the original e.l james fifty shades of grey in PDF. ronaldweinland.info shades-of-grey-epub/ Folkscanomy: A Library of Books. Main Author: James, E. L.. Corporate Author: OverDrive Inc. Published: New York : Knopf Doubleday, Series: James, E. L. Fifty shades trilogy 2. Subjects. Fifty Shades of Grey: Book One of the Fifty Shades Trilogy (Fifty Shades of Grey Series series) by E L James. Read online, or download in secure EPUB format.
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Fifty Shades of Grey. Fifty Shades Trilogy (Series). Book 1. E L James Author Becca Battoe Narrator (). cover image of Fifty Shades of Grey. 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. Fifty Shades Of Grey Series By E.L James. Fifty Shades Darker - E. L. James. epub. MB. Fifty Shades Freed - E. L. ronaldweinland.info MB. Fifty Shades of Grey.
Launched a new e-book download is a free service,feel free to click the download button. Randall Kazamp is a boy who makes an Earthly-unearthly discovery that universally turns out to be just a part of his growing up. When it comes right down to it, the known universe is equally as big or mysterious or capable as any act occurring in it, as they go clasp in clasp would likely be the guess or so it would seem--while on their way. But Randall Kazamp, at his age in this story hasn't even completely developed a guess--as he is still a boy. Randall, though, is different than any other boy; but, yet, he is quite the same--and just like the Universe, they specifically are all growing-up, which is also the theme of the book Yardrof--with its rounded 51, words.
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. She walks around me as I stand naked in her basement. That, and the smell of her expensive perfume. My body begins to respond. She laughs. And I try, really try, to bring my body to heel.
Though perhaps you should be rewarded for good behavior, she purrs. And she hits me again, across my chest this time, but soft, more playful. The flogger flies again, stinging my ass, and my legs quiver in response. Hold still, she warns. And I stand straight, waiting for the next blow.
My eyes spring open and I glance at her in alarm. Eyes down, she commands. And I stare at my feet as panic overwhelms me. She grabs my face, her nails biting into my skin. You will. Her ice-blue eyes burn into mine, scarlet lips twisted in a snarl.
She laughs and pushes me away and raises her hand. But the blow never comes. When I open my eyes, Ana stands before me. She caresses my cheek and smiles. I love you, she says. And for a moment I feel giddy. A stupid grin splits my face and I shake my head. Have I ever felt like this? There are so many possibilities. I kiss her hair and rest my chin on her head. I gaze down at my sleeping beauty. Her lips are gently parted, her dark lashes fanned out, shadowing her face. And I remember watching her sleep at The Heathman, that first time.
She looked so peaceful then; she looks peaceful now. Her eyelashes flutter and she opens her eyes. I want to laugh out loud. She squirms in my lap. I still her with my hands. Tell me what she needs. I want her to be confident enough to express her desires. All of them. I lift her off my lap when Taylor pulls up at the curb beside her apartment. I climb out of the car, walk to her door, and open it for her.
She looks sleepy and adorable as she struggles out of the car. Will she accept my gift? This is the final stage of my campaign to win her back. Opening the trunk, I grab the gift box that contains her Mac, her phone, and an iPad. She looks from the box to me with suspicion. We both need to sleep. I must chase Welch for his report on Hyde. Leaning down, I cup her chin in my fingers. I want to kiss her hard, but I hold back and trace soft kisses from her temple to her mouth.
She moans and the sweet sound travels straight to my cock. Oh, baby. Not now. My body ignores my noble gesture and stiffens in anticipation. I shake my head, amazed as ever by my lust for Ana. Go to bed, Ana, I will her. As if she hears me, she closes the door, and Taylor starts the car to head home to Escala.
I lean back in my seat. What a difference a day makes. I grin. I imagine her in her apartment, opening the box. Will she be pissed? Or will she be delighted? She never took kindly to gifts. Was it a step too far? Once inside, I check my phone to see if she has anything to say about the gifts.
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Info on GoodReads: Another awesome series fiction which is alongside the A Song of Ice and Fire. The book takes place where The Son of Neptune left off. Translated from Latin to English it says: Wisdom's daughter walks alone, The Mark of Athena burns through Rome, Twins snuff out the angels breath, Who holds the key to endless death, Giants bane stands gold and pale, Won through pain from a woven jail. Fifty Shades of Grey is a erotic novel by British author E.
Set largely in Seattle, it is the first instalment in a trilogy that traces the deepening relationship between a college graduate, Anastasia Steele, and a young business magnate, Christian Grey. Fifty Shades of Grey has attracted criticism due to its origin as a fan fiction based on the Twilight novels, with some readers predicting copyright issues due to this connection.
In April , E. James was listed as one of Time magazine's " Most Influential People in the World", with Richard Lawson of The Atlantic Wire criticising her inclusion due to the trilogy's fan fiction beginnings. If you have some newly published books want to promote, please share to us, we will provide the download resource on this page.
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