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    Stephan, my pilot, runs toward us. We shake hands, and I keep Anastasia tucked under my arm. Safe flight to Portland.

    We duck down under the rotors and I open the door, taking her hand to help her climb aboard. As I strap her into the seat, her breath hitches.

    The sound travels straight to my groin. She flushes. I run the back of my index finger down her cheek, tracing the line of her blush.

    I hand her some headphones, take my seat, and buckle up. I run through my preflight checks. All instruments are in the green with no advisory lights.

    It all looks good. I don my headphones, switch on the radios, and check the rotor rpm. Once I have permission to take off, I check the oil temperature and the rest of the gauges.

    Now the dusk. Hope stirs in my chest. I have her here when I thought all was lost and she seems happier now than when she walked out of her office.

    Boeing there—and you can just see the Space Needle. That is not what I want to hear, but I try not to overreact.

    I can still take you there. And feed you. 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? 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. Damn it. 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? But will it be enough for her? Will it be enough for me?

    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. She stares at me and my stomach tightens. 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. 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. 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…. She nods at something he says and gives him a warm, carefree smile. 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.

    Damned paparazzi. 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. A look of disappointment flits across her face but resolves into a broad smile.

    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.

    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.

    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? Okay, I can see that could be confusing—however, I do not want to discuss it here.

    We need to leave. 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 good-bye. 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.

    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. 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.

    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.

    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.

    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.

    Her eyes are wide with carnal promise, and her hair is mussed and sexy, falling to her breasts. I run my hand through my hair, taking deep, thought-clearing breaths.

    I grab her hand. I open the door for her. 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.

    She swallows and takes a steadying breath. Perhaps my behavior over the last hour has finally driven her away.

    I tense. Oh, baby, please believe me. I behaved stupidly, and you—so did you. 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. And I want to reiterate we have safe words, okay?

    Or I will fuck it with you on your knees. Do you understand? What kind of relationship is that? My spirits sink.

    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. Each trying to discern what the other is thinking.

    When she opens them, I see her despair. I feel like the sun has set and not risen for five days, Ana. It made me relax. She inhales sharply.

    Her open and honest compassion is written all over her lovely face as she reaches for her wine. This is my chance. 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. 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. 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. It is published by the Vintage Books Co.

    The author of this adult romance trilogy is E. The book has been successively made into a blockbuster sequel to the original movie fifty shades of grey — adaption of the first novel.

    Fifty Shades Darker Epub is the second novel of the series. In this book, we see the fantasy and seductive story of Christian and Ana unfold further.

    Despite being no longer connected to Christian in any way — Ana finds herself kissing him when they meet to attend a business exhibition.

    Though she has cared of her feelings she simply cannot resist him — just like the past. IMDb 4. Christian and Ana decide to rekindle their relationship, except this time there are no more rules or punishments.

    As they begin to get used to their newfound relationship, Christian's past begins to haunt Ana as Christian struggles with his innermost thoughts.

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