Grey Read Free

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 wrongwith 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.
    Are these not her questions? I ask her, and she pales. Damn, she really is attractive, in an understated sort of way.
    “Er…no. Kate—Miss Kavanagh—she compiled the questions.”
    “Are you colleagues on the student paper?”
    “No. She’s my roommate.”
    No wonder she’s all over the place. I scratch my chin, debating whether or not to give her a really hard time.
    “Did you volunteer to do this interview?” I ask, and I’m rewarded with her submissive look: she’s nervous about my reaction. I like the effect I have on her.
    “I was drafted. She’s not well.” Her voice is soft.
    “That explains