50 Shades of Freed- COMPLETE! all chap page 3-7 13th Feb - Page 6

Extra 2

Bonus Material's: fiftys first Christmas

My sweater is scratchy and smells of new. Everything is new. I have a new

mommy. She is a doctor. She has a tetscope that I can stick in my ears and hear

my heart. She is kind and smiles. She smiles all the time. Her teeth are small and

white.

"Do you want to help me decorate the tree, zain?"

There is a big tree in the room with the big couches. A big tree. I have seen

these before. But in stores. Not inside where the couches are. My new house has

lots of couches. Not one couch. Not one brown sticky couch.

"Here, look."My new mommy shows me a box, and it's full of balls. Lots of pretty shiny

balls.

"These are ornaments for the tree."

Orn-a-ments. Orn-a-ments. My head says the word. Orn-a-ments.

"And these"" she stops and pulls out a string with little flowers on them.

"These are the lights. Lights first, and then we can trim the tree." She reaches

down and puts her fingers in my hair. I go very still. But I like her fingers in my

hair. I like to be near New Mommy. She smells good. Clean. And she only

touches my hair.

"Mom!"

He's calling. halshad. He's big and loud. Very loud. He talks. All the time. I

don't talk at all. I have no words. I have words in my head.

"harshad, darling, we're in the sitting room."

He runs in. He has been to school. He has a picture. A picture he has drawn

for my new mommy. She is halshads mommy, too. She kneels down and hugs him

and looks at the picture. It is a house with a mommy and a daddy and a halshad and

a zain. zain is very small in halshads picture. halshad is big. He has a big

smile and zain has a sad face.

Daddy is here, too. He walks toward Mommy. I hold my blankie tight. He

kisses New Mommy and New Mommy isn't frightened. She smiles. She kisses

him back. I squeeze my blankie.

"Hello, zain." Daddy has a deep soft voice. I like his voice. He is never

loud. He does not shout. He does not shout like . . . He reads books to me when I

go to bed. He reads about a cat and a hat and green eggs and ham. I have never

seen green eggs. Daddy bends down so he is small.

"What did you do today?"

I show him the tree.

"You bought a tree? A Christmas tree?"

I say yes with my head.

"It's a beautiful tree. You and Mommy chose very well. It's an important job

choosing the right tree."

He pats my hair, too, and I go very still and hold my blankie tightly. Daddy

doesn't hurt me.

"Daddy, look at my picture." halshad is mad when Daddy talks to me. halshad

is mad at me. I smack halshad when he is mad at me. New Mommy is mad at me if

I do. halshad does not smack me. halshad is scared of me.

The lights on the tree are pretty.

"Here, let me show you. The hook goes through the little eye, and then you

can hang it on the tree." Mommy puts the red orn-a . . . orn-a-ment on the tree.

"You try with this little bell."

The little bell rings. I shake it. The sound is a happy sound. I shake it again.

Mommy smiles. A big smile. A special smile for me.

"You like the bell, zain?"

I say yes with my head and shake the bell once more, and it tinkles happily.

"You have a lovely smile, darling boy." Mommy blinks and wipes her hand

on her eyes. She strokes my hair. "I love to see your smile." Her hand moves to

my shoulder. No. I step back and squeeze my blankie. Mommy looks sad and then

happy. She strokes my hair.

"Shall we put the bell on the tree?"

My head says yes.

"zain, you must tell me when you're hungry. You can do that. You can take

Mommy's hand and lead Mommy to the kitchen and point." She points her long

finger at me. Her nail is shiny and pink. It is pretty. But I don't know if my new

mommy is mad or not. I have finished all my dinner. Macaroni and cheese. It

tastes good.

"I don't want you to be hungry, darling. Okay? Now would you like some ice

cream?"

My head says yes! Mommy smiles at me. I like her smiles. They are better

than macaroni and cheese.

The tree is pretty. I stand and look at it and hug my blankie. The lights twinkle

and are all different colors, and the orn-a-ments are all different colors. I like the

blue ones. And on the top of the tree is a big star. Daddy held halshad up, and halshad put the star on the tree. halshad likes putting the star on the tree. I want to put

the star on the tree . . . but I don't want Daddy to hold me up high. I don't want

him to hold me. The star is sparkly and bright.

Beside the tree is the piano. My new mommy lets me touch the black and the

white on the piano. Black and white. I like the white sounds. The black sound is

wrong. But I like the black sound, too. I go white to black. White to black. Black

to white. White, white, white, white. Black, black, black, black. I like the sound. I

like the sound a lot.

"Do you want me to play for you, zain?"

My new mommy sits down. She touches the white and the black, and the

songs come. She presses the pedals underneath. Sometimes it's loud and sometimes it's quiet. The song is happy. halshad likes Mommy to sing, too. Mommy

sings about an ugly duckling. Mommy makes a funny quacking noise. halshad

makes the funny quacking noise, and he makes his arms like wings and flaps them

up and down like a bird. halshad is funny.

Mommy laughs. halshad laughs. I laugh.

"You like this song, zain?" And Mommy has her sad-happy face.

I have a stock-ing. It is red and it has a picture of a man with a red hat and a big

white beard. He is Santa. Santa brings presents. I have seen pictures of Santa. But

Santa never brought me presents before. I was bad. Santa doesn't bring presents to

boys who are bad. Now I am good. My new mommy says I am good, very good.

New Mommy doesn't know. I must never tell New Mommy . . . but I am bad. I

don't want New Mommy to know that.

Daddy hangs the stock-ing over the fireplace. halshad has a stocking, too. halshad

can read the word on his stock-ing. It says halshad. There is a word on my stocking. zain. New Mommy spells it out. Z-A-I-N.

Daddy sits on my bed. He reads to me. I hold my blankie. I have a big room. Sometimes the room is dark and I have bad dreams. Bad dreams about before. My

new mommy comes to bed with me when I have the bad dreams. She lies down

and she sings soft songs and I go to sleep. She smells of soft and new and lovely.

My new mommy is not cold. Not like . . . not like . . . And my bad dreams go

when she is there asleep with me.

Santa has been here. Santa does not know I have been bad. I am glad Santa does

not know. I have a train and a plane and a helicopter and a car and a helicopter.

My helicopter can fly. My helicopter is blue. It flies around the Christmas tree. It

flies over the piano and lands in the middle of the white. It flies over Mommy and

flies over Daddy and flies over halshad as he plays with the Lego. The helicopter

flies through the house, through the dining room, through the kitchen. He flies

past the door to Daddy's study and upstairs in my bedroom, in halshads bedroom,

Mommy and Daddy's bedroom. He flies through the house, because it's my

house. My house where I live.

Extra 3

Meet 50 shades

Monday, May 9, 2011

"Tomorrow," I mutter, dismissing Claude Bastille as he stands on the threshold of

my office.

"Golf, this week, abdullah." Bastille grins with easy arrogance, knowing that his

victory on the golf course is assured.I scowl after him as he turns and leaves. His parting words rub salt into my

wounds because despite my heroic attempts in the gym this morning, my personal

trainer has kicked my ass. Bastille is the only one who can beat me, and now he

wants another pound of flesh on the golf course. I detest golf, but so much business is done on the fairways I have to endure his lessons there too . . . and though

I hate to admit it, Bastille does go some way to improving my game.

As I stare out at the Seattle skyline, the familiar ennui seeps into my consciousness. My mood is as flat and gray as the weather. My days are blending together with no distinction, and I need some kind of diversion. I've worked all

weekend and now, in the continued confines of my office, I'm restless. I shouldn't

feel this way, not after several bouts with Bastille. But I do.

I frown. The sobering truth is that the only thing to capture my interest recently has been my decision to send two freighters of cargo to Sudan. This reminds me"Ros is supposed to come back to me with numbers and logistics.

What the hell is keeping her? Intent on finding out what she's playing at, I glance

at my schedule and reach for the phone.

Oh, Christ! I have to endure an interview with the persistent Miss Kavanagh

for the WSU student magazine. Why the f**k did I agree to this? I loathe interviews"inane questions from inane, ill-informed, vacuous idiots. The phone

buzzes.

"Yes," I snap at Andrea as if she's to blame. At least I can keep this interview

short.

"Miss Aliya Haider is here to see you, Mr. abdullah."

"haider? I was expecting yasmin khan."

"It's Miss Aliya haider who's here, sir."

I scowl. I hate the unexpected. "Show her in," I mutter, aware that I sound

like a sulky teen but not giving a f**k.

Well, well . . . Miss khan is unavailable. I know her father, the owner of

khan Media. We've done business together, and he seems like a shrewd operator and a rational human being. This interview is a favor to him"one that I

mean to cash in later when it suits me. And I have to admit I was vaguely curious

about his daughter, interested to see if the apple had fallen far from the tree.

A commotion at the door brings me to my feet as a whirl of long chestnut

hair, pale limbs, and brown boots dives head first into my office. I roll my eyes

and repress my natural annoyance at such clumsiness as I hurry over to the girl

who has landed on her hands and knees on the floor. Clasping her slim shoulders,

I help her to her feet.

Clear, bright-blue, embarrassed eyes meet mine and halt me in my tracks.

They are the most extraordinary color"guileless, powder-blue"and for one awful moment, I think she can see right through me. I feel . . . exposed. The thought

is unnerving. 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. f**k. I stop my wayward

thoughts, alarmed at their direction. What the f**k are you thinking, Grey. This

girl is much too young. She gapes at me, and I almost roll my eyes again. Yeah,

yeah, baby, it's just a face, and the beauty is only skin-deep. I want to dispel that

unguarded, admiring look from those big blue eyes.

Showtime, abdullah. Let's have some fun. "Miss khan? I'm zain abdullah.

Are you all right? Would you like to sit?"

There's that blush again. In command once more, I study her. She's quite attractive, in a gauche way"slight, pale, with a mane of mahogany hair barely contained by a hair tie. A brunette. Yeah, she's attractive. I extend my hand, and she

stutters the beginning of a mortified apology and places her small hand in mine.

Her skin is cool and soft, but her handshake surprisingly firm.

"Miss khan is indisposed, so she sent me. I hope you don't mind, Mr.

abdullah." Her voice is quiet with a hesitant musicality, and she blinks erratically,

long lashes fluttering over those big blue eyes.

Unable to keep the amusement from my voice as I recall her less-than-elegant

entrance into my office, I ask who she is.

"aliya haider. I'm studying English Literature with yas, um . . . yasmin . . . um . . . Miss khan at Washington State."

A nervous, bashful, bookish type, eh? She looks it; hideously dressed, hiding

her slight frame beneath a shapeless sweater and an A-line brown skirt. Christ,

does she have no dress sense at all? She looks nervously around my office"everywhere but at me, I note with amused irony.

How can this young woman be a journalist? She doesn't have an assertive

bone in her body. She's all charmingly flustered, meek, mild . . . submissive. I

shake my head, bemused at where my inappropriate thoughts are going. Muttering

some platitude, I ask her to sit, then notice her discerning gaze appraising my

office paintings. Before I can stop myself, I find I'm explaining them. "A local

artist. Trouton."

"They're lovely. Raising the ordinary to extraordinary," she says dreamily,

lost in the exquisite, fine artistry of my paintings. Her profile is delicate"an upturned nose, soft, full lips"and in her words she has mirrored my sentiments exactly. "The ordinary raised to extraordinary." It's a keen observation. Miss

haider is bright.

I mutter my agreement and watch that flush creep slowly over her skin once

more. As I sit down opposite her, I try to bridle my thoughts.

She fishes a crumpled sheet of paper and a mini-disc recorder out of her

overly large bag. Mini-disc recorder? Didn't those go out with VHS tapes?

Christ"she's all thumbs, dropping the damned thing twice on my Bauhaus coffee

table. She's obviously never done this before, but for some reason I can't fathom,

I find it amusing. Normally this kind of fumbling maladroitness irritates the f**k

out of me, but now I hide my smile beneath my index finger and resist the urge to

set it up for her myself.

As she grows more and more flustered, it occurs to me that I could refine her

motor skills with the aid of a riding crop. Adeptly used it can bring even the most

skittish to heel. The errant thought makes me shift in my chair. She peeks up at

me and bites down on her full bottom lip. f**k me! How did I not notice that

mouth before?

"Sorry, I'm not used to this."

I can tell, baby"my thought is ironic"but right now I don't give a f**k, because I can't take my eyes off your mouth.

"Take all the time you need, Miss Steele." I need yet another moment to marshal my wayward thoughts. abdullah . . . stop this, now.

"Do you mind if I record your answers?" she asks, her face candid and

expectant.

I want to laugh. Oh, thank Christ.

"After you've taken so much trouble to set up the recorder, you ask me

now?" She blinks, her eyes large and lost for a moment, and I feel an unfamiliar

twinge of guilt. Stop being such a shit, abdullah.

"No, I don't mind," I mutter, not wanting to be responsible for that look.

"Did yasmin"I mean Miss khan"explain what the interview was for?"

"Yes, to appear in the graduation issue of the student newspaper as I shall be

conferring the degrees at this year's graduation ceremony." Why the f**k I've

agreed to do that, I don't know. Sam in PR tells me it's an honor, and the environmental science department in Vancouver needs the publicity in order to attract additional funding to match the grant I've given them.

Miss haider blinks, all big blue eyes once more, as if my words are a surprise

and f**k"she looks disapproving! Hasn't she done any background work for this

interview? She should know this. The thought cools my blood. It's . . . displeasing, not what I expect from her or anyone I give my time to.

"Good. I have some questions, Mr. abdullah." She tucks a lock of hair behind her

ear, distracting me from my annoyance.

"I thought you might," I mutter dryly. Let's make her squirm. Obligingly she

squirms, then pulls herself together, sitting up straight and squaring her small

shoulders. Leaning forward she presses the start button on the mini-disc, and

frowns as she glances down at her crumpled notes.

"You're very young to have amassed such an empire. To what do you owe

your success?"

Oh Christ! Surely she can do better than this? What a f**king dull question.

Not one iota of originality. It's disappointing. I trot out my usual response about

having exceptional people in the U.S. working for me. People I trust, insofar as I

trust anyone, and pay well"blah, blah, blah . . . But Miss haider, the simple fact

is, I'm a f**king genius at what I do. For me it's like falling off a log. Buying ailing, mismanaged companies and fixing them, or if they're really broken, stripping

their assets and selling them off to the highest bidder. It's simply a question of

knowing the difference between the two, and invariably it comes down to the

people in charge. To succeed in business you need good people, and I can judge a

person, better than most.

"Maybe you're just lucky," she says quietly.

Lucky? A frisson of annoyance runs through me. Lucky? No f**king luck involved here, Miss haider. She looks unassuming and quiet, but this question? No

one has ever asked me if I was lucky. Hard work, bringing people with me, keeping a close watch on them, second-guessing them if I need to; and if they aren't up

to the task, ruthlessly ditching them. That's what I do, and I do it well. It's nothing to do with luck! Well, f**k that. Flaunting my erudition, I quote the words of

my favorite American industrialist to her.

"You sound like a control freak," she says, and she's perfectly serious.

What the f**k?

Maybe those guileless eyes can see though me. Control is my middle name.

I glare at her. "Oh, I exercise control in all things, Miss haider." And I'd like

to exercise it over you, right here, right now.

Her eyes widen. That attractive blush steals across her face once more, and

she bites that lip again. I ramble on, trying to distract myself from her mouth.

"Besides, immense power is acquired by assuring yourself, in your secret reveries, that you were born to control things."

"Do you feel that you have immense power?" she asks in a soft soothing

voice, but she arches her delicate brow, revealing the censure in her eyes. My annoyance grows. Is she deliberately trying to goad me? Is it her questions, her attitude, or the fact that I find her attractive that's pissing me off?

"I employ over forty thousand people, Miss haider. That gives me a certain

sense of responsibility"power, if you will. If I were to decide I was no longer interested in the telecommunications business and sell up, twenty thousand people

would struggle to make their mortgage payments after a month or so."

Her mouth pops open at my response. That's more like it. Suck it up, Miss

haider. I feel my equilibrium returning.

"Don't you have a board to answer to?"

"I own my company. I don't answer to a board," I respond sharply. She

should know this. I raise a questioning brow.

"And do you have any interests outside of your work?" she continues hastily,

correctly gauging my reaction. She knows I'm pissed, and for some inexplicable

reason this pleases me enormously.

"I have varied interests, Miss haider. Very varied." I smile. Images of her in

assorted positions in my playroom flash through my mind: shackled on the cross,

spread-eagle on the four-poster, splayed over the whipping bench. f**king hell!

Where is this coming from? And behold"there's that blush again. It's like a defense mechanism. Calm down, abdullah.

"But if you work so hard, what do you do to chill out?"

"Chill out?" I grin, those words out of her smart mouth sound odd. Besides

when do I get time to chill out? Has she no idea of the number of companies I

control? But she looks at me with those ingenuous blue eyes, and to my surprise I

find myself considering her question. What do I do to chill out? Sailing, flying,

f**king . . . testing the limits of little brown-haired girls like her, and bringing

them to heel . . . The thought makes me shift in my seat, but I answer her

smoothly, omitting my two favorite hobbies.

"You invest in manufacturing. Why, specifically?"

Her question drags me rudely back to the present.

"I like to build things. I like to know how things work, what makes things

tick, how to construct and deconstruct. And I have a love of ships. What can I

say?" They distribute food around the planet"taking goods from the haves to the

have-nots and back again. What's not to like?

"That sounds like your heart talking, rather than logic and facts."

Heart? Me? Oh no, baby. My heart was savaged beyond recognition a long

time ago. "Possibly, though there are people who'd say I don't have a heart."

"Why would they say that?"

"Because they know me well." I give her a wry smile. In fact no one knows

me that well, except maybe Elena. I wonder what she would make of little Miss

haider here. The girl is a mass of contradictions: shy, uneasy, obviously bright,

and arousing as hell. Yes, okay, I admit it. She's an alluring little piece.

She recites the next question by rote.

"Would your friends say you're easy to get to know?"

"I'm a very private person, Miss haider. I go a long way to protect my privacy. I don't often give interviews." Doing what I do, living the life I've chosen, I

need my privacy.

"Why did you agree to do this one?"

"Because I'm a benefactor of the university, and for all intents and purposes,

I couldn't get Miss khan off my back. She badgered and badgered my PR

people, and I admire that kind of tenacity." But I'm glad it's you who turned up

and not her.

"You also invest in farming technologies. Why are you interested in this

area?"

"We can't eat money, Miss haider, and there are too many people on this

planet who don't have enough to eat." I stare at her, poker-faced.

"That sounds very philanthropic. Is that something you feel passionately

about? Feeding the world's poor?" She regards me with a quizzical expression as

if I'm some kind of conundrum for her to solve, but there is no way I want those

big blue eyes seeing into my dark soul. This is not an area open to discussion.

Ever.

"It's shrewd business." I shrug, feigning boredom, and I imagine f**king her

smart mouth to distract myself from all thoughts of hunger. Yes, that mouth needs

training. Now that thought is appealing, and I let myself imagine her on her knees

before me.

"Do you have a philosophy? If so, what is it?" she recites by rote again.

"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?" Her eyes widen.

Yes, baby. You, for one.

"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. 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 Walmart, or Old Navy

possibly"I know that isn't it. She hasn't grown up in an affluent household.

I could really take care of you.

Shit, where the f**k did that 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 brown-haired girl. I try a smile and agree with her. Nothing

wrong with consumption"after all, it drives what's left of the American

economy.

"You were adopted. How far do you think that's shaped the way you are?"

What the f**k does this have to do with the price of oil? I scowl at her. What

a ridiculous question. If I'd stayed with the crack wh**e, 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 my how old I was when I was adopted. Shut her down, abdullah!

"That's a matter of public record, Miss Steele." My voice is arctic. She

should know this shit. Now she looks contrite. Good.

"You've had to sacrifice a family life for your work."

"That's not a question," I snap.

She blushes again and bites down on that damned lip. But she has the grace

to apologize.

"Have you had to sacrifice a family life for your work?"

What do I want with a f**king family?

"I have a family. I have a brother and a sister and two loving parents. I'm not

interested in extending my family beyond that."

"Are you gay, Mr. abdullah?"

What the f**k! I cannot believe she's said that out loud! The unspoken question that my own family dares not ask, much to my amusement. How dare she! I

have to fight down the urge to drag her out of her seat, bend her across my knee,

and spank the living shit out of her, then f**k her over my desk with her hands

tied tightly behind her back. That would answer her question. How frustrating is

this female? I take a deep calming breath. To my vindictive delight, she appears to

be acutely embarrassed by her own question.

"No, aliya, I'm not." I raise my eyebrows, but keep my expression impassive. aliya. It is a lovely name. I like the way my tongue rolls around it.

"I apologize. It's um . . . written here." Nervously, she tucks her hair behind

her ear.

She doesn't know her own questions? Perhaps they're not hers. I ask her, and

she pales. f**k, she really is very attractive, in an understated sort of way. I

would even go so far as to say she is beautiful.

"Er . . . no. yasmin"Miss khan"she compiled the questions."

"Are you colleagues on the student paper?"

"No, she's my roommate."

No wonder she is all over the place. I scratch my chin, debating whether to

give her a really, really hard time.

"Did you volunteer to do this interview?" I ask, and I'm rewarded with her

submissive look: eyes large, nervous about my reaction. I like the effect I have on

her.

"I was drafted. She's not well," she says softly.

"That explains a great deal."

There's a knock at the door, and Andrea appears. "Mr. abdullah, forgive me for

interrupting, but your next meeting is in two minutes."

"We're not finished here, Andrea. Please cancel my next meeting."

Andrea hesitates, gaping at me. I stare at her. Out! Now! I'm busy with Little

Miss haider here. Andrea blushes scarlet, but recovers quickly.

"Very well, Mr. abdullah," she says, and turning on her heel, she leaves us.

I turn my attention back to the intriguing, frustrating creature on my couch.

"Where were we, Miss haider?"

"Please don't let me keep you from anything."

Oh no, baby. It's my turn now. I want to know if there are any secrets to uncover behind those beautiful eyes.

"I want to know about you. I think that's only fair." As I lean back and press

my fingers to my lips, her eyes flick to my mouth and she swallows. Oh, yes"the

usual effect. And it is gratifying to know she isn't completely oblivious to my

charms.

"There's not much to know," she says, her blush returning. I'm intimidating

her. Good.

"What are your plans after you graduate?"

She shrugs. "I haven't made any plans, Mr. abdullah. I just need to get through

my final exams."

"We run an excellent internship program here." f**k. What possessed me to

say that? I'm breaking a golden rule"never, ever f**k the staff. But abdullah, you're

not f**king this girl. She looks surprised, and her teeth sink into that lip again.

Why is that so arousing?

"Oh. I'll bear that in mind," she mumbles. Then as an afterthought she says,

"Though I'm not sure I'd fit in here."

Why the hell not? What's wrong with my company?

"Why do you say that?" I ask.

"Well, it's obvious, isn't it?"

"Not to me." I'm confounded by her response.

She's flustered again as she reaches for the mini-disc recorder. Shit, she's going. Mentally I run through my schedule for that afternoon"there is nothing that

won't keep.

"Would you like me to show you around?"

"I'm sure you're far too busy, Mr. abdullah, and I do have a long drive."

"You'redriving back to WSU in Vancouver?" I glance out the window. It's one hell of a

drive, and it's raining. Shit. She shouldn't be driving in this weather, but I can't

forbid her. The thought irritates me. "Well, you'd better drive carefully." My

voice is sterner than I intend.

She fumbles with the mini-disc. She wants out of my office, and for some

reason I can't explain, I don't want her to go.

"Did you get everything you need?" I add in a transparent effort to prolong

her stay.

"Yes, sir," she says quietly.

Her response floors me"the way those words sound, coming out of that

smart mouth"and briefly I imagine that mouth at my beck and call.

"Thank you for the interview, Mr. abdullah."

"The pleasure's been all mine," I respond-truthfully, because I haven't been

this fascinated by anyone in a long while. The thought is unsettling.

She stands and I extend my hand, eager to touch her.

"Until we meet again, Miss haider." My voice is low as she places her small

hand in mine. Yes, I want to flog and f**k this girl in my playroom. Have her

bound and wanting . . . needing me, trusting me. I swallow. It ain't going to happen, abdullah.

"Mr. abdullah." She nods and withdraws her hand quickly . . . too quickly.

Shit, I can't let her go like this. It's obvious she is desperate to leave. Irritation and inspiration hit me simultaneously as I see her out.

"Just ensuring you make it through the door, Miss haider."

She blushes on cue, her delicious shade of pink.

"That's very considerate, Mr. abdullah," she snaps.

Miss haider has teeth! I grin behind her as she exits, and I follow in her wake.

Both Andrea and Olivia look up in shock. Yeah, yeah. I'm just seeing the girl out.

"Did you have a coat?" I ask.

"Yes."

I scowl at simpering Olivia, who immediately leaps up to retrieve a navy

coat. Taking it, I glare at her to sit down. Christ, Olivia is annoying"mooning

over me all the time.

Hmm. The coat is from Walmart. Miss aliya haider should be better

dressed. I hold it up for her, and as I pull it over her slim shoulders, I touch the

skin at the base of her neck. She stills at the contact and pales. Yes! She is affected

by me. The knowledge is immensely pleasing. Strolling over to the elevator, I

press the call button while she stands fidgeting beside me.

Oh, I could so stop your fidgeting, baby.

The doors open and she scurries in then turns to face me.

"aliya," I murmur, saying good-bye.

"zain," she whispers. And the elevator doors close, leaving my name

hanging in the air, sounding odd, unfamiliar, but sexy as hell.

Well, f**k me. What was that?

I need to know more about this girl. "Andrea," I snap as I stalk back into my

office. "Get me Welch on the line, now."

As I sit at my desk and wait for the call, I look at the paintings on the wall of

my office, and Miss haiders words drift back to me. "Raising the ordinary to extraordinary." She could so easily have been describing herself.

My phone buzzes.

"I have Mr. Welch on the line for you."

"Put him through."

"Yes, sir."

"Welch, I need a background check."

Saturday, May 14, 2011

Aliya Ghulam Haider

DOB: September 10, 1989, Montesano, WA

Address: 1114 SW Green Street, apartment 7, haven heights, Vancouver, WA 98888

Mobile number: 360 959 4352

Social security number: 987-65-4320

Banking details: wells fargo bank, Vancouver, wa 98888 account number: 309361: $683.16 balance

Occupation: undergraduate student

GPA: 4.0

Prior education: Montesano jr-sr high school

SAT score: 2150

Employment: clayton's hardware store, nw Vancouver drive,Portland,OR(part-time)

Father: zaheer ahmad

DOB Father: September 1^st, 1969, deceased September 11, 1989

Mother: Shabana haider

DOB mother: july 18, 1970

Married zaheer ahmad march 1^st 1989,widowed sept 11 1989

Married Ghulam haider june 6 1990, divourced july 12 2006

Married amer hussain august 16 2006, divourced January 31 2007

Married usman hussain april 6, 2009

Political affiliations: none found

Religious affiliations: none found

Sexual orientations: not known

Relationship: none indicated at present

I pore over the executive summary for the hundredth time since I received it

two days ago, looking for some insight into the enigmatic Miss aliya Ghulam haider

. I cannot get the damned woman out of my mind, and it's seriously beginning to piss me off. This past week, during particularly dull meetings, I've found

myself replaying the interview in my head. Her fumbling fingers on the recorder,

the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the lip biting. Yes. The f**king lip biting gets me every time.

And now, here I am, parked outside Clayton's, the modest hardware store on

the outskirts of Portland where she works.

You're a fool, abdullah. Why are you here?

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

I'd known it since she uttered my name in the elevator and disappeared into the

depths of my building. I'd tried to resist. I'd waited five days, five f**king days to

see if I'd forget about her. And I don't do waiting. I hate waiting . . . for anything.

I've never actively pursued a woman before. The women I've had understood

what I expected of them. My fear now is that Miss haider is just too young and

that she won't be interested in what I have to offer . . . will she? Will she even

make a good submissive? I shake my head. There's only one way to find out . . .

so here I am, a f**king ass, sitting in a suburban parking lot in a dreary part of

Portland.

Her background check has produced nothing remarkable"except the last

fact, which has been at the forefront of my mind. It's the reason I'm here. Why no

boyfriend, Miss haider? Sexual orientation unknown"perhaps she's gay. I snort,

thinking that unlikely. I recall the question she asked during the interview, her

acute embarrassment, the way her skin flushed a pale rose . . . Shit. I've been suffering from these ludicrous thoughts since I met her.

That's why you're here.

I'm itching to see her again"those blue eyes have haunted me, even in my

dreams. I haven't mentioned her to Flynn, and I'm glad because I'm now behaving like a stalker. Perhaps I should let him know. I roll my eyes"I don't want

him hounding me about his latest solution-based shit. I just need a distraction . . .

and right now the only distraction I want is working as a salesclerk in a hardware

store.

You've come all this way. Let's see if little Miss haider is as appealing as you

remember. Showtime, abdullah. I climb out of the car and stroll across the lot to the

front door. A bell chimes a flat electronic note as I walk in.

The store is much bigger than it looks from the outside, and although it is almost lunchtime the place is quiet, for a Saturday. There are aisles and aisles of the

usual crap you'd expect. I'd forgotten the possibilities that a hardware store could

present to someone like me. I mainly shop online for my needs, but while I'm

here, maybe I'll stock up on a few items . . . Velcro, split rings"Yeah. I'll find

the delectable Miss haider and have some fun.

It takes me all of three seconds to spot her. She's hunched over the counter,

staring intently at a computer screen and picking at her lunch"a bagel. Unthinking, she wipes a crumb from the corner of her lips and into her mouth and sucks

on her finger. My cock twitches in response. f**k! What am I, fourteen? My reaction is f**king irritating. Maybe this adolescent response will stop if I fetter, f**k,

and flog her . . . and not necessarily in that order. Yeah. That's what I need.

She is thoroughly absorbed in her task, and it gives me an opportunity to

study her. Salacious thoughts aside, she is attractive, seriously attractive. I've remembered her well.

She glances up and freezes, pinning me with intelligent, discerning eyes"the

bluest of blue that seem to see right through me. It's as unnerving as the first time

I met her. She just stares, shocked I think, and I don't know if this is a good response or a bad response.

"Miss haider. What a pleasant surprise."

"Mr. abdullah," she whispers, breathy and flustered. Ah . . . a good response.

"I was in the area. I need to stock up on a few things. It's a pleasure to see

you again, Miss haider." A real pleasure. She's dressed in tight T-shirt and jeans,

not the shapeless shit she was wearing earlier this week. She's all long legs, small

waist, and perfect tits. She continues to gape, and I have to resist the urge to reach

out and tip her chin up to close her mouth. I've flown from Seattle just to see you,

and the way you look right now, it was worth the journey.

"aliya. My name's aliya. What can I help you with, Mr. abdullah?" She takes a

deep breath, squares her shoulders like she did in the interview, and gives me a

fake smile that I'm sure she reserves for customers.

Game on, Miss haider.

"There are a few items I need. To start with, I'd like some cable ties."

Her lips part as she inhales sharply.

You'd be amazed what I can do with a few cable ties, Miss haider.

"We stock various lengths. Shall I show you?"

"Please. Lead the way, Miss haider."

She steps out from behind the counter and gestures toward one of the aisles.

She's wearing chucks. Idly I wonder what she'd look like in skyscraper heels.

Laboutins . . . nothing but Laboutins.

"They're in with the electrical goods, aisle eight." Her voice wavers and she

blushes . . . again.

She is affected by me. Hope blooms in my chest. Not gay then. I smirk.

"After you," I murmur, holding my hand out for her to lead the way. Letting

her walk ahead gives me the space and time to admire her fantastic ass. She really

is the whole package: sweet, polite, and beautiful with all the physical attributes I

value in a submissive. But the million-dollar question is, could she be a

submissive? She probably knows nothing of the lifestyle"my lifestyle"but I

very much want to introduce her to it. You are getting way ahead of yourself on

this deal, abdullah.

"Are you in Portland on business?" she asks, interrupting my thoughts. Her

voice is high, trying to feign disinterest. It makes me want to laugh, which is refreshing. Women rarely make me laugh.

"I was visiting the WSU farming division based in Vancouver." I lie. Actually I'm here to see you, Miss haider.

She flushes, and I feel like a shit.

"I'm currently funding some research there in crop rotation and soil science."

That, at least, is true.

"All part of your feed-the-world plan?" Her lips shift to a half-smile.

"Something like that." I mutter. Is she laughing at me? Oh I'd love to put a

stop to that if she is. But how to start? Maybe with dinner, rather than the usual interview . . . now that would be novel; taking a prospect out to dinner.

We arrive at the cable ties, which are arranged in an assortment of lengths

and colors. Absentmindedly my fingers trace over the packets. I could just ask her

out for dinner. Like on a date? Would she come? When I glance at her she's examining her knotted fingers. She can't look at me . . . this is promising. I select

the longer ties. They are more flexible after all"they can accommodate two

ankles and two wrists at once.

"These will do," I murmur, and she blushes, again.

"Is there anything else?" she says quickly"either she's being super attentive

or she wants to get me out of the store, I don't know which.

"I'd like some masking tape."

"Are you redecorating?"

I suppress my snort. "No, not redecorating." I haven't held a paintbrush in a

long time. The thought makes me smile, I have people to do all that shit.

"This way," she murmurs, looking chagrined. "Masking tape is in the decorating aisle."

Come on abdullah. You don't have long. Engage her in some conversation.

"Have you worked here long?" Of course, I already know the answer. Unlike

some people, I do my research. She blushes once more"Christ, this girl is shy. I

don't have a hope in hell. She turns quickly and walks down the aisle toward the

section labeled DECORATING. I follow her eagerly. What am I, a f**king puppy?

"Four years," she mumbles as we reach the masking tape. She bends down

and grasps two rolls, each a different width.

"I'll take that one," I say. The wider tape is much more effective as a gag. As

she passes it to me, the tips of our fingers touch, briefly. It resonates in my groin.

f**k!

She pales. "Anything else?" Her voice is soft and husky.

Christ, I'm having the same effect on her that she has on me. Maybe . . .

"Some rope, I think."

"This way." She quickly scoots up the aisle, giving me another chance to appreciate her fine ass.

"What sort were you after? We have synthetic and natural filament rope . . .

twine . . . cable cord . . ."

Shit"stop. I groan inwardly, trying to chase away the image of her suspended from the ceiling in my playroom.

"I'll take five yards of the natural filament rope, please." It's coarser and

chafes more if you struggle against it . . . my rope of choice.

A tremor runs through her fingers, but she efficiently measures out five

yards. Pulling a utility knife from her right pocket, she cuts the rope in one swift

gesture, coils it neatly, and ties it off with a slipknot. Impressive.

"Were you a Girl Scout?"

"Organized group activities aren't really my thing, Mr. abdullah."

"What is your thing, aliya?" I catch her gaze, and her irises dilate as I

stare. Yes!

"Books," she whispers.

"What kind of books?"

"Oh, you know. The usual. The classics. British literature, mainly."

British literature? Bronte and Austen, I bet. All those romantic hearts and

flowers types. f**k. That's not good.

"Anything else you need?"

"I don't know. What else would you recommend?" I want to see her reaction.

"For a do-it-yourselfer?" she asks, surprised.

I want to hoot with laughter. Oh baby, DIY is not my thing. I nod, stifling my

mirth. Her eyes flick down my body and I tense. She is checking me out! f**k

me.

"Coveralls," she blurts out.

It's the most unexpected thing I've heard out of her sweet, smart mouth since

the "are you gay" question.

"You wouldn't want to ruin your clothing." She gestures to my jeans, embarrassed once more.

I can't resist. "I could always take them off."

"Um." She flushes beet red and gazes down at the floor.

"I'll take some coveralls. Heaven forbid I should ruin any clothing," I murmur to put her out of her misery. Without a word, she turns and walks briskly up

the aisle, and once again I follow in her enticing wake.

"Do you need anything else?" she says breathlessly, handing me a pair of

blue coveralls. She's mortified, eyes still cast down, face flushed. Christ, she does

things to me.

"How's the article coming along?" I ask in the hope she might relax a little.

She looks up and gives me a brief relieved smile. Finally. "I'm not writing it,

yasmin is. Miss khan. My roommate, she's the writer. She's very happy

with it. She's the editor of the magazine, and she was devastated that she couldn't

do the interview in person."

It's the longest sentence she's addressed to me since we first met, and she's

talking about someone else, not herself. Interesting.

Before I can comment, she adds, "Her only concern is that she doesn't have

any original photographs of you."

The tenacious Miss khan wants photographs. Publicity stills, eh? I can

do that. It will allow me to spend some more time with the delectable Miss haider.

"What sort of photographs does she want?"

She gazes at me for a moment, then shakes her head.

"Well, I'm around. Tomorrow, perhaps . . ." I can stay in Portland. Work

from a hotel. A room at the Heathman, perhaps. I'll need Taylor to come down,

bring my laptop and some clothes. Or harshad"unless he's screwing around, which

is his usual MO over the weekend.

"You'd be willing to attend a photo shoot?" She cannot contain her surprise.

I give her a brief nod. You'd be amazed what I'd do to spend more time with

you, Miss haider . . . in fact, so am I.

"yasmin will be delighted"if we can find a photographer." She smiles and her

face lights up like a summer dawn. Christ, she's breathtaking.

"Let me know about tomorrow." I pull my card out of my wallet. "It has my

cell number on it. You'll need to call before ten in the morning." And if she

doesn't, I'll head on back to Seattle and forget about this stupid venture. The

thought depresses me.

"Okay." She continues to grin.

"aliya!" We both turn as a young man, casually but expensively dressed, appears at the far end of the aisle. He's all f**king smiles for Miss aliya haider.

Who the hell is this prick?

"Er . . . excuse me for a moment, Mr. abdullah." She walks toward him, and the

f**ker engulfs her in a gorilla-like hug. My blood runs cold. It's a primal response. Get your motherf**king paws off her. I fist my hands and am only slightly

mollified when I see her make no move to hug him back.

They fall into a whispered conversation. Shit, maybe Welch's facts were

wrong. Maybe this guy is her boyfriend. He looks the right age, and he can't take

his greedy little eyes off her. He holds her for a moment at arm's length, examining her, then stands with his arm leisurely resting on her shoulder. It's a seemingly casual gesture, but I know he's staking a claim and telling me to back off.

She seems embarrassed, shifting from foot to foot.

Shit. I should go. Then she says something else to him and moves out of his

reach, touching his arm, not his hand. It's clear they aren't close. Good.

"Er . . . zubair, this is zain abdullah. Mr. abdullah, this is zubair Clayton. His brother owns the place." She gives me an odd look that I don't understand and continues, "I've known zubair ever since I've worked here, though we don't see each other that often. He's back from Princeton where he's studying business

administration."

The boss's brother, not a boyfriend. The extent of the relief I feel is unexpected, and it makes me frown. This woman has really gotten under my skin.

"Mr. Clayton." My tone is deliberately clipped.

"Mr. abdullah." He shakes my hand limply. Wet f**ker. "Wait up"not the

Zain abdullah of abdullah Enterprises Holdings?" In a heartbeat I watch him morph

from territorial to obsequious.

Yeah, that's me, you prick.

"Wow"is there anything I can get you?"

"aliya has it covered, Mr. Clayton. She's been very attentive." Now f**k

off.

"Cool," he gushes all wide-eyed and deferential. "Catch you later, aliya."

"Sure, zubair," she says, and he ambles off, thank Christ. I watch him disappear toward the back of the store.

"Anything else, Mr. abdullah?"

"Just these items," I mutter. Shit, I'm out of time, and I still don't know if

I'm going to see her again. I have to know whether there's a hope in hell she

might consider what I have in mind. How can I ask her? Am I ready to take on a

new submissive, one who knows nothing? Shit. She's going to need substantial

training. I groan inwardly at all the interesting possibilities this presents . . .f**k

me, getting there is going to be half the fun. Will she even be interested? Or do I

have this all wrong?

She heads back to the cashier's desk and rings up my purchases, all the while

keeping her gaze cast down. Look at me, dammit! I want to see her beautiful blue

eyes again and gauge what she's thinking.

Finally she raises her head. "That will be forty-three dollars, please."

Is that all?

"Would you like a bag?" she asks, slipping into salesclerk mode as I pass her

my Amex.

"Please, aliya." Her name"a beautiful name for a beautiful girl"rolls

off my tongue.

She packs the items briskly and efficiently into the carrier. This is it. I have to

go.

"You'll call me if you want me to do the photo shoot?"

She nods as she hands back my charge card.

"Good. Until tomorrow, perhaps." I can't just leave. I have to let her know

I'm interested. "Oh, and aliya? I'm glad Miss khan 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 judgment, I want her. Now I have to wait . . . f**king

wait . . . again.

So there u are guys..all comple

i have spent 4-5 hours every night editing this and 4 hours this morning and now its finally finished

im so relieved lol

and just lo let u all know..everything that happens from part 1 to part 3 is in the space of 4 months..i know its mad right...

they meet,they f**k,she leaves,they love,they marry,all the jack hyde and elena shit,the new house and their birthdays,the parties,zain going missing.ghulams accident,aliya finding out shes pregnan,the confrontation,barkats kidnap and aliya saving her and then recovering in hospital all happens in 4 months...

hope u all enjoyed all of this..

i can now have my evenings and mornings back..

love u all and thanks again for reading and all the support..

any questions about the story then pls ask and i will clear it for u

Oh my god much to read so much in one update till yet not finished 50 shades darker I had read all 3 series at vacation but it is an ausome love story really loved it I want to reread it exclude the sensual part its a magical love story

Originally posted by: Meghapaim

Oh my god much to read so much in one update till yet not finished 50 shades darker I had read all 3 series at vacation but it is an ausome love story really loved it I want to reread it exclude the sensual part its a magical love story

I couldn't comment much as my college started and got occupied with it

Can u please suggest me some good novel might be I can read in next books

Ty I loved

thanks to write all fifty shades series on ZaYa.
love this journey.
going to miss it.
thanks for pm.

Been so busy these last few days, haven't had time to post on the forum but I always check for updats on the fifty shades series. It was so good, I'm so glad someone went down this route with ZAYA. Well done hun, it was amazing. 😛

oh it ws lovely i read al d chap i throughly enjoyed it

Hey...
All the 3 pars are excellent !!
U hv written very well :)
Just loved it <3
Awesome ...
Zaya getting seperated , then reunite again , their marriage , jack hyde , liela , elina , zain missing, ghulam accident , aliya pregnant , barkat kidnapped final was all amazing ...
Do start a new one soon !!

I m so sorry i kow i am really late but jst finished reading it today ..

Shiri i am so grateful to u for giving us this amazing story in zaya version ..

Nothing best could have happened to me

Amazing trilogy ...and i really appreciate ur devotion to this story ...
It take hours to write an os ..but u have written such long chapters ..

The last parts of the third book was amazing
Aliya pregnant ... than barkat 's kidnapping
It broke my heart when he asked her r u leaving ..
Than finally the hospital part showed us the caring zain who loves his wife n cares for his blip ...
And zayed is the most adoreable child on the earth .

I couldnt thank u enuf for what u have done for us ..

I am craving to read more but everything thats good comes to n end ..
Plzz keep writing more stories on zaya
Take care

Lots of love
Alina