by Fifty Shades Ltd. All rights reserved. The novels contained in this omnibus were each published separately in the United. States by Vintage Books, a division. Fifty Shades Trilogy Fifty Shades of Grey, Fifty Shades Darker Darker Fifty Shades Darker As Told By usaascvb.info Reframing Pros ution ( reads) Les M . Fifty Shades Trilogy has 9 entries in the series. Trilogy (Series). E L James Author Zachary Webber Narrator (). cover image of Fifty Shades Trilogy.
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Fifty Shades Trilogy (Fifty Shades of Grey; Darker; Freed). Read more · Fifty Shades 02 Fifty Shades Darker · Read more. E L James is currently working on the sequel to Fifty Shades of Grey and a new romantic thriller with a supernatural . They are exquisite – a series of mundane . Read "Fifty Shades Trilogy Bundle Fifty Shades of Grey; Fifty Shades Freed" by E L James with Rakuten Kobo. Now available in a single volume, E L James's.
But when Dr. Lisa Johnson opens her heart, the man she loves becomes the enemy. With her heart and career hanging in the balance, which will she choose? From the ballroom to the emergency room, this fresh romance will keep you turning the pages. With help from her friends, and a lot of Merlot, she takes him down by any means necessary.
Hilarious hiccups and crazy calamities along the way turns her ridiculous plot into unexpected friendships and a chance at real love. And if dreams were real, Elana would have the courage to approach him. But is his possessive side too much for her to handle?
Can he open his home to her and keep his jeans closed? If he has his way. But to the staff at The Golden Mail, Wes is just an ordinary, workaholic editor.
Wes is sure that nobody can ever get close enough to uncover his secret. That is until he hires Julia, one of the best journalists. Boxed set of three full-length, award-winning paranormal romance novels. That is not what I want to hear, but I try not to overreact.
I can still take you there. And feed you. Thank you. Keep her talking, Grey. Has he tried anything with her? I will fire his ass if he has. I like that she mocks and teases me. Concentrate, Grey.
She looks away, concealing her smile, and stares down at the suburbs passing beneath us while I check the heading. Her face is lit with curiosity and wonder as she gazes out at the landscape below and the opal sky.
Her cheeks are soft and glowing in the evening light. How could I have let her walk out of my life? What was I thinking? While we race above the clouds in our bubble, high in the sky, my optimism grows and the turmoil of the last week recedes. I could get used to this. But as we near our destination my confidence falters.
I hope to God that my plan works. I need to take her somewhere private. To dinner, maybe. I should have booked a table somewhere. She needs feeding. These last few days have shown me that I need someone—I need her. I want her, but will she have me? Can I convince her to give me a second chance? Time will tell, Grey—just take it easy. But will it be enough for her? Will it be enough for me? Talk to her, Grey.
As ever, she smells good. Her eyes meet mine in a furtive glance—revealing an inappropriate thought? What exactly is she thinking? Joe, the manager of the helipad, is waiting to greet us. Nothing escapes his notice. His eyes light up as he gives me a craggy smile. A pleasing vision of them hooked over my shoulders springs to mind.
Putting my arm around her waist, I pull her to my side and we descend the stairs. The man who, last time I saw him, was trying to push his tongue into her mouth. Perhaps this is a long-anticipated rendezvous between them. Since when? Since she stripped me of all my armor and I discovered that I needed her. She stares at me and my stomach tightens. Fuck this. I want you back, and I want you healthy. We pull up at the gallery and I have no time to explain before the show. She looks mad as she climbs out.
Where you want to be. The space is brightly lit and airy. A young woman greets us. Look elsewhere. She shakes her head and her frown deepens. I shrug. Well, this is Portland.
For his part, he looks really fucking interested in her. Too interested. Anger flares in my chest. He wants more. Red or white? Tuning him out, I glance at Ana. She looks sensational. Her hair frames her face and falls in a lush cascade to curl at her breasts. Her dress, looser than I remember, still hugs her curves. She might have worn it deliberately. Hot dress, hot boots… Fuck—control yourself, Grey. She nods at something he says and gives him a warm, carefree smile.
He leans down and kisses her cheek. I glare at the bartender. Hurry up, man. At least Rodriguez has left her alone. She glances up at me with a guarded expression as I hand her a glass.
I take a quick sip from mine. Rarely does at these kinds of events. It irks me. She admires him and takes an interest in his success because she cares about him. She cares about him too much. An ugly emotion with a bitter sting rises in my chest. I want to tell him to fuck off but decide to be polite. The photographer takes a few snaps. Grey, thank you. She peers at me. Are you gay, Mr. And my annoyance. That seems so long ago. I shake my head and continue. But you know that.
Not on dates. Shopping, you know. However, the gallery is too public a setting. Her cheeks turn that delicious pink that I love, and she stares down at her hands. I need to get her out of here and on her own. Then we can talk seriously and eat.
We stroll through the gallery, stopping briefly at each photograph. We turn the corner—and stop. There she is.
Seven full-blown portraits of Anastasia Steele. She looks jaw-droppingly beautiful, natural, and relaxed—laughing, scowling, pouting, pensive, amused, and in one of them, wistful and sad.
As I scrutinize the detail in each photograph, I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that he wants to be much more than her friend. Ana is staring at them in stunned silence, as surprised as I am to see them. I want the pictures. Stunning work. When I return to Ana, I find a blond dude chatting with her, trying his luck. I place a territorial hand on her elbow and give him my best fuck-off-now glare. Are you serious? Her lips part in astonishment, and I try not to let it distract me.
I glance back at the pictures. She gasps as my fingers make contact with her chin. Again, that sound; I feel it in my groin. Too hopeful. Shit, are we doing this here, now? I want to do this in private. She clears her throat and draws herself up to full height. Not talk to you, unless you gave me permission to do so.
What do you expect? Why is she doing this here? We need to leave. What the hell? She does want to do this now. She fucking asked me how bad it could get!
Anger erupts like Mount St. Helens deep in my chest. I run my hands through my hair to prevent myself from grabbing her and dragging her outside so we can continue this discussion in private.
I take a deep breath. Find the boy, say goodbye. Say good-bye. I recognize that stubborn, mulish set to her mouth. We are leaving if I have to pick her up and carry her. She gives me a withering look and turns with a sharp spin, her hair flying so that it hits my shoulder. She stalks off to find him.
As she moves away I struggle to recover my equilibrium. What is it about her that presses all my buttons? I want to scold her, spank her, and fuck her. And in that order.
I scan the room. The boy—no, Rodriguez—is standing with a flock of female admirers. He listens intently to everything she has to say, then sweeps her into his arms, spinning her around. Get your fat paws off my girl. She glances at me, then weaves her hands into his hair and presses her cheek to his and whispers something in his ear.
They continue talking. His arms around her. Fortunately for him, he releases her as I approach. Oh, Mr.
Rodriguez, very impressive. Congratulations again. It takes all my self-control not to haul her over my shoulder. Instead I drag her by the hand to the front door and out onto the street. Right now.
I grab her face between my hands, pinning her body with mine as rage and desire mix in a heady, explosive cocktail. I capture her lips with mine and our teeth clash, but then my tongue is in her mouth.
She tastes of cheap wine and delicious, sweet, sweet Ana. Oh, this mouth. I have missed this mouth. She ignites around me. Her fingers are in my hair, pulling hard. Her hunger is unexpected. Desire bursts through my body, like a forest fire licking through dry tinder. She wants this, too. I groan in response, undone. With one hand, I hold her at the nape of her neck as we kiss. My free hand travels down her body, and I reacquaint myself with her curves: her breast, her waist, her ass, her thigh.
She moans as my fingers find the hem of her dress and start tugging it higher. My goal is to pull it up, fuck her here.
Make her mine, again. The feel of her. In the distance and through the fog of my lust, I hear a police siren wail. Not like this. Get a grip. Has anyone ever affected me like this? I nearly fucked her in a back alley. This is jealousy. This is what it feels like: my insides gutted and raw, my self-control absent. Do you want the photographer, Anastasia? He obviously has feelings for you. Yet you…you bring out feelings in me that are completely alien.
I cannot find the vocabulary to describe how I feel. See how I am around you, Ana. I run my hand through my hair, taking deep, thought-clearing breaths. I grab her hand. I open the door for her. Ana purses her lips, annoyed. What now? You should be embarrassed. Even I can see that. Leading me on?
Power over me.
The waiter returns with the wine list, giving me a chance to regain my cool. The selection is average: only one drinkable wine on the menu. I know that look. Perhaps she wanted to select her own meal. Oh, tit for tat, Miss Steele. I realize our bickering will get us nowhere. That word, indeed. I remember I last used it while discussing our arrangement on Saturday morning. The day my world fell apart. Man up, Grey. Tell her what you want. Oh no. She swallows and takes a steadying breath.
Perhaps my behavior over the last hour has finally driven her away. I tense. I behaved stupidly, and you—so did you. This has haunted me. She wilts in her seat. But before I recover, words tumble from her mouth. I was trying to be what you wanted me to be, trying to deal with the pain, and it went out of my mind.
I clutch the table for something to anchor me to the now as I let this alarming information register. Did I remind her of her safe words?
The e-mail that she sent me the first time I spanked her comes to mind. I should have reminded her. She knows she has safe words. I remember telling her more than once. And I want to reiterate we have safe words, okay? She hesitates. Or I will fuck it with you on your knees.
Do you understand? What kind of relationship is that? My spirits sink. I should never have chased her. The waiter arrives with the wine as we stare with incredulity at each other.
Maybe I should have done a better job of explaining it to her. Eliminate the negative. The irritating prick takes too much time opening the bottle. Is he trying to entertain us? Or is it just Ana he wants to impress? He finally pops the cork and pours a taste for me. I take a quick sip. He fills our glasses and leaves. Each trying to discern what the other is thinking.
When she opens them, I see her despair. Is she done with me? Is there no hope? Oh, thank God. I thought it was over. I feel like the sun has set and not risen for five days, Ana.
It made me relax. Her open and honest compassion is written all over her lovely face as she reaches for her wine. This is my chance. Ask her, Grey. I need to know. Can she? I want to stop thinking about that right now, and with impeccable timing, the waiter returns with our meal. The woman needs feeding. She examines the contents of her plate with distaste. And it will have nothing to do with my sexual gratification.
Stow your twitching palm, please. She picks up her cutlery with stubborn reluctance but she takes one bite, closes her eyes, and licks her lips in satisfaction. The sight of her tongue is enough to provoke a response from my body—already in a heightened state from our kiss in the alley.
Hell, not again! I stop my response in its tracks. Slicing into my steak, I take a bite. We continue to eat, watching each other but saying nothing. This is good. Her reaction to the kiss in the alley was…visceral. She still wants me. She interrupts my reverie. Listening to this singer reminds me that I have the iPad for Ana. I hope that she lets me give it to her, and that she likes it. In addition to the music I uploaded yesterday, I spent some time this morning adding more features—photographs of the glider on my desk and of the two of us at her graduation ceremony and a few apps, too.
I shake my head. Have I eaten enough for Sir? As if on cue, my phone vibrates in my jacket pocket, signaling a message. I glance at my watch. The thought of deferring my desire displeases me.
Ana reminds me that I need to be up for work, too. Besides, this way I have you in the car all to myself—for a few hours, at least. What can we do but talk? I shift uncomfortably in my chair. Stage three of the campaign has not gone as smoothly as I anticipated. But I can turn this around and close the deal in the car. Summoning the waiter, I ask for the check, then call Taylor. He answers on the second ring.
Tell her. Tell her, now, Grey. The waiter returns and I give him my card, but I keep my attention on Ana. My heart rate accelerates. I hope she goes for this…or I really will be lost. The waiter hands me the credit card slip to sign.
I enter an obscene tip and sign my name with a flourish. The waiter seems excessively grateful.
My phone buzzes and I scan the text. The waiter gives me my card back and disappears. Her breathing accelerates. Oh, that sound.
I glance at her face. Her lips are parted, cheeks pink and eyes wide. The sight fills me with hope and desire. I stifle my impulses and lead her through the restaurant and outside, where Taylor is waiting at the curb in the Q7.
I have an idea. Taylor gets out to open the door for me. Do you have your iPod and headphones? Use them on the way home.
As ever, he surprises me. Taking a deep breath, I climb into the car. He regards me for a second in the mirror and pulls out into the light evening traffic. Anastasia is watching me when I turn to face her. I call him again, then lean over and tap his shoulder.
He removes an earbud. Here goes. How to begin? Do you want a regular vanilla relationship, with no kinky fuckery at all? Oh, baby, so do I. Step one…okay. Keep cool, Grey. She knows me.
She has seen the monster. I ignore her first comment and concentrate on her second point. How can I protect myself from that? And suppose she does something stupid that puts herself at risk? Okay, million-dollar question. She shifts in her seat, and a silent, sweet joy unfurls deep in my gut.
Oh, baby, I love it when you squirm. I cross my legs. So we may be able to structure a relationship around this. Deep breath, Grey, give her the terms. 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. My heart rate escalates; blood thrums through my body, pounding past my eardrums as I wait for her reaction.
My well-being hangs in the balance. And she says…nothing! She stares at me as we pass under a streetlight and I see her clearly. Her eyes still impossibly large in her beautiful, thinner, sadder face. I close my eyes. These last few days have been hell. I see your pain.
You are exquisite, honest, warm, strong, witty, beguilingly innocent; the list is endless. I am in awe of you. I want you, and the thought of anyone else having you is like a knife twisting in my dark soul. Flowery, Grey! Real flowery. Last Saturday was such a shock to my system. It was my wake-up call. Then, after I left, it dawned on me that the physical pain you inflicted was not as bad as the pain of losing you. It swings from north to south and back again in a nanosecond.
She said it again; the three potent words I cannot bear. And touching. But before I can respond, before the darkness takes hold, she unfastens her seatbelt and crawls across the seat and into my lap, ambushing me.
She places her hands on either side of my head, staring into my eyes, and I stop breathing. Where do I sign? Anxiety turns to joy. It expands in my chest, lighting me up from head to toe, spreading warmth in its wake.
I get her back. She snuggles into my arms, her head on my shoulder, and we listen to the Rachmaninov. I go over her words. She loves me. I can live with this. I must. I need to protect her and her vulnerable heart.
Except the touching. I have to make her understand—manage her expectations. Gently I stroke her back. I wish I understood why. Shall I tell her? Why would she want to know this shit? My shit? Maybe I can hint at it, give her a clue. Not the burn.
The smell. Like old and nasty. Like trash. Like drains. He drinks brown licker. From a bottle. He always shouts. His hand hits me across my face. And again. I fight him. But he laughs. And takes a puff. The end of the cigarette shines bright red and orange.
The pain. I howl. He has two teeth gone. I shudder as my memories and nightmares float together like smoke from his discarded cigarette, fogging my brain, dragging me back to a time of fear and impotence.
I tell Ana I remember it all and she tightens her hold on me. Her cheek on my neck. Her soft, warm skin against mine, bringing me back to the now. Your mother?
She was neglectful. When she finally killed herself, it took four days for someone to raise the alarm and find us. I remember that. Anastasia gasps. My sweet, compassionate Ana. I tighten my hold on her and kiss her hair as she nestles in my arms. Baby, it was a long time ago. My exhaustion catches up with me. Several sleepless nights plagued with nightmares have taken their toll. I want to stop thinking.
I never had nightmares when she was sleeping at my side. Leaning back, I close my eyes, saying nothing, because I have nothing more to say. Like me.
I hold her, enjoying her weight on me, honored that she can sleep on me. Now all I have to do is keep her, which will be challenging enough. My first vanilla relationship—who would have thought? I dare a quick peek at Elena as her scarlet lips curl into a smile and she crosses her arms, flogger in hand.
You may speak. I have a place at Harvard. Her eyes flash. I see.