Fifty Shades Trilogy Bundle: Fifty Shades of Grey; Fifty Shades Darker; Fifty Shades Freed by E. L. James Read Free Book Online Page B

heartbeat accelerates. As he leads me out of the elevator, we can hear the suppressed giggles of the couple erupting behind us. Grey grins.
    “What is it about elevators?” he mutters.
    We cross the expansive, bustling lobby of the hotel toward the entrance, but Grey avoids the revolving door, and I wonder if that’s because he’d have to let go of my hand.
    Outside, it’s a mild May Sunday. The sun is shining and the traffic is light. Grey turns left and strolls to the corner, where we wait for the crosswalk to change. He’s still holding my hand.
I’m in the street, and Christian Grey is holding my hand
. No one has ever held my hand. I feel giddy, and I tingle all over. I attempt to smother the ridiculous grin that threatens to split my face in two.
Try to be cool, Ana
, my subconscious implores me. The green man appears, and we’re off again.
    We walk four blocks before we reach the Portland Coffee House, where Grey releases me to hold the door open so I can step inside.
    “Why don’t you choose a table while I get the drinks? What would you like?” he asks, polite as ever.
    “I’ll have … um—English Breakfast tea, bag out.”
    He raises his eyebrows.
    “No coffee?”
    “I’m not keen on coffee.”
    He smiles.
    “Okay, bag out tea. Sugar?”
    For a moment, I’m stunned, thinking it’s an endearment, but fortunately my subconscious kicks in with pursed lips.
No, stupid—do you take sugar?
    “No thanks.” I stare down at my knotted fingers.
    “Anything to eat?”
    “No thank you.” I shake my head, and he heads to the counter.
    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 my face flames. I bite my lip and stare down at my hands again, 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 down on the small, round birch-veneer table. He hands me a cup and saucer, a small teapot, and a side plate bearing a lone teabag 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 teabag into the teapot and almost immediately fish it out again with my teaspoon. As I place the used teabag 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.
    “I see. 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,” I whisper.
    Grey nods, seemingly satisfied with my response, and glances down at his blueberry muffin. His long fingers deftly peel back the paper, and