Fifty Shades Trilogy 01 - Fifty Shades of Grey

thoughts.
    “All part of your feed-the-world plan?” I tease.
    “Something like that,” he acknowledges, and his lips quirk up in a half smile.
    He gazes at the selection of cable ties we stock at Clayton’s. What on Earth is he going to do with those? I cannot picture him as a do-it-yourselfer at all. His fingers trail across the various packages displayed, and for some inexplicable reason, I have to look away. He bends and selects a packet.
    “These will do,” he says with his oh-so-secret smile, and I blush.
    “Is there anything else?”
    “I’d like some masking tape.”
    Masking tape?
    “Are you redecorating?” The words are out before I can stop them. Surely he hires laborers or has staff to help him decorate?
    “No, not redecorating,” he says quickly then smirks, and I have the uncanny feeling that he’s laughing at me.
    Am I that funny? Funny looking?
    “This way,” I murmur, embarrassed. “Masking tape is in the decorating aisle.”
    I glance behind me as he follows.
    “Have you worked here long?” His voice is low, and he’s gazing at me, gray eyes concentrating hard. I blush even more brightly. Why the hell does he have this effect on me? I feel like I’m fourteen years old – gauche, as always, and out of place. Eyes front, Steele!
    “Four years,” I mutter as we reach our goal. To distract myself, I reach down and select the two widths of masking tape that we stock.
    “I’ll take that one,” Grey says softly pointing to the wider tape, which I pass to him. Our fingers brush very briefly, and the current is there again, zapping through me like I’ve touched an exposed wire. I gasp involuntarily as I feel it, all the way down to somewhere dark and unexplored, deep in my belly. Desperately, I scrabble around for my equilibrium.
    “Anything else?” My voice is husky and breathy. His eyes widen slightly.
    “Some rope, I think.” His voice mirrors mine, husky.
    “This way.” I duck my head down to hide my recurring blush and head for the aisle.
    “What sort were you after? We have synthetic and natural filament rope… twine… cable cord… ” I halt at his expression, his eyes darkening. Holy cow.
    “I’ll take five yards of the natural filament rope, please.”
    Quickly, with trembling fingers, I measure out five yards against the fixed ruler, aware that his hot gray gaze is on me. I dare not look at him. Jeez, could I feel any more self-conscious? Taking my Stanley knife from the back pocket of my jeans, I cut it then coil it neatly before tying it in a slipknot. By some miracle, I manage not to remove a finger with my knife.
    “Were you a Girl Scout?” he asks, sculptured, sensual lips curled in amusement. Don’t look at his mouth!
    “Organized, group activities aren’t really my thing, Mr. Grey.”
    He arches a brow.
    “What is your thing, Anastasia?” he asks, his voice soft and his secret smile is back. I gaze at him unable to express myself. I’m on shifting tectonic plates. Try and be cool, Ana, my tortured subconscious begs on bended knee.
    “Books,” I whisper, but inside, my subconscious is screaming: You! You are my thing! I slap it down instantly, mortified that my psyche is having ideas above its station.
    “What kind of books?” He cocks his head to one side. Why is he so interested?
    “Oh, you know. The usual. The classics. British literature, mainly.”
    He rubs his chin with his long index finger and thumb as he contemplates my answer. Or perhaps he’s just very bored and trying to hide it.
    “Anything else you need?” I have to get off this subject – those fingers on that face are so beguiling.
    “I don’t know. What else would you recommend?”
    What would I recommend? I don’t even know what you’re doing.
    “For a do-it-yourselfer?”
    He nods, gray eyes alive with wicked humor. I flush, and my eyes stray of their own accord to his snug jeans.
    “Coveralls,” I reply, and I know I’m no longer screening what’s coming out of my mouth.
    He raises an 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.
    “Um.” I feel the color in my cheeks rising again. I must be the color of the communist manifesto. Stop talking. Stop talking NOW.
    “I’ll take some coveralls. Heaven forbid I should ruin any clothing,” he says dryly.
    I try and dismiss the unwelcome image of him without jeans.
    “Do you need