“And do you have any interests outside your work?” she continues hastily, correctly gauging my reaction. She knows I’m pissed, and for some inexplicable reason this pleases me.
“I have varied interests, Miss Steele. Very varied.” Images of her in assorted positions in my playroom flash through my mind: shackled on the cross, spread-eagled on the four-poster, splayed over the whipping bench. And behold—there’s that blush again. It’s like a defense mechanism.
“But if you work so hard, what do you do to chill out?”
“Chill out?” Those words out of her smart mouth sound odd but amusing. Besides, when do I get time to chill out? She has no idea what I do. But she looks at me again with those ingenuous big eyes, and to my surprise I find myself considering her question. What do I do to chill out? Sailing, flying, fucking…testing the limits of attractive brunettes like her, and bringing them to heel…The thought makes me shift in my seat, but I answer her smoothly, omitting a few favorite hobbies.
“You invest in manufacturing. Why, specifically?”
“I like to build things. I like to know how things work: what makes things tick, how to construct and deconstruct. And I have a love of ships. What can I say?” They transport food around the planet.
“That sounds like your heart talking, rather than logic and facts.”
Heart? Me? Oh no, baby.
My heart was savaged beyond recognition a long time ago. “Possibly. Though there are people who’d say I don’t have a heart.”
“Why would they say that?”
“Because they know me well.” I give her a wry smile. In fact, no one knows me that well, except maybe Elena. I wonder what she would make of little Miss Steele here. The girl is a mass of contradictions: shy, awkward, obviously bright, and arousing as hell.
Yes, okay, I admit it. I find her alluring.
She recites the next question by rote. “Would your friends say you’re easy to get to know?”
“I’m a very private person. I go a long way to protect my privacy. I don’t often give interviews.” Doing what I do, living the life I’ve chosen, I need my privacy.
“Why did you agree to do this one?”
“Because I’m a benefactor of the university, and for all intents and purposes, I couldn’t get Miss Kavanagh off my back. She badgered and badgered my PR people, and I admire that kind of tenacity.” But I’m glad it’s you who turned up and not her.
“You also invest in farming technologies. Why are you interested in this area?”
“We can’t eat money, Miss Steele, and there are too many people on this planet who don’t have enough food.” I stare at her, poker-faced.
“That sounds very philanthropic. Is that something you feel passionately about? Feeding the world’s poor?” She regards me with a puzzled look, as if I’m a conundrum, but there’s no way I want her seeing into my dark soul. This is not an area open to discussion. Move it along, Grey.
“It’s shrewd business,” I mutter, feigning boredom, and I imagine fucking that mouth to distract myself from all thoughts of hunger. Yes, her mouth needs training, and I imagine her on her knees before me. Now, that thought is appealing.
She recites her next question, dragging me away from my fantasy. “Do you have a philosophy? If so, what is it?”
“I don’t have a philosophy as such. Maybe a guiding principle—Carnegie’s: ‘A man who acquires the ability to take full possession of his own mind may take possession of anything else to which he is justly entitled.’ I’m very singular, driven. I like control—of myself and those around me.”
“So you want to possess things?”
Yes, baby. You, for one. I frown, startled by the thought.
“I want to deserve to possess them, but yes, bottom line, I do.”
“You sound like the ultimate consumer.” Her voice is tinged with disapproval, pissing me off again.
“I am.”
She sounds like a rich kid who’s had all she ever wanted, but as I take a closer look at her clothes—she’s dressed in clothes from some cheap store like Old Navy or H&M—I know that isn’t it. She hasn’t grown up in an affluent household.
I could really take care of you.
Where the hell did that thought come from?
Although, now that I consider it, I do need a new sub. It’s been, what—two months since Susannah? And here I am, salivating over this woman. I try an agreeable smile. Nothing wrong with consumption—after all, it drives what’s left of the American economy.
“You were adopted. How much do you think that’s shaped the way you are?”
What does this have to do with the price of oil? What a ridiculous question. If I’d stayed with the crack whore, I’d probably be dead. I blow her off with a non-answer, trying to keep my voice level, but she pushes me, demanding to know how old I was when I was adopted.
Shut her down, Grey!
My tone goes cold. “That’s a matter of public record, Miss Steele.”
She should know this, too. Now she looks contrite as she tucks an escaped strand of hair behind her ear. Good.
“You’ve had to sacrifice family life for your work.”
“That’s not a question,” I snap.
She startles, clearly embarrassed, but she has the grace to apologize and she rephrases the question: “Have you had to sacrifice family life for your work?”
What do I want with a family? “I have a family. I have a brother, a sister, and two loving parents. I’m not interested in extending my family beyond that.”
“Are you gay, Mr. Grey?”
What the hell!
I cannot believe she’s said that out loud! Ironically, the question even my own family will not ask. How dare she! I have a sudden urge to drag her out of her seat, bend her over my knee, spank her, and then fuck her over my desk with her hands tied behind her back. That would answer her ridiculous question. I take a deep calming breath. To my vindictive delight, she appears to be mortified by her own question.
“No, Anastasia, I’m not.” I raise my eyebrows, but keep my expression impassive. Anastasia. It’s a lovely name. I like the way my tongue rolls around it.
“I apologize. It’s, um…written here.” She’s at it again with the hair behind the ear. Obviously it’s a nervous habit.
“I have varied interests, Miss Steele. Very varied.” Images of her in assorted positions in my playroom flash through my mind: shackled on the cross, spread-eagled on the four-poster, splayed over the whipping bench. And behold—there’s that blush again. It’s like a defense mechanism.
“But if you work so hard, what do you do to chill out?”
“Chill out?” Those words out of her smart mouth sound odd but amusing. Besides, when do I get time to chill out? She has no idea what I do. But she looks at me again with those ingenuous big eyes, and to my surprise I find myself considering her question. What do I do to chill out? Sailing, flying, fucking…testing the limits of attractive brunettes like her, and bringing them to heel…The thought makes me shift in my seat, but I answer her smoothly, omitting a few favorite hobbies.
“You invest in manufacturing. Why, specifically?”
“I like to build things. I like to know how things work: what makes things tick, how to construct and deconstruct. And I have a love of ships. What can I say?” They transport food around the planet.
“That sounds like your heart talking, rather than logic and facts.”
Heart? Me? Oh no, baby.
My heart was savaged beyond recognition a long time ago. “Possibly. Though there are people who’d say I don’t have a heart.”
“Why would they say that?”
“Because they know me well.” I give her a wry smile. In fact, no one knows me that well, except maybe Elena. I wonder what she would make of little Miss Steele here. The girl is a mass of contradictions: shy, awkward, obviously bright, and arousing as hell.
Yes, okay, I admit it. I find her alluring.
She recites the next question by rote. “Would your friends say you’re easy to get to know?”
“I’m a very private person. I go a long way to protect my privacy. I don’t often give interviews.” Doing what I do, living the life I’ve chosen, I need my privacy.
“Why did you agree to do this one?”
“Because I’m a benefactor of the university, and for all intents and purposes, I couldn’t get Miss Kavanagh off my back. She badgered and badgered my PR people, and I admire that kind of tenacity.” But I’m glad it’s you who turned up and not her.
“You also invest in farming technologies. Why are you interested in this area?”
“We can’t eat money, Miss Steele, and there are too many people on this planet who don’t have enough food.” I stare at her, poker-faced.
“That sounds very philanthropic. Is that something you feel passionately about? Feeding the world’s poor?” She regards me with a puzzled look, as if I’m a conundrum, but there’s no way I want her seeing into my dark soul. This is not an area open to discussion. Move it along, Grey.
“It’s shrewd business,” I mutter, feigning boredom, and I imagine fucking that mouth to distract myself from all thoughts of hunger. Yes, her mouth needs training, and I imagine her on her knees before me. Now, that thought is appealing.
She recites her next question, dragging me away from my fantasy. “Do you have a philosophy? If so, what is it?”
“I don’t have a philosophy as such. Maybe a guiding principle—Carnegie’s: ‘A man who acquires the ability to take full possession of his own mind may take possession of anything else to which he is justly entitled.’ I’m very singular, driven. I like control—of myself and those around me.”
“So you want to possess things?”
Yes, baby. You, for one. I frown, startled by the thought.
“I want to deserve to possess them, but yes, bottom line, I do.”
“You sound like the ultimate consumer.” Her voice is tinged with disapproval, pissing me off again.
“I am.”
She sounds like a rich kid who’s had all she ever wanted, but as I take a closer look at her clothes—she’s dressed in clothes from some cheap store like Old Navy or H&M—I know that isn’t it. She hasn’t grown up in an affluent household.
I could really take care of you.
Where the hell did that thought come from?
Although, now that I consider it, I do need a new sub. It’s been, what—two months since Susannah? And here I am, salivating over this woman. I try an agreeable smile. Nothing wrong with consumption—after all, it drives what’s left of the American economy.
“You were adopted. How much do you think that’s shaped the way you are?”
What does this have to do with the price of oil? What a ridiculous question. If I’d stayed with the crack whore, I’d probably be dead. I blow her off with a non-answer, trying to keep my voice level, but she pushes me, demanding to know how old I was when I was adopted.
Shut her down, Grey!
My tone goes cold. “That’s a matter of public record, Miss Steele.”
She should know this, too. Now she looks contrite as she tucks an escaped strand of hair behind her ear. Good.
“You’ve had to sacrifice family life for your work.”
“That’s not a question,” I snap.
She startles, clearly embarrassed, but she has the grace to apologize and she rephrases the question: “Have you had to sacrifice family life for your work?”
What do I want with a family? “I have a family. I have a brother, a sister, and two loving parents. I’m not interested in extending my family beyond that.”
“Are you gay, Mr. Grey?”
What the hell!
I cannot believe she’s said that out loud! Ironically, the question even my own family will not ask. How dare she! I have a sudden urge to drag her out of her seat, bend her over my knee, spank her, and then fuck her over my desk with her hands tied behind her back. That would answer her ridiculous question. I take a deep calming breath. To my vindictive delight, she appears to be mortified by her own question.
“No, Anastasia, I’m not.” I raise my eyebrows, but keep my expression impassive. Anastasia. It’s a lovely name. I like the way my tongue rolls around it.
“I apologize. It’s, um…written here.” She’s at it again with the hair behind the ear. Obviously it’s a nervous habit.
