreciate him. Picking up his jeans, he slides them back on, commando. “Don’t want to frighten Taylor—or Mrs. Jones, for that matter,” he mutters. Hmm…they must know what a kinky bastard he is. The thought preoccupies me. He stoops to help me to my feet and leads me to the door, on the back of which hangs a gray waffle robe. He patiently dresses me as if I’m a small child. I don’t have the strength to lift my arms. When I’m covered and respectable, he leans down and kisses me gently, his mouth quirking up in a smile. “Bed,” he says. Oh…no… “For sleep,” he adds reassuringly when he sees my expression. Suddenly, he scoops me up and carries me curled against his chest to the room down the corridor where earlier today Dr. Greene examined me. My head drops against his chest. I am exhausted. I don’t remember ever being this tired. Pulling back the duvet, he lays me down and, even more surprisingly, climbs in beside me and holds me close. “Sleep now, gorgeous girl,” he whispers, and he kisses my hair. And before I can make a facetious comment, I’m asleep. Chapter NineteenSoft lips brush across my temple, leaving sweet tender kisses in their wake, and part of me wants to turn and respond, but mostly I want to stay asleep. I moan and burrow into my pillow. “Anastasia, wake up.” Christian’s voice is soft, cajoling. “No,” I moan. “We have to leave in half an hour for dinner at my parents’.” He’s amused. I open my eyes reluctantly. It’s dusk outside. Christian is leaning over, gazing at me intently. “Come on, sleepyhead. Get up.” He stoops down and kisses me again. “I’ve brought you a drink. I’ll be downstairs. Don’t go back to sleep, or you’ll be in trouble,” he threatens, but his tone is mild. He kisses me briefly and exits, leaving me blinking sleep from my eyes in the cool, stark room. I’m refreshed but suddenly nervous. Holy cow, I am meeting his folks! He’s just worked me over with a riding crop and trussed me up using a cable tie I sold him, for heaven’s sake—and I’m going to meet his parents. It will be Kate’s first time meeting them, too—at least she’ll be there for support. I roll my shoulders. They’re stiff. His demands for a personal trainer don’t seem so outlandish now. In fact, it’s mandatory if I am to have any hope of keeping up with him.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “Give me that phone.” Kate grabs the handset from me, tossing her silken reddish-blond hair over her shoulder. “Listen here, José Rodriguez, if you want our newspaper to cover the opening of your show, you’ll do this shoot for us tomorrow, capisce?” Kate can be awesomely tough. “Good. Ana will call back with the location and the call time. We’ll see you tomorrow.” She snaps my cell phone off. “Sorted. All we need to do now is decide where and when. Call him.” She holds the phone out to me. My stomach twists. “Call Grey, now!” I scowl at her and reach into my back pocket for his business card. I take a deep, steadying breath, and with shaking fingers, I dial the number. He answers on the second ring. His tone is clipped, calm, and cold. “Grey.” “Er…Mr. Grey? It’s Anastasia Steele.” I don’t recognize my own voice, I’m so nervous. There’s a brief pause while inside I’m quaking. “Miss Steele. How nice to hear from you.” His voice has changed. He’s surprised, I think, and he sounds so…warm—seductive even. My breath hitches, and I flush. I’m suddenly conscious that Katherine Kavanagh is staring at me, her mouth open, and I dart into the kitchen to avoid her scrutiny. “Um, we’d like to go ahead with the photo shoot for the article.” Breathe, Ana, breathe. My lungs drag in a hasty breath. “Tomorrow, if that’s okay. Where would be convenient for you, sir?” I can almost hear his sphinxlike smile through the phone. “I’m staying at The Heathman in Portland. Shall we say nine thirty tomorrow morning?” “Okay, we’ll see you there.” I am all gushing and breathy—like a child, not a grown woman who can vote and drink legally in the state of Washington. “I look forward to it, Miss Steele.” I hang up, visualizing the wicked gleam in his eyes. How can he make seven little words hold so much tantalizing promise? Kate is in the kitchen, and she’s staring at me with a look of complete and utter consternation on her face. “Anastasia Rose Steele. You like him! I’ve never seen or heard you so…so…affected by anyone before. You’re actually blushing.” “Oh, Kate, you know I blush all the time,” I snap. “It’s an occupational hazard with me. Don’t be ridiculous.” She blinks at me with surprise—I very rarely have hissy fits—and I briefly relent. “I just find him…intimidating, that’s all.” “Heathman, that figures,” mutters Kate. “I’ll give the manager a call and negotiate a space for the shoot.” “I’ll make dinner. Then I need to study.” I cannot hide my irritation with her as I open one of the cupboards. I’m restless that night, tossing and turning, dreaming of smoky gray eyes, coveralls, long legs, long fingers, and dark, dark unexplored places. I wake twice in the night, my heart pounding. Oh, I’m going to look just great tomorrow with so little sleep, I scold myself. I punch my pillow and try to settle.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  I surreptitiously gaze at him from beneath my lashes as he stands in line waiting to be served. I could watch him all day… He’s tall, broad shouldered, and slim, and the way those pants hang from his hips… Oh my. Once or twice he runs his long, graceful fingers through his now dry but still disorderly hair. Hmm…I’d like to do that. The thought comes unbidden into my mind, and I bite my lip and stare down at my hands once more, not liking where my wayward thoughts are headed. “Penny for your thoughts?” Grey is back, startling me. I go crimson. I was just thinking about running my fingers through your hair and wondering if it would feel soft to touch. I shake my head. He’s carrying a tray, which he sets on the small, round birch-veneer table. He hands me a cup and saucer, a small teapot, and a side plate bearing a lone tea bag labeled TWININGS ENGLISH BREAKFAST—my favorite. He has a coffee that bears a wonderful leaf pattern imprinted in the milk. How do they do that? I wonder idly. He’s also bought himself a blueberry muffin. Putting the tray aside, he sits opposite me and crosses his long legs. He looks so comfortable, so at ease with his body, I envy him. Here’s me, all gawky and uncoordinated, barely able to get from A to B without falling flat on my face. “Your thoughts?” he prompts me. “This is my favorite tea.” My voice is quiet, breathy. I simply can’t believe I’m sitting opposite Christian Grey in a coffee shop in Portland. He frowns. He knows I’m hiding something. I pop the tea bag into the teapot and almost immediately fish it out again with my teaspoon. As I place the used tea bag back on the side plate, he cocks his head, gazing quizzically at me. “I like my tea black and weak,” I mutter as an explanation. “Is he your boyfriend?” Whoa… What? “Who?” “The photographer. José Rodriguez.” I laugh, nervous but curious. What gave him that impression? “No. José’s a good friend of mine, that’s all. Why did you think he was my boyfriend?” “The way you smiled at him, and he at you.” His gaze holds mine. He’s so unnerving. I want to look away, but I’m caught—spellbound. “He’s more like family.” Grey nods, seemingly satisfied with my response, and glances down at his blueberry muffin. His long fingers deftly peel back the paper, and I watch, fascinated. “Do you want some?” he asks, and that amused, secret smile is back. “No thanks.” I frown and stare down at the table. “And the boy I met yesterday, at the store. He’s not your boyfriend?” “No. Paul’s just a friend. I told you yesterday.” Oh, this is getting silly. “Why do you ask?” “You seem nervous around men.” Holy crap, that’s personal. I’m just nervous around you, Grey.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  I comply, and he drags me down the bed so my arms are stretched out and almost straining at the cuffs. I cannot move my arms. A frisson of trepidation mixed with tantalizing exhilaration sweeps through my body, making me wetter. I groan. Parting my legs, he cuffs first my right ankle and then my left so I am staked out, spread-eagled, and totally vulnerable to him. It’s so unnerving that I can’t see him. I listen hard. What’s he doing? And I hear nothing, just my breathing and the pounding thud of my heart as blood pulses furiously against my eardrums. Abruptly, the soft silent hiss and pop of the iPod springs into life. From inside my head, a lone angelic voice sings unaccompanied a long sweet note, and it’s joined almost immediately by another voice, and then more voices—a celestial choir—singing a capella in my head, an ancient, ancient hymnal. What in heaven’s name is this? I have never heard anything like it. Something almost unbearably soft brushes against my neck, running languidly down my throat, slowly across my chest, over my breasts, caressing me…pulling at my nipples. It’s so soft, skimming underneath. It’s so unexpected. It’s fur! A fur glove? Christian trails his hand, unhurried and deliberate, down to my belly, circling my navel, then carefully from hip to hip, and I’m trying to anticipate where he’s going next, but the music—it’s in my head, transporting me…the fur across the line of my pubic hair…between my legs, along my thighs, down one leg…up the other. It almost tickles, but not quite. More voices join, the heavenly choir all singing different parts, their voices blending blissfully and sweetly together in a melodic harmony that is beyond anything I’ve ever heard. I catch one word—deus—and I realize they are singing in Latin. And still, the fur is moving down my arms and around my waist, back up across my breasts. My nipples harden beneath the soft touch, and I’m panting, wondering where his hand will go next. Suddenly, the fur is gone, and I can feel the fronds of the flogger flowing over my skin, following the same path as the fur, and it’s so hard to concentrate with the music in my head—it sounds like a hundred voices singing, weaving an ethereal tapestry of fine, silken gold and silver through my head, mixed with the feel of the soft suede against my skin, trailing over me… Abruptly, it disappears. Then suddenly, sharply, it bites down on my belly. “Ahh!” I cry out. It takes me by surprise yet it doesn’t hurt but my skin tingles all over. He hits me again. Harder. “Ahh!”

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  Christian looks suddenly determined and businesslike. Holy shit. We’re negotiating a deal. I listen attentively. “Let me ask you something first. Do you want a regular vanilla relationship with no kinky fuckery at all?” My mouth drops open. “Kinky fuckery?” I squeak. “Kinky fuckery.” “I can’t believe you said that.” “Well, I did. Answer me,” he says calmly. I flush. My inner goddess is down on bended knee with her hands clasped in supplication, begging me. “I like your kinky fuckery,” I whisper. “That’s what I thought. So what don’t you like?” Not being able to touch you. You enjoying my pain, the bite of the belt… “The threat of cruel and unusual punishment.” “What does that mean?” “Well, you have all those canes and whips and stuff in your playroom, and they frighten the living daylights out of me. I don’t want you to use them on me.” “Okay, so no whips or canes—or belts, for that matter,” he says sardonically. I gaze at him puzzled. “Are you attempting to redefine the hard limits?” “Not as such, I’m just trying to understand you, get a clearer picture of what you do and don’t like.” “Fundamentally, Christian, it’s your joy in inflicting pain on me that’s difficult for me to handle. And the idea that you’ll do it because I have crossed some arbitrary line.” “But it’s not arbitrary; the rules are written down.” “I don’t want a set of rules.” “None at all?” “No rules.” I shake my head, but my heart is in my mouth. Where is he going with this? “But you don’t mind if I spank you?” “Spank me with what?” “This.” He holds up his hand. I squirm uncomfortably. “No, not really. Especially with those silver balls…” Thank heavens it’s dark; my face is burning and my voice trails off as I recall that night. Yeah…I’d do that again. He smirks. “Yes, that was fun.” “More than fun,” I agree. “So you can deal with some pain.” I shrug. “Yes, I suppose.” Oh, where is he going with this? My anxiety level has shot up several magnitudes on the Richter scale. He strokes his chin, deep in thought. “Anastasia, I want to start again. Do the vanilla thing and then maybe, once you trust me more and I trust you to be honest and to communicate with me, we could move on and do some of the things that I like to do.” I stare at him, stunned, with no thoughts in my head at all. Holy crap. I think he’s anxious, but I can’t see him clearly, as we’re shrouded in the Oregon darkness. It occurs to me, finally, this is it. He wants the light, but can I ask him to do this? And don’t I like the dark? Some dark, certainly. Memories of the Thomas Tallis night drift through my mind. Yes. I’d do that again. “But what about punishments?” “No punishments.” He shakes his head. “None.” “And the rules?” “No rules.”