Christian Grey Quotes

I am going to have coffee with Christian Grey... and I hate coffee.

We aim to please Miss Steele

I'd like to bite that lip.

From: Christian Grey Subject: My Life's Mission... Date: September 5, 2011 09:25 To: Anastasia Grey Is to spoil you, Mrs. Grey. And keep you safe because I love you. Christian Grey Smitten CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

Sweet Jesus, you're wearing stockings."--Christian Grey

It's very hard to grow up in a perfect family when you're not perfect.

I've never wanted more, until I met you. - Christian Grey, Fifty Shades of Grey

It's much easier to wear your pain on the outside...

I hate fighting with you,” he whispers. “Well, stop being such an arse.” He chuckles and the captivating sound reverberates through his chest. He tightens his hold on me. “Arse?” “Ass.” “I prefer arse.” “You should. It suits you.

It's taking all my self-control not to fuck you on the hood of this car, just to show you that you're mine, and if I want to buy you a fucking car, I'll buy you a fucking car" Christian Grey

From: Christian Grey Subject: One more request Date: June 10, 2011 00:15 To: Anastasia Steele Dream of Me. x Christian Grey CEO, Grey Enterprise Holdings. Inc.

P.S. I also note that you included the Stalker's Anthem "Every Breath You Take" I do enjoy our sense of humor, but does Dr. Flynn know?

I've never wanted more, until I met you.

And soon you will be my wife to have and to hold... To love and to cherish... "With my body I will worship you." Christian Grey--Fifty Shades Darker, E.L.James

Yes, I'm rich. Get use to it. -- Christian Grey

Does this mean you’re going to make love to me tonight, Christian?” Holy shit. Did I just say that? His mouth drops open slightly, but he recovers quickly. “No, Anastasia it doesn’t. Firstly, I don’t make love. I fuck… hard. Secondly, there’s a lot more paperwork to do, and thirdly, you don’t yet know what you’re in for. You could still run for the hills. Come, I want to show you my playroom.” My mouth drops open. Fuck hard! Holy shit, that sounds so… hot. But why are we looking at a playroom? I am mystified. “You want to play on your Xbox?” I ask. He laughs, loudly. “No, Anastasia, no Xbox, no Playstation. Come.”… Producing a key from his pocket, he unlocks yet another door and takes a deep breath. “You can leave anytime. The helicopter is on stand-by to take you whenever you want to go, you can stay the night and go home in the morning. It’s fine whatever you decide.” “Just open the damn door, Christian.” He opens the door and stands back to let me in. I gaze at him once more. I so want to know what’s in here. Taking a deep breath I walk in. And it feels like I’ve time-traveled back to the sixteenth century and the Spanish Inquisition. Holy fuck.

Your stepfather? I'd like to meet him." Oh no... why? "I'm not sure that's a good idea." Christian unlocks the door, his mouth in a grim line. "Are you ashamed of me?" "No!" It's my turn to sound exasperated. "Introduce you to my dad as what? 'This is the man who deflowered me and wants to start a BDSM relationship'. You're not wearing running shoes.

[Ana] “You’re a sadist?” “I’m a Dominant.” His eyes are a scorching gray, intense. “What does that mean?” I whisper. “It means I want you to willingly surrender yourself to me, in all things.” I frown at him as I try to assimilate this idea. “Why would I do that?” “To please me,” he whispers as he cocks his head to one side, and I see a ghost of a smile. Please him! He wants me to please him! I think my mouth drops open. Please Christian Grey. And I realize, in that moment, that yes, that’s exactly what I want to do. I want him to be damned delighted with me. It’s a revelation.

I know you've always dreamed of going to Europe," he says softly. "I want to make your dreams come true, Anastasia." "You are my dreams come true, Christian." "Back at you, Mrs. Grey," he whispers.

From: Anastasia Steele Subject: Moaning Date: May 31 2011 19:39 EST To: Christian Grey Gotta go. Laters, baby. ..... From: Christian Grey Subject: Plagiarism Date: May 31 2011 16:41 To: Anastasia Steele You stole my line. And left me hanging. Enjoy your dinner. Christian Grey CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

To: Christian Grey You've made me cry again. I love the iPad. I love the songs. I love the British Library App. I love you. Goodnight. Ana xx

So you've just slept with him, given him your virginity, a man who doesn't love you. In fact, he has odd ideas about you, wants to make you some sort of kinky sex slave.

Well, Anastasia, my new motto is, 'If you can't beat'em, join'em

Christian Grey just sent me a winkey ... Oh my. I fire up Google.

So you’ll get your kicks by exerting your will over me.” “It’s about gaining your trust and your respect, so you’ll let me exert my will over you. I will gain a great deal of pleasure, joy, even in your submission. The more you submit, the greater my joy – it’s a very simple equation.” “Okay, and what do I get out of this?” He shrugs and looks almost apologetic. “Me,” he says simply.

How can i eat now? I'm going to Seattle by helicopter with Christian Gray..And he wants to bite my lip..

You really are a bastard, aren't you? Christian Grey has nothing on you. My name might be similar, but I'd never say "Laters, baby.

God, I’m a lucky son of a bitch.” - Christian Grey

Good evening, Mrs. Grey," Christian says softly. He's standing by the piano, dressed in a tight black T-shirt, and jeans...those jeans- the ones he wore in the playroom. Oh my. They are over washed pale-blue denim, snug, ripped at the knee and hot. He saunters over to me, his feet bare, the top button of the jeans undone, his smoldering eyes never leaving mine. "Good to have you home. I've been waiting for you.

But we were at your parents' dining table." I stare up at him, completely bewildered. "No one's ever said no to me before. And it's so - hot.

He sighs. "I want to give you the world, Anastasia." "I just want you, Christian. Not all the add-ons." "They're part of the deal. Part of what I am.

It's because I'm pregnant, Christian." He snorts, and his mouth twists into an ironic smile. "If I knew getting you knocked up was going to make you eat, I might have done it earlier.

Do you trust me Ana?" Ana! "Yes,I do."I respond spontaneously, not thinking...because it's true-I do trust him. "Well,then"he looks relieved. "The rest of this stuff is just details" "important details

I'd never beat you black and blue. I aim for pink." -- Christian Grey

Do you want me to kiss you. Anastasia?" he whispers softly in my ear. "Yes," I breathe. "Where?" "Everywhere.

I was holding you and you were looking up at me all ‘kiss me, kiss me, Christian’,” he pauses and shrugs slightly, “I felt I owed you an apology and a warning.

Would you like something to eat?" I ask. He nods slowly. "Yes. You." he murmurs.

I know you’re rolling your eyes at me,” he murmurs, and I hear the trace of humor in his voice.

Don't cry, Ana, please," he murmurs against my mouth. "It was long ago. I am aching for you to touch me, but I just can't bear it. It's too much. Please, please don't cry.

There´s something about you and I´m finding it impossible to stay away

You've brushed your teeth," He says, staring at me. "I used your toothbrush." His lips quirk up in a half smile. "Oh Anastasia Steele, what am I going to do with you?

We always hurt the ones we love, darling. You’ll have to tell her you’re sorry. And mean it and give her time. - Grace Trevelyan-Grey to Christian Grey

There is something about Christian that is old-fashioned and romantic.

And the baby?" The words are anguished, breathless. "The baby's fine, Mr. Grey." "Oh, thank God." The words are litany... a prayer, "Oh, thank God.

I've never had vanilla sex before. There's a lot to be said for it. But then, maybe it's because it's with you.

You are one brave woman," he whispers, "I am in awe of you.

I can't bear to hurt you because I love you.

Only when the last leaf has fallen, the last tree has died, and the last fish been caught will we realize that we cannot eat money.

Trust me, They want you. They want what's mine." He pulls me against him, and I lift my arms to his shoulders, my hands in his hair, regarding him with amusement. "Mine," he repeats, his eyes glowing possessively. "Yes, yours." I reassure him, smiling.

Holy shit. What does that mean? Does he white-slave small children to some God-forsaken part of the planet?

From: Christian Grey Subject: &*%$&*&* Date: August 23 2011 11:23 To: Anastasia Grey Believe me when I say there are a great many things he'd like to do to your ass right now. Firing you is not one of them. Christian Grey CEO & Ass man, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

I need you more, Anastasia. These last few days have been purgatory. All my instinct tell me to let you go, tell me I don't deserve you.

I just told you I didn't - and I don't like to be doubted," he scolds. "I didn't go anywhere last weekend. I sat and made the glider you gave me. Took me forever," he adds quietly.

Goodbye, Christian," I murmur. "Ana, goodbye," he says softly, and he looks utterly, utterly broken,a man in agonizing pain, reflecting how I feel inside. I tear my gaze away from him before I can change my mind and try to comfort him. The elevator doors close close and it whisks me down to the bowels of the basement and to my own personal hell.

You're used of taking care to people." The edge in his voice attracts my attention, and I glance up at him. "What is it?" I ask, startled by his wary expression. "I want to take care of you." His luminous eyes glow with some unnamed emotion.

Does this mean you’re going to make love to me tonight, Christian?” Holy shit. Did I just say that? His mouth drops open slightly, but he recovers quickly. “No, Anastasia it doesn’t. Firstly, I don’t make love. I fuck… hard. Secondly, there’s a lot more paperwork to do, and thirdly, you don’t yet know what you’re in for. You could still run for the hills. Come, I want to show you my playroom.

I will never get enough of you. Don't leave me," he murmurs and kisses my belly. "I'm not going anywhere, Christian, and I seem to remember that I wanted to kiss your belly," I grumble sleepily. He grins at my skin. "Nothing stopping you baby.

We knew, and to see her there like that with you-and armed. I think I died a thousand deaths, Ana.

You never cease to amaze me, Anastasia. After a day like today - or yesterday, rather - you're not whining or running off into the hills screaming. I am in awe of you. You're very strong." "You're a very good reason to stay," I murmur.

I've never wanted more, until I met you." I gasp, reeling. Oh my. Isn't this what I want? He wants more. He wants it, too! My inner goddess has back-flipped off the podium and is doing a cartwheels around the stadium. It's not just me.

I want your world to begin and end with me," he says, his expression raw.

From: Christian Grey Subject: Sunrise Date: June 14, 2011 09:23 To: Anastasia Steele I love waking up to you in the morning. Christian Grey

Are you crazy?" "Crazy for you," he whispers.

Like Eve, you're so quick to eat from the tree of knowledge.

Subject: Sundown Date: June 14 2011 09:35 To: Christian Grey Dear Completely & Utterly Smitten I love waking up with you, too. But I love being in bed with you and in elevators and on pianos and billiard tables and boats and desks and showers and bathtubs and strange wooden crosses with shackles and four poster beds with red satin sheets and boathouses and childhood bedrooms. Yours Sex Mad and Insatiable xx

Ten thousand dollars." I hear Lily's gasp of disbelief behind me. Oh fuck. "Fifteen" Twenty," counters Christian quietly. Twenty-five," the stranger says. "One hundred thousand dollars," he says his voice ringing clear and loud through the marquee. "What the fuck?" Lily hisses audibly behind me, and a general gasp of dismay and amusement ripple through the crowd.

I turn and gaze at him midway. Chin up Steele, I chide myself. “Oh... by the way, I’m wearing your underwear.” I gave him a small smile and pull up the waistband of the boxer briefs I’m wearing so he can see. Christian’s mouth drops open, shocked. What a great reaction. My mood shifts immediately, and I sashay into the house, part of me wanting to jump and punch the air.

How was Jose when you went to the bar...(Ana) He was fine. (Christian) Palm-twitchingly mad. Especially now.

Look at the huge success of Fifty Shades of Grey. The girl in the book lets a rich guy beat her and ritually rape her, and she likes it! She finds it erotic! But imagine if Christian Grey wasn't a billionaire. Imagine if he lived in a dirty old trailer down by the river. Then that story wouldn't be a sexy romance novel, but an episode of CSI.

Coveralls," I reply, and I know I'm no longer screening what's coming out of my mouth. He raises a eyebrow, amused yet again. "You wouldn't want to ruin your clothing." I gesture vaguely in the direction of his jeans. "I could always take them off." He smirks.

Do you know what you mean to me?" he murmurs, "If something happened to you, because of me..." His voice trails off, his brow creasing, and the pain that flashes across his face is almost palpable. He looks so vulnerable - his fear very much apparent.

The platinum Omega watch he gave me at breakfast on our first morning in London obscures the red line. The inscription still makes me swoon. Anastasia You are My More My Love, My Life Christian

We didn’t-?” I whisper, my mouth drying in mortified horror as I can’t complete the question. I stare at my hands. “Anastasia, you were comatose. Necrophilia is not my thing. I like my women sentient and receptive,” he says dryly.

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.

She says that I have to abstain from all sexual activity for the next four weeks.” Christian’s mouth drops open in shock, and I cannot keep a straight face any longer and grin at him like an idiot. “Gotcha!” He narrows his eyes, and I immediately stop laughing. In fact, he looks rather forbidding. Oh shit. My subconscious quails me in the corner as all the blood drains from my face, and I imagine him putting me across his knee again. “Gotcha!” He says and smirks.

Laters, baby.

Oh, fuck the paperwork.

I shrug, trapped. I don’t want to lose him. In spite of all his demands, his need to control, his scary vices. I have never felt as alive as I do now. It’s a thrill to be sitting here beside him. He’s so unpredictable, sexy, smart, and funny. But his moods… oh – and he wants to hurt me. He says he’ll think about my reservations, but it still scares me. I close my eyes. What can I say? Deep down I would just like more, more affection, more playful Christian, more… love.

I want to own this woman, body and soul. I want her

You're not celibate, then?" I breathe. Amusement lights up his eyes. "No, Anastasia, I'm not celibate.

Please him! He wants me to please him! I think my mouth drops open. Please Christian Grey. And I realize, in that moment, that yes, that's exactly what I want to do. I want him to be damned delighted with me.

Hungry?" Christian murmurs so only I can hear. I know he's not referring to the food, and the muscles deep in my belly respond. "Very," I whisper, boldly meeting his gaze, and Christian's lips apart as he inhales. Ha! See... two can play at this game.

Of course I do. I love you touching me, Ana. I'm like a starving man at a banquet when it comes to your touch.

I glance down his body. He's still wearing his shorts and his shirt, and I still have my T-shirt on. Jeez-- talk about wham, bam, thank you ma'am.

Dios mío… Me desea. Christian Grey, el dios griego, me desea, y yo lo deseo a él, aquí… ahora, en el ascensor.-Anastasia

[Christian Grey] didn't want me as a girlfriend. I turn on to my side. Idly, I wonder if perhaps he's celibate.

She's my dream catcher. She keeps my nightmares at bay.

Suppose one reads a story of filthy atrocities in the paper. Then suppose that something turns up suggesting that the story might not be quite true, or not quite so bad as it was made out. Is one's first feeling, 'Thank God, even they aren't quite so bad as that,' or is it a feeling of disappointment, and even a determination to cling to the first story for the sheer pleasure of thinking your enemies are as bad as possible? If it is the second then it is, I am afraid, the first step in a process which, if followed to the end, will make us into devils. You see, one is beginning to wish that black was a little blacker. If we give that wish its head, later on we shall wish to see grey as black, and then to see white itself as black. Finally we shall insist on seeing everything -- God and our friends and ourselves included -- as bad, and not be able to stop doing it: we shall be fixed for ever in a universe of pure hatred.

And so a pattern develops: wake, work cry. sleep. I can't even escape him in my dreams. Gray burning eyes, his lost look, his hair burnished and bright and bright all haunt me. And the music... so much music-I cannot bear to hear any music. I am careful to avoid it at all costs. Even the jingles in commercials make me shudder.

I want so much from her: her trust, her obedience, her submission. I want her to be mine, but right now…I’m hers.

A girl can dream can’t she? My new life plan is to stumble into every office of a CEO until I find a Christian Grey.

Hearts and flowers—that's not who I am.

He moves suddenly so that his hand is cupping my sex, and one of his fingers sinks slowly into me. His other arm holds me firmly in place around my waist. “This is mine,” he whispers aggressively. “All mine. Do you understand?” He eases his finger in and out as he gazes down at me, gauging my reaction, his eyes burning. “Yes, yours…” Abruptly, he moves, doing several things at once: Withdrawing his fingers, leaving me wanting, unzipping his fly, and pushing me down onto the couch so he’s lying on top of me. “Hands on your head,” he commands through gritted teeth as he kneels up, forcing my legs wider… “We don’t have long. This will be quick, and it’s for me, not you. Do you understand? Don’t come, or I will spank you,” he says through clenched teeth.

From: Christian Grey Subject: Shenaniwhatagans? Date: June 15, 2011 09:32 To: Anastasia Steele You don't have to work, Anastasia. You have no idea how appalled I am at my shenanigans. But I like keeping you up late ;) Please use your blackberry. Oh, and marry me, please.

each day will be darker and emptier, because she’s no longer in it.

I pull him deeper into my mouth so I can feel him at the back of my throat and then to the front again. My tongue swirls around the end. He’s my very own Christian Grey-flavored popsicle. I suck harder and harder … Hmm … My inner goddess is doing the merengue with some salsa moves

Thou hast conquered, O pale Galilean; the world has grown grey from thy breath;/ We have drunken of things Lethean, and fed on the fullness of death

What can I do to make you understand I will not run? What can I say?" He gazes at me, revealing his fear and anguish again. He swallows. "There is one thing you can do." "What?" I snap. "Marry me," he whispers.

Mrs. Grey I have received three compliments on my new haircut. Compliments from my staff are new. It must be the ridiculous smile I’m wearing whenever I think about last night. You are indeed a wonderful, talented, beautiful woman. And all mine.

I wake with a start. Today, I win her back.

You wanted hearts and flowers. You have my heart - & here are the flowers.

Why didn’t you tell me there was danger? Why didn’t you warn me? Ladies know what to guard against, because they read novels that tell them of these tricks…

Suddenly, as one, all the Greys stop talking and gape at Christian. What? Christian is singing softly to himself at the piano. Silence descends on us all as we strain to hear his soft, lyrical voice. I've heard him sing before, haven't they? He stops, suddenly conscious of the deathly hush that's fallen over the room. Kate glances questioningly at me and I shrug. Christian turns on the stool and frowns, embarrassed to realize he's become the center of attention. 'Go on,' Grace urges softly. 'I've never heard you sing, Christian. Ever.

Look at him!” One of the girls beside me breathes enthusiastically to her friend. “He’s hot.” I stiffen. I’m sure they’re not talking about Professor Collins. “Must be Christian Grey.” “Is he single?” I bristle. “I don’t think so,” I murmur. “Oh.” Both girls look at me in surprise. “I think he’s gay,” I mutter. “What a shame,” one of the girls groans.

Oh, I exercise control in all things, Miss Steele.

You. Are. Going. To. Have. To. Learn. To. Keep. Still.

To: Christian Grey Dear Completely & Utterly Smitten I love waking up to you, too. But I love being in bed with you and in elevators and on pianos and billiard tables and boats and desks and showers and bathtubs and strange wooden crosses with shackels and four-poster beds with red satin sheets and boathouses and childhood bedrooms.

This is my favorite place. Buried in you," he murmurs against my skin. "Please, move," I plead. "Slow, Mrs. Grey." He flexes his hips again and pleasure radiates through me. I cup his face and kiss him, consuming him. "Love me. Please, Christian.

I fondle the last two charms: a letter C- oh yes, I was his first girlfriend to use his first name. I smile at the thought. And finally, there's a key. "To my heart and soul," he whispers.

You brought me here to admire the view?" I whisper. He nods, his expression serious. "It's staggering, Christian. Thank you," I murmur, letting my eyes feast on it once more. He releases my hand. "How would you like to look at it for the rest of your life?" he breathes.

I could be with Ana, helping her pack all her shit, then going out for pizza with her and Kate and Elliot—or whatever ordinary people do.

The fuller your bladder, the more intense your orgasm, Ana.

The first dance will be with me, okay? And it won't be on the dance floor," he murmurs lasciviously into my ear. My giggles subside as anticipation fans the flames of my need. Oh, yes! My inner goddess performs a perfect triple Salchow in her ice skates. "I look forward to it." I lean over and plant a soft, chaste kiss on his mouth. Glancing around, I realize that our fellow guests at the table are astonished.

Hmm … I pull him deeper into my mouth so I can feel him at the back of my throat and then to the front again. My tongue swirls around the end. He’s my very own Christian Grey–flavored popsicle. I suck harder and harder, pushing him deeper and deeper, swirling my tongue around and around. Hmm … I had no idea giving pleasure could be such a turn-on, watching him writhe subtly with carnal longing. My inner goddess

See, that wasn't so bad!" I grin as we tread water. Eventually he smirks at me, obviously relieved. "No, I guess it wasn't. Except I'm wet," he grumbles, but his tone is playful. 'I'm wet, too." "I like you wet." He leers.

First, I don’t make love. I fuck, hard.

I'd really like to tie you up right now" - Christian Grey

—Parece que no sólo es decorativa, sino útil, también.

This book is dedicated to those readers who asked… and asked…and asked…and asked for this. Thank you for all that you’ve done for me. You rock my world every day.

I need you, Anastasia," he whispers. "I need you, too." And as I say the words, I am struck how true they are. I cannot imagine being without Christian, ever. "Let me love you." he says hoarsely. "Yes," I answer.

He lunges at me, pushing me against the wall of the elevator. Before I know it, he's got both of my hands in one of his in a vise-like grip above my head, and he's pinning me to the wall using his hips. Holy shit. His other hand grabs my hair and yanks down, bringing my face up, and his lips are on mine. It's only just not painful. I moan into his mouth, giving his tongue an opening. He takes full advantage, his tongue expertly exploring my mouth. I have never been kissed like this. My tongue tentatively strokes his and joins his in a slow, erotic dance that's all about touch and sensation, all bump and grind. He brings his hand up to grasp my chin and holds me in place. I'm helpless, my hands pinned, my face held, and his hips restraining me. His erection is against my belly. Oh my... He wants me. Christian Grey, Greek god, wants me, and I want him, here... now, in the elevator.

If these men worshipped anything, they worshipped magic, which she supposed would be heresy back in Grey London. But then again, Christians worshipped an old man in the sky, and if Lila had to say which one seemed more real at the moment, she’d have to side with magic.

I’ve flown from Seattle just to see you, and the way you look right now, it was really worth the journey.

Just because you can doesn’t mean that you should.

I don’t do romance, sweetheart.

Christian Grey?” Jazz asked haughtily. “Me-thinks more Gideon Cross. That man can wear a suit.

Because my wife worked for him, and I run security checks on anyone my wife works with" - Christian Grey

The temerity of [Christian Grey] is astounding. E.L. James has managed to create one of the most blatantly antagonistic sociopaths I've ever seen, yet women everywhere are gobbling it up like he's the best thing since the vibrator.

Where else would I be? I want to be wherever you are, Ana. Being here makes me think of how far we've come. And the night that was. I watched you fro hours. You were just... yar," he breathes. I smile against his chest.

You are mine,” I whisper. “Only mine. Don’t forget it.

Don’t place some vague moral judgment on yourself based on what others might think.

I’ve never felt this desire, this…hunger before. It’s a new feeling, new and shiny. I want so much from her: her trust, her obedience, her submission. I want her to be mine, but right now…I’m hers.

No... Ana. Don’t go. “Good-bye, Christian.” “Ana... good-bye.” The doors close, and she’s gone. I sink slowly to the floor and put my head in my hands. The void is now cavernous and aching, overwhelming me. Grey, what the hell have you done?!

All that is mine is now yours. I give you my hand, my heart, and my love as we both shall live.” - Christian Grey

Put the chicken in the fridge.” This is not a sentence I had ever expected to hear from Christian Grey, and only he can make it sound hot, really hot.

I solemnly vow that I will safeguard and hold dear and deep in my heart our union and you, I promise to love you faithfully, forsaking all others, through the good times and the bad, in sickness and in health, regardless of where life takes us. I will protect you, trust you, and respect you. I will share your joys and sorrows and comfort you in times of need. I promise to cherish you and uphold your hopes and dreams and keep you safe at my side. All that is mine is now yours. I give you my hand, my heart, and my love from this moment on for as long as we both shall live." - Christian Grey

She has a small, sweet face that is blushing now, an innocent pale rose. I wonder briefly if all her skin is like that—flawless—and what it would look like pink and warmed from the bite of a cane.

…Have you considered a more conventional relationship with this girl?” “No, I haven’t.” “Why not?” “Because it’s never occurred to me that I could.

I want to chase the dawn with you.

I want to stay in her mind. I need to stay in her mind.

Elena, we have a business relationship which has profited us both immensely. Let's keep it that way. What was between us is part of past. Anastasia is my future, and I won't jeopardize it in any way, so cut the fucking crap.

This would be a perfect day if Ray were here with us, but he's not far away. He's doing well, and I know he'd like to enjoy yourself, Ana. To all of you, thank you for coming to share my beautiful wife's birthday, the first of many to come. Happy birthday, my love." - Christian Grey

Good. Until tomorrow, perhaps." I cant just leave. I have to let her know I'm interested. "Oh, and Anastasia? I'm glad Miss Kavanagh couldn't do the interview." Delighting in her stunned expression, I sling the bag over my shoulder and saunter out of the store. Yes, against my better judgement, I want her. Now I have to wait... fucking wait... again.

What does Christian know about love? Seems he didn’t get the unconditional love he was entitled to during his very early years. My heart twists, and my mother’s words waft like a zephyr through my mind: Yes, Ana. Hell, what do you need? A neon sign flashing on his forehead? She thinks Christian loves me, but then she’s my mother, of course she’d think that. She thinks I deserve the best of everything. I frown. It’s true, and in a moment of startling clarity, I see it. It’s very simple; I want his love. I need Christian Grey to love me. This is why I am so reticent about our relationship – because on some basic, fundamental level, I recognize within me a deep-seated compulsion to be loved and cherished.

This I have to hear. You know she popped his cherry?” “Elliot!” Grace scolds, and swats him with a dish towel. “Ow!” He fends her off.

Can I go Christian Grey on your ass and invite you for a trip in my private plane?” I flashed her my pearly whites.

I want you to throw the fucking book at him, Dad" - Christian Grey

I’ll leave you with a quote that has always resonated with me. And I’m paraphrasing a Native American saying: ‘Only when the last leaf has fallen, the last tree has died, and the last fish been caught will we realize that we cannot eat money.’  

Palm twitching mad, especially now

That’s what I do, and I do it well. It’s nothing to do with luck!

My body’s reaction is irritating. Maybe this will stop if I fetter, fuck, and flog her…and not necessarily in that order. Yeah. That’s what I need.

Her words travel directly to my dick, passing "Go" on the way. Fuck. This calls for - what did she call them? SHOUTY CAPITALS.

Only when the last leaf has fallen, the last tree has died, and the last fish been caught will we realize that we cannot eat money.’  

Recuerdos torturantes destellan a través de mi mente, el planeador, estrechar manos, besar, la bañera, su gentileza, su humor y su oscura, amenazante, sexy mirada. Lo extraño. Han sido cinco días, cinco días de agonía que se han sentido como una eternidad.

I was Mrs. Taylor yesterday.” I grin at Taylor, who flushes. “That has a nice ring to it, Miss Steele,” Taylor says matter-of-factly. “I thought so, too.” Christian tightens his hold on my hand, scowling. “If you two have quite finished, I’d like a debrief.” He glares at Taylor, who now looks uncomfortable, and I cringe inwardly. I have overstepped the mark. “Sorry,” I mouth at Taylor, who shrugs and smiles kindly before I turn to follow Christian. “I’ll be with you shortly. I just want a word with Miss Steele,” Christian says to Taylor, and I know I’m in trouble. Christian leads me into his bedroom and closes the door. “Don’t flirt with the staff, Anastasia,” he scolds. I open my mouth to defend myself—then close it again, then open it. “I wasn’t flirting. I was being friendly—there is a difference.” “Don’t be friendly with the staff or flirt with them. I don’t like it.” Oh. Good-bye, carefree Christian. “I’m sorry,” I mutter and stare down at my fingers. He hasn’t made me feel like a child all day. Reaching down he cups my chin, pulling my head up to meet his eyes. “You know how jealous I am,” he whispers. “You have no reason to be jealous, Christian. You own me body and soul.

Oh, fuck the paperwork.” The words come from nowhere and on instinct I grab her and push her against the wall. Clasping both her hands, I pin them above her head so she can’t touch me, and once she’s secure, I twist my other hand in her hair while my lips seek and find hers.

Thank you, baby," he breathes, covering my upturned face in soft feather-light kisses. I open my eyes and gaze up at him, and he wraps his arms tighter around me. "Your cheek is pink from the baize," he murmurs, rubbing my face tenderly. "How was that?" His eyes are wide and cautious. "Teeth-clenchingly good," I mutter. "I like it rough, Christian, and I like it gentle, too. I like that it's with you." He closes his eyes and hugs me even tighter.

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.

What would things look like if Satan really took control of a city? Over half a century ago, Presbyterian minister Donald Grey Barnhouse offered his own scenario in his weekly sermon that was also broadcast nationwide on CBS radio. Barnhouse speculated that if Satan took over Philadelphia (the city where Barnhouse pastored), all of the bars would be closed, pornography banished, and pristine streets would be filled with tidy pedestrians who smiled at each other. There would be no swearing. The children would say "Yes, sir" and "No, ma'am," and the churches would be full every Sunday...where Christ was not preached.

Please stop talking to me and hurry the fuck up.

Mrs. Robinson?” “Yes.” And her large rubber strap-on.

I could really take care of you. Where the hell did that thought come from?

I want you sore, baby.” I pull out and sink into her again. “Every time you move tomorrow, I want you to be reminded that I’ve been here. Only me. You are mine.

Woke me up,” she whispers. “I’m sure it did.” I’m fascinated. “What were you dreaming about?” “You,” she says in a small voice.

Like Eve, you’re so quick to eat from the tree of knowledge,

Me siento presa de un crudo sentimiento de indignación por el pobre, filantrópico, ligeramente jodido de la cabeza, y algo pervertidillo Christian - Anastacia

This is your baby sister, Christian. Her name is Mia.” Mommy lets me hold her. She is very small. With black, black hair. She smiles. She has no teeth. I stick out my tongue. She has a bubbly laugh. Mommy lets me hold the baby again. Her name is Mia. I make her laugh. I hold her and hold her. She is safe when I hold her. Elliot is not interested in Mia. She dribbles and cries. And he wrinkles his nose when she does a poop. When Mia is crying Elliot ignores her. I hold her and hold her and she stops. She falls asleep in my arms. “Mee a,” I whisper. “What did you say?! Mommy asks, and her face is white like a chalk. “Mee a.” “Yes. Yes. Darling boy. Mia. Her name is Mia.” And Mommy starts to cry with happy, happy tears.

I pull her pillow over my face to breathe in her scent. It’s torture, it’s heaven, and for a moment I contemplate death by suffocation. Get a grip, Grey.

Enlighten me, then.

Christ, even my staff have noticed that something’s rotten in the state of fucking Denmark.

I knew it would lead to this. All week…I knew I’d have to see her again.

Oh, touché, Miss Steele,

Her blazing blue eyes see everything. See me. My soul. She sees the darkness and the monster beneath.

She’s doing this on purpose. And for a split second I’m lost in her sensual, mesmerizing stare. She doesn’t back down. I’m hard. Instantly. I want her. Here. Now.

Anastasia,” I say, in good-bye. “Christian,” she answers, her voice soft.

How did you become this way?" "Why is anybody the way they are? That's kind of hard to answer.

You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.

Could I have a vanilla relationship with Anastasia? My scalp prickles. Fuck. Possibly.

It's a little blip. There's a tiny little blip in my belly. Tiny. Wow. I forget my discomfort as I stare dumbfounded at the blip.... The little blip is a baby. A real honest to goodness baby. Christian's baby. My baby. Holy cow. A baby! - Ana Grey

I turn over and lie flat on my back,staring at the ceiling. When she slept beside me, I slept well. I need her in my life, in my bed. She was the day to my night. I'm going to get her back.

She’s not going to eat. “Don’t rain on my parade, Anastasia.” “I’ll eat later, when my stomach’s woken up. About seven thirty, okay?” “Okay.” I can’t force her. She looks defiant and stubborn. “I want to roll my eyes at you,” she says. Oh, Ana, bring it on. “By all means, do, and you will make my day.

She holds out her hands in entreaty. Join me, she whispers, but she’s moving backward, getting fainter…disappearing before my eyes…vanishing…she’s gone. No! I shout. No! But I have no voice. I have nothing. I’m mute. Mute…again.

I watch as he moves gracefully through his kitchen. He's so at ease with his body on one level, but then he doesn't like to be touched... so maybe deep down he isn't. No man is an island, I muse – except perhaps Christian Grey. 'What are you thinking?' he asks, pulling me from my reverie. I flush. 'I was just watching the way you move.' He raises an eyebrow, amused. 'And?' he says dryly. I flush some more. 'You're very graceful.' 'Why thank you, Miss Steele' he murmurs.

Good-bye, Christian,” she says, and her voice falters, as if she’s trying not to cry. Shit. My whole mood shifts from irritation and concern for her well-being to helplessness as her car roars off up the street. I don’t know if I’ll see her again.

It was brief. Last year, I think. She’s a social climber. No wonder she has her sights set on Christian.” “Christian is taken. I told her to leave him alone or I would fire her.” Kate gapes at me once more, stunned. I nod proudly, and she lifts her glass to salute me, impressed and beaming. “Mrs. Anastasia Grey! Way to go!” We clink.

When I was seventeen I found a man, or maybe he found me. Away from home for the first time, out of reach of my father’s archaic restrictions and my mother’s culinary insistence, I cut off my hair, dropped my Christian name, wore black and toyed with anorexia, passing incognito among the city workers, just another ant in that vast heap.

God hears your prayers, Grey. Our world is broken and filled evil. It's our job as Christians to stand up and fight back the darkness. One way is through prayer.

Why am I feeling guilty? Why is he so mad? I peek up at him. “Well, you know a lot more about me now,” he snaps, his mouth presses into a hard line. “I knew you were inexperienced, but a virgin!” He says it like it’s a really dirty word. “Hell, Ana, I just showed you …” he groans. “May God forgive me. Have you ever been kissed, apart from by me?” “Of course I have.” I try my best to look affronted. Okay … maybe twice. “And a nice young man hasn’t swept you off your feet? I just don’t understand. You’re twenty-one, nearly twenty-two. You’re beautiful.” He runs his hand through his hair again. Beautiful. I flush with pleasure. Christian Grey thinks I’m beautiful. I knot my fingers together, staring at them hard, trying to conceal my goofy grin.

I had started on the marriage and motherhood beat by accident with a post on my personal, read only by friends, blog called ‘Fifty Shades of Men’. I had written it after buying Fifty Shades of Grey to spice up what Dave and I half-jokingly called our grown up time, and had written a meditation on how the sex wasn’t the sexiest part of the book. “Dear publishers, I will tell you why every woman with a ring on her finger and a car seat in her SUV is devouring this book like the candy she won’t let herself eat.” I had written. “It’s not the fantasy of an impossibly handsome guy who can give you an orgasm just by stroking your nipples. It is instead the fantasy of a guy who can give you everything. Hapless, clueless, barely able to remain upright without assistance, Ana Steele is that unlikeliest of creatures, a college student who doesn’t have an email address, a computer, or a clue. Turns out she doesn’t need any of those things. Here is the dominant Christian Grey and he’ll give her that computer plus an iPad, a beamer, a job, and an identity, sexual and otherwise. No more worrying about what to wear. Christian buys her clothes. No more stress about how to be in the bedroom. Christian makes those decisions. For women who do too much—which includes, dear publishers, pretty much all the women who have enough disposable income to buy your books—this is the ultimate fantasy: not a man who will make you come, but a man who will make agency unnecessary, a man who will choose your adventure for you.

heel. The errant thought makes me shift in my chair. She peeks up at me and bites down on her full bottom lip. Fuck! How did I not notice how inviting that mouth is? “S-Sorry, I’m not used to this.” I can tell, baby, but right now I don’t give a damn because I can’t take my eyes off your mouth.

If the moderns really want a simple religion of love, they must look for it in the Athanasian Creed. The truth is that the trumpet of true Christianity, the challenge of the charities and simplicities of Bethlehem or Christmas Day never rang out more arrestingly and unmistakably than in the defiance of Athanasius to the cold compromise of the Arians. It was emphatically he who really was fighting for a God of Love against a God of colourless and remote cosmic control; the God of the stoics and the agnostics. It was emphatically he who was fighting for the Holy Child against the grey deity of the Pharisees and the Sadducees. He was fighting for that very balance of beautiful interdependence and intimacy, in the very Trinity of the Divine Nature, that draws our hearts to the Trinity of the Holy Family. His dogma, if the phrase be not misunderstood, turns even God into a Holy Family.

Now in my eleven years of conventional life I had learned many things and one of them is what it means to be convicted of rape--I do not mean the man who did it, I mean the woman to whom it was done. Rape is one of the Christian mysteries, it creates a luminous and beautiful tableau in people's minds; and as I listened furtively to what nobody would allow me to hear straight out, I slowly came to understand that I was face to face with one of those feminine disasters, like pregnancy, like disease, like weakness; she was not only the victim of the act but in some strange way its perpetrator; somehow she had attracted the lightening that struck her out of a clear sky. A diabolical chance--which was not chance--had revealed her to all of us as she truly was, in her secret inadequacy, in that wretched guiltiness which she had kept hidden for seventeen years but which now finally manifested in front of everybody. Her secret guilt was this: She was Cunt. She had "lost" something. Now the other party to the incident had manifested his essential nature, too; he was Prick--but being Prick is not a bad thing. In fact, he had "gotten away with" something (possibly what she had "lost"). And there I was at eleven years of age: She was out late at night. She was in the wrong part of town. Her skirt was too short and that provoked him. She liked having her eye blacked and her head banged against the sidewalk. I understood this perfectly. (I reflected thus in my dream, in my state of being a pair of eyes in a small wooden box stuck forever on a grey, geometric plane--or so I thought.) I too had been guilty of what had been done to me, when I came home from the playground in tears because I had been beaten up by bigger children who were bullies. I was dirty. I was crying. I demanded comfort. I was being inconvenient. I did not disappear into thin air.

Christian Grey: [answers phone] Anastasia. Anastasia Steele: Yeah, this is me. I'm sending back your expensive books because I already have copies of those. Thanks though for the kind gesture. Christian Grey: You're welcome. Where are you? Anastasia Steele: Oh, I'm in line because I have to pee really bad. Christian Grey: Anastasia, have you been drinking? Anastasia Steele: [laughs] Yeah! I have, Mr. Fancy Pants. You hit... you hit the hail on the nead. I mean the head right on the nail. Christian Grey: Listen to me. I want you to go home right now. Anastasia Steele: You're so bossy! Ana, let's go for a coffee. No, stay away from me Ana! I don't want you! Get away. Come here, come here! Go away!

The portraits, of more historical than artistic interest, had gone; and tapestry, full of the blue and bronze of peacocks, fell over the doors, and shut out all history and activity untouched with beauty and peace; and now when I looked at my Crevelli and pondered on the rose in the hand of the Virgin, wherein the form was so delicate and precise that it seemed more like a thought than a flower, or at the grey dawn and rapturous faces of my Francesca, I knew all a Christian's ecstasy without his slavery to rule and custom; when I pondered over the antique bronze gods and goddesses, which I had mortgaged my house to buy, I had all a pagan's delight in various beauty and without his terror at sleepless destiny and his labour with many sacrifices; and I had only to go to my bookshelf, where every book was bound in leather, stamped with intricate ornament, and of a carefully chosen colour: Shakespeare in the orange of the glory of the world, Dante in the dull red of his anger, Milton in the blue grey of his formal calm; and I could experience what I would of human passions without their bitterness and without satiety. I had gathered about me all gods because I believed in none, and experienced every pleasure because I gave myself to none, but held myself apart, individual, indissoluble, a mirror of polished steel: I looked in the triumph of this imagination at the birds of Hera, glowing in the firelight as though they were wrought of jewels; and to my mind, for which symbolism was a necessity, they seemed the doorkeepers of my world, shutting out all that was not of as affluent a beauty as their own; and for a moment I thought as I had thought in so many other moments, that it was possible to rob life of every bitterness except the bitterness of death; and then a thought which had followed this thought, time after time, filled me with a passionate sorrow.

Our culture is hardwired with a Christian value system. Even if, like myself, you have never been a believer your mindset will still be shot through with this morality. Our deepest drives are distorted by an internal censor. Whether this is a bearded man sat on a cloud, or a sense of vague guilt will depend on your individual programming. Face up to it. Even if you are enlightened enough to be nodding along with what I’m saying you still have fetters on your freedom that have not yet been struck.

Monotheism generally allows for no greys. Ideas are either true or false. Hence, although science develops out of the alchemy of the medieval Christian milieu (derived from Arabic alchemy, which was stimulated by the much earlier Chinese alchemy), science is not understood by the nonscientific monotheistic population. The general Western public mistakenly thinks science presents unalterable truth, as does their religion, rather than theories to be tested and continually discarded to be replaced by new hypotheses, which is the actual scientific method.

SATURDAY AT THE STORE is a nightmare. We are besieged by do-it-yourselfers wanting to spruce up their homes. Mr. and Mrs. Clayton and John and Patrick—the two other part-timers—and I are besieged by customers. But there’s a lull around lunchtime, and Mrs. Clayton asks me to check on some orders while I’m sitting behind the counter at the register discreetly eating my bagel. I’m engrossed in the task, checking catalog numbers against the items we need and the items we’ve ordered, eyes flicking from the order book to the computer screen and back as I make sure the entries match. Then, for some reason, I glance up … and find myself locked in the bold gray gaze of Christian Grey, who’s standing at the counter, staring at me. Heart failure. “Miss Steele. What a pleasant surprise.” His gaze is unwavering and intense. Holy crap. What the hell is he doing here, looking all outdoorsy with his tousled hair and in his cream chunky-knit sweater, jeans, and walking boots? I think my mouth has popped open, and I can’t locate my brain or my voice. “Mr. Grey,” I whisper, because that’s all I can manage. There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips and his eyes are alight with humor, as if he’s enjoying some private joke. “I was in the area,” he says by way of explanation. “I need to stock up on a few things. It’s a pleasure to see you again, Miss Steele.” His voice is warm and husky like dark melted chocolate fudge caramel … or something.

In 1954 the gulag at Kengir witnessed an uprising by Christian and Muslim prisoners. The guards were driven out, and for forty days worship was freely practiced in the camp. Solzhenitsyn later documented the atmosphere of elation and idealism which prevailed in this doomed island of faith: the Muslims put on turbans and robes again, and 'the grey-black camp was a blaze of color'. The Chechens made kites from which they showered the neighboring villages with messages about the evils of the atheist system. Many marriages were celebrated. Survivors recall the forty days as a testimony to a possible way of living which had been suffocated by dreary unbelief. Delight in the present, and the knowledge of heaven outweighed the awareness of Khrushchev's inevitable revenge. The rebels were crushed under the attacks of tanks, but in the long term, this same spiritual outweighing insured the atheist dystopia's downfall.

The cult of the Virgin Mary enabled the worship of the Goddess to flourish, albeit in a cauterised form. As I keep repeating in a mantra, sex is power. The Virgin was a method of turning the sexual impulse of Christians back into the Church and onto the figure of the crucified Christ. I would describe this as a particularly unsavoury form of magick. This is the use of repression and misery as a spiritual battery. This enslavement of the worshipper’s natural desires is the exact opposite of the natural and healthy lust for Babalon. With the resolutely chaste Mary in position, churches had a surrogate Goddess back in the house. Christ knows, they needed one. To sell Christianity to the fans of the God who dies and is reborn (like the crops in the fields) the Church used statues of Mary and Jesus that were rather close to those of Isis and the Child Horus. This mother/son icon propaganda was like a Pepsi taste test for the wavering pagans. They failed. It requires other women to keep women as slaves stripped of their sexual power. The BVM did that job. She was the only role model that you could fixate upon. As a Goddess she is a clitoridectomy. If you lift her skirt you can see the coarse black thread where she has been snipped and stitched. The thread is plaited from the beard of Jehovah himself. This is not a woman anymore. Look under the hem and learn.

You probably think you know all about men, because you read a lot of romance novels, so you think you're an expert on men. But I'm gonna tell you a little secret: the men in those books are fiction. They do not at all represent how men in real life actually think. Those romance novels were written for women by women (and a few men who know what women like to read, so they write romance to make a quick buck.) When you read a book like Grey, Christian's inner monologue does not at all sound like how a man actually thinks in real life. It sounds like a woman does a poor job of imagining how a man thinks. The fictitious men in romance novels are as fake and imaginary as vampires. They're not real. Right about now, there's probably a little voice in your head, screaming: “NOOO!!! You can't say that! You can't speak for all men! Every man is different!!” True. No two dogs are alike. And yet, all dogs have something in common that makes them dogs, and makes them different from cats. The same goes for men and women. The trouble starts when cats don't realize that dogs are different. Dogs think differently, and perceive the world differently, than cats do. I'm a dog. You're a cat. And a dog knows better what it's like to be a dog than a cat does.