“He makes you the person you want to be,
instead of the person you are, and that, the idea of life without him is,
not only unbearable, it's unimaginable.”
“Anastasia, you should steer clear of me. I’m not the man for you,” he whispers.”
“I love you, Anastasia. I will do everything in my power to protect you. I cannot imagine my life without you.”
“But the only way you are going to sort the problem, whatever it is, is to talk it through with him. You can do all the thinking you like—but until you actually talk, you’re not going to get anywhere.”
“Follow your heart, darling, and please, please—try not to overthink things. Relax and enjoy yourself.”
“Don’t,” he murmurs, then kisses me lightly. “Why don’t you like to be touched?” I whisper, staring up into soft gray eyes. “Because I’m fifty shades of fucked up, Anastasia.”
“And you decided that it was nice knowing me? Do you mean knowing me in the biblical sense?” Oh, shit. I flush. “I didn’t think you were familiar with the Bible.” “I went to Sunday school, Anastasia. It taught me a great deal.” “I don’t remember reading about nipple clamps in the Bible. Perhaps you were taught from a modern translation.” His lips arch with a trace of a smile, and my eyes are drawn to his mouth. “Well, I thought I should come and remind you how nice it was knowing me.”
“The world of Katherine Kavanagh is very clear, very black and white. Not the intangible, mysterious, vague hues of gray that color my world. Welcome to my world.”
“After you've taken so much trouble to set up recorder, you ask me now?”
“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.”
“Which medieval chronicle did you escape from? You sound like a courtly knight.”
“And the rules?” “No rules.” “None at all? But you have needs.” “I need you more, Anastasia. These last few days have been hell.”
“You make me feel cherished.” “That’s because you are,” he murmurs,”
“We’ve chased the dawn, Anastasia, now the dusk,”
“In the back of my mind, my mother’s often-recited warning comes to me: Never trust a man who can dance.”
“Anastasia, you were comatose. Necrophilia is not my thing. I like my women sentient and receptive,” he says dryly.”
“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.”
“If you grow up with a wholly negative self-image, thinking you’re some kind of reject, an unlovable savage, you think you deserve to be beaten.”
“All the times he’s alluded to my leaving once I knew his darkest secrets flash through my mind … and now I know. Shit. Master is dark.”
“Perhaps I’ve spent too long in the company of my literary romantic heroes, and consequently my ideals and expectations are far too high.”
“Is there a store you go to? Submissives ’Я’ Us?” He laughs. “Not exactly.”
“I want my own Christian Grey :)”
“The growth and development of people is the highest calling of leadership.’ ”
“Ana.” Elliot’s voice is clipped and quiet, and my scalp prickles ominously. “What’s wrong?” “It’s Christian. He’s not back from Portland.” “What? What do you mean?” “His helicopter has gone missing.” “Charlie Tango?” I whisper as all the breath leaves my body. “No!”
“I had no idea you’d all be so worried.”
“I agree to the conditions, Angel; because you know best what my punishment ought to be; only—only—don’t make it more than I can bear!”
“Weirdly, all the wood, dark walls, moody lighting, and oxblood leather makes the room kind of soft and romantic … I know it’s anything but; this is Christian’s version of soft and romantic.”
“The cashier – a bubble popping juvenile delinquent – asks me, “Will that be all?” I look at the bags of diapers that are now bagged in my cart and then at the empty belt. He is staring at me with his watery marijuana eyes, waiting for my answer.
“Um, no, I’d like all this invisible shit too.” I wave a hand at the conveyer and he is actually dumb enough to look.”
“We pass the apartment we rented five years ago, when I swore off Florence. In summer, wads of tourists clog the city as if it's a Renaissance theme park. Everyone seems to be eating. That year, a garbage strike persisted for over a week and I began to have thoughts of plague when I passed heaps of rot spilling out of bins. I was amazed that long July when waiters and shopkeepers remained as nice as they did, given what they had to put up with. Everywhere I stepped I was in the way. Humanity seemed ugly—the international young in torn T-shirts and backpacks lounging on steps, bewildered bus tourists dropping ice cream napkins in the street and asking, “How much is that in dollars?” Germans in too-short shorts letting their children terrorize restaurants. The English mother and daughter ordering lasagne verdi and Coke, then complaining because the spinach pasta was green. My own reflection in the window, carrying home all my shoe purchases, the sundress not so flattering. Bad wonderland. Henry James in Florence referred to “one's detested fellow-pilgrim.” Yes, indeed, and it's definitely time to leave when one's own reflection is included. Sad that our century has added no glory to Florence—only mobs and lead hanging in the air.”
“Anger is the most useless emotion," Henchick intoned, "destructive to the mind and hurtful to the heart.”
“What’s this war called again?”
“The Hundred Years War.”
“Hmmmm, got a bad feeling about this one.”
“I spent so much time telling myself that this wasn't home that I started to believe it,” she said carefully. “Belonging has always been tough for me.”
“I can be your home,” he said quietly. “Belong to me.”
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