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Fifty Shades Darker, by E. L. James
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MORE THAN 150 MILLION COPIES SOLD WORLDWIDE
SOON TO BE A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE
Daunted by the singular tastes and dark secrets of the beautiful, tormented young entrepreneur Christian Grey, Anastasia Steele has broken off their relationship to start a new career with a Seattle publishing house.
But desire for Christian still dominates her every waking thought, and when he proposes a new arrangement, Anastasia cannot resist. They rekindle their searing sensual affair, and Anastasia learns more about the harrowing past of her damaged, driven and demanding Fifty Shades.
While Christian wrestles with his inner demons, Anastasia must confront the anger and envy of the women who came before her, and make the most important decision of her life.
This book is intended for mature audiences.
- Sales Rank: #2904 in Books
- Brand: Random House
- Model: RH-FSD2
- Published on: 2012-04-17
- Released on: 2012-04-17
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 8.00" h x .92" w x 5.20" l, .80 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 544 pages
- Adults Only
- Fifty Shades Of Grey
- Fifty Shades Darker
Review
THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING FIFTY SHADES Trilogy
"In a class by itself."
—Entertainment Weekly
About the Author
E L James is a former TV executive, wife and mother of two based in West London. Since early childhood she dreamed of writing stories that readers would fall in love with, but put those dreams on hold to focus on her family and her career. She finally plucked up the courage to put pen to paper with her first novel, Fifty Shades of Grey.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
PROLOGUE
He’s come back. Mommy’s asleep or she’s sick again.
I hide and curl up small under the table in the kitchen. Through my fingers I can see Mommy. She is asleep on the couch. Her hand is on the sticky green rug, and he’s wearing his big boots with the shiny buckle and standing over Mommy shouting.
He hits Mommy with a belt. Get up! Get up! You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch.
Mommy makes a sobbing noise. Stop. Please stop. Mommy doesn’t scream. Mommy curls up small.
I have my fingers in my ears, and I close my eyes. The sound stops.
He turns and I can see his boots as he stomps into the kitchen. He still has the belt. He is trying to find me.
He stoops down and grins. He smells nasty. Of cigarettes and drink. There you are, you little shit.
A chilling wail wakes him. Christ! He’s drenched in sweat and his heart is pounding. What the fuck? He sits bolt upright in bed and puts his head in hands. Fuck. They’re back. The noise was me. He takes a deep steadying breath, trying to rid his mind and nostrils of the smell of cheap bourbon and stale Camel cigarettes.
CHAPTER ONE
I have survived Day Three Post-Christian, and my first day at work. It has been a welcome distraction. The time has flown by in a haze of new faces, work to do, and Mr. Jack Hyde. Mr. Jack Hyde . . . he smiles down at me, his blue eyes twinkling, as he leans against my desk.
“Excellent work, Ana. I think we’re going to make a great
team.”
Somehow, I manage to curl my lips upward in a semblance of a smile.
“I’ll be off, if that’s okay with you,” I murmur.
“Of course, it’s five thirty. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Good night, Jack.”
“Good night, Ana.”
Collecting my bag, I shrug on my jacket and head for the door.
Out in the early evening air of Seattle, I take a deep breath. It doesn’t begin to fill the void in my chest, a void that’s been present since Saturday morning, a painful hollow reminder of my loss. I walk toward the bus stop with my head down, staring at my feet and contemplating being without my beloved Wanda, my old Beetle . . . or the Audi.
I shut the door on that thought immediately. No. Don’t think about him. Of course, I can afford a car—a nice, new car. I suspect he has been overgenerous in his payment, and the thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, but I dismiss it and try to keep my mind as numb and as blank as possible. I can’t think about him. I don’t want to start crying again—not out on the street.
The apartment is empty. I miss Kate, and I imagine her lying on a beach in Barbados sipping a cool cocktail. I turn on the flat-screen television so there’s noise to fill the vacuum and provide some semblance of company, but I don’t listen or watch. I sit and stare blankly at the brick wall. I am numb. I feel nothing but the pain. How long must I endure this?
The door buzzer startles me from my anguish, and my heart skips a beat. Who could that be? I press the intercom.
“Delivery for Ms. Steele.” A bored, disembodied voice answers, and disappointment crashes through me. I listlessly make my way downstairs and find a young man noisily chewing gum, holding a large cardboard box, and leaning against the front door. I sign for the package and take it upstairs. The box is huge and surprisingly light. Inside are two dozen long-stemmed, white roses and a card.
Congratulations on your first day at work.
I hope it went well.
And thank you for the glider. That was very thoughtful.
It has pride of place on my desk.
Christian
I stare at the typed card, the hollow in my chest expanding. No doubt, his assistant sent this. Christian probably had very little to do with it. It’s too painful to think about. I examine the roses—they are beautiful, and I can’t bring myself to throw them in the trash. Dutifully, I make my way into the kitchen to hunt down a vase.
And so a pattern develops: wake, work, cry, sleep. Well, try to sleep. I can’t even escape him in my dreams. Gray burning eyes, his lost look, his hair burnished and bright all haunt me. 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.
I have spoken to no one, not even my mother or Ray. I don’t have the capacity for idle talk now. No, I want none of it. I have become my own island state. A ravaged, war-torn land where nothing grows and the horizons are bleak. Yes, that’s me. I can interact impersonally at work, but that’s it. If I talk to Mom, I know I will break even further—and I have nothing left to break.
I am finding it difficult to eat. By lunchtime on Wednesday, I manage a cup of yogurt, and it’s the first thing I’ve eaten since Friday. I am surviving on a newfound tolerance for lattes and Diet Coke. It’s the caffeine that keeps me going, but it’s making me anxious.
Jack has started to hover over me, irritating me, asking me personal questions. What does he want? I’m polite, but I need to keep him at arm’s length.
I sit and begin trawling through a pile of correspondence addressed to him, and I’m pleased with the distraction of menial work. My e-mail pings, and I quickly check to see who it’s from.
Holy shit. An e-mail from Christian. Oh no, not here . . . not at work.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Tomorrow
Date: June 8 2011 14:05
To: Anastasia Steele
Dear Anastasia
Forgive this intrusion at work. I hope that it’s going well. Did you get my flowers?
I note that tomorrow is the gallery opening for your friend’s show, and I’m sure you’ve not had time to purchase a car, and it’s a long drive. I would be more than happy to take you—should you wish.
Let me know.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
Tears swim in my eyes. I hastily leave my desk and bolt to the restroom to escape into one of the stalls. José’s show. I’d forgotten all about it, and I promised him I’d go. Shit, Christian is right; how am I going to get there?
I clutch my forehead. Why hasn’t José phoned? Come to think of it—why hasn’t anyone phoned? I’ve been so absentminded I haven’t noticed that my cell phone has been silent.
Shit! I am such an idiot! I still have it set to forward calls to the BlackBerry. Holy hell. Christian’s been getting my calls—unless he’s just thrown the BlackBerry away. How did he get my e-mail address?
He knows my shoe size; an e-mail address is hardly going to present him with many problems.
Can I see him again? Could I bear it? Do I want to see him? I close my eyes and tilt my head back as grief and longing lance through me. Of course I do.
Perhaps—perhaps I can tell him I’ve changed my mind . . . No, no, no. I cannot be with someone who takes pleasure in inflicting pain on me, someone who can’t love me.
Torturous memories flash through my mind—the gliding, holding hands, kissing, the bathtub, his gentleness, his humor, and his dark, brooding, sexy stare. I miss him. It’s been five days, five days of agony that has felt like an eternity. I cry myself to sleep at night, wishing I hadn’t walked out, wishing that he could be different, wishing that we were together. How long will this hideous overwhelming feeling last? I am in purgatory.
I wrap my arms around my body, hugging myself tightly, holding myself together. I miss him. I really miss him . . . I love him. Simple.
Anastasia Steele, you are at work! I must be strong, but I want to go to José’s show, and deep down, the masochist in me wants to see Christian. Taking a deep breath, I head back to my desk.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Tomorrow
Date: June 8 2011 14:25
To: Christian Grey
Hi Christian
Thank you for the flowers; they are lovely.
Yes, I would appreciate a lift.
Thank you.
Anastasia Steele
Assistant to Jack Hyde, Editor, SIP
Checking my phone, I find that it is still set to forward calls to the BlackBerry. Jack is in a meeting, so I quickly call José.
“Hi, José. It’s Ana.”
“Hello, stranger.” His tone is so warm and welcoming it’s almost enough to push me over the edge again.
“I can’t talk long. What time should I be there tomorrow for your show?”
“You’re still coming?” He sounds excited.
“Yes, of course.” I smile my first genuine smile in five days as I picture his broad grin.
“Seven thirty.”
“See you then. Good-bye, José.”
“Bye, Ana.”
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Tomorrow
Date: June 8 2011 14:27
To: Anastasia Steele
Dear Anastasia
What time shall I pick you up?
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Tomorrow
Date: June 8 2011 14:32
To: Christian Grey
José’s show starts at 7:30. What time would you suggest?
Anastasia Steele
Assistant to Jack Hyde, Editor, SIP
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Tomorrow
Date: June 8 2011 14:34
To: Anastasia Steele
Dear Anastasia
Portland is some distance away. I shall pick you up at 5:45.
I look forward to seeing you.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Tomorrow
Date: June 8 2011 14:38
To: Christian Grey
See you then.
Anastasia Steele
Assistant to Jack Hyde, Editor, SIP
Oh my. I’m going to see Christian, and for the first time in five days, my spirits lift a fraction and I allow myself to wonder how he’s been.
Has he missed me? Probably not like I’ve missed him. Has he found a new submissive? The thought is so painful that I dismiss it immediately. I look at the pile of correspondence I need to sort for Jack and tackle it as I try to push Christian out of my mind once more.
That night in bed, I toss and turn, trying to sleep and it’s the first time in a while I haven’t cried myself to sleep.
In my mind’s eye, I visualize Christian’s face the last time I saw him as when I left. His tortured expression haunts me. I remember he didn’t want me to go, which was odd. Why would I stay when things had reached such an impasse? We were each skirting around our own issues—my fear of punishment, his fear of . . . what? Love?
Turning on my side, I hug my pillow, filled with an overwhelming sadness. He thinks he doesn’t deserve to be loved. Why does he feel that way? Does it have to do with his upbringing? His birth mom, the crack whore? My thoughts plague me into the early hours until eventually I fall into a fitful, exhausted sleep.
The day drags and drags and Jack is unusually attentive. I suspect it’s due to Kate’s plum dress and the black high-heeled boots I’ve stolen from her closet, but I don’t dwell on the thought. I resolve to go clothes shopping with my first paycheck. The dress is looser on me than it was, but I pretend not to notice.
Finally it’s five thirty, and I collect my jacket and purse, trying to quell my nerves. I’m going to see him!
“Do you have a date tonight?” Jack asks as he strolls past my desk on his way out.
“Yes. No. Not really.”
He raises an eyebrow, his interest clearly piqued. “Boyfriend?”
I flush. “No, a friend. An ex-boyfriend.”
“Maybe tomorrow you’d like to come for a drink after work. You’ve had a stellar first week, Ana. We should celebrate.” He smiles and an unknown, unsettling emotion flits across his face, making me uneasy.
Putting his hands in his pockets, he saunters through the double doors. I frown at his retreating back. Drinks with the boss, is that a good idea?
I shake my head. I have an evening of Christian Grey to get through first. How am I going to do this? I hurry into the restroom to make last-minute adjustments.
In the large mirror on the wall, I take a long, hard look at my face. I’m my usual pale self, dark circles around my too-large eyes. I look gaunt, haunted. I wish I knew how to use makeup. I apply some mascara and eyeliner and pinch my cheeks, hoping for some color. Tidying my hair so that it hangs artfully down my back, I take a deep breath. This will have to do.
Nervously I walk through the foyer with a smile and a wave to Claire at Reception. I think she and I could become friends. Jack is talking to Elizabeth as I head for the doors. Smiling broadly, he hurries over to open them for me.
“After you, Ana,” he murmurs.
“Thank you.” I smile, embarrassed.
Outside on the curb, Taylor is waiting. He opens the rear door of the car. I glance hesitantly at Jack, who has followed me out. He’s looking toward the Audi SUV in dismay.
I turn and climb into the back, and there he sits—Christian Grey—wearing his gray suit, no tie, white shirt open at the collar. His gray eyes are glowing.
My mouth dries. He looks glorious except he’s scowling at me. Why?
“When did you last eat?” he snaps as Taylor closes the door behind me.
Crap. “Hello, Christian. Yes, it’s nice to see you, too.”
“I don’t want your smart mouth now. Answer me.” His eyes blaze.
Holy shit. “Um . . . I had a yogurt at lunchtime. Oh—and a banana.”
“When did you last have a real meal?” he asks acidly.
Taylor slips into the driver’s seat, starts the car, and pulls out into the traffic.
I glance up and Jack is waving at me, though how he can see me through the dark glass, I don’t know. I wave back.
“Who’s that?” Christian snaps.
“My boss.” I peek up at the beautiful man beside me, and his mouth is pressed into a hard line.
“Well? Your last meal?”
“Christian, that really is none of your concern,” I murmur, feeling extraordinarily brave.
“Whatever you do concerns me. Tell me.”
No, it doesn’t. I groan in frustration, rolling my eyes heavenward, and Christian narrows his eyes. And for the first time in a long time, I want to laugh. I try hard to stifle the giggle that threatens to bubble up. Christian’s face softens as I struggle to keep a straight face, and a trace of a smile kisses his lovely sculptured lips.
“Well?” he asks, his voice softer.
“Pasta alla vongole, last Friday,” I whisper.
He closes his eyes as fury, and possibly regret, sweeps across his face. “I see,” he says, his voice expressionless. “You look like you’ve lost at least five pounds, possibly more since then. Please eat, Anastasia,” he scolds.
I stare down at the knotted fingers in my lap. Why does he always make me feel like an errant child?
He shifts and turns toward me. “How are you?” he asks, his voice still soft.
Well, I’m shit, really . . . I swallow. “If I told you I was fine, I’d be lying.”
He inhales sharply. “Me, too,” he murmurs and reaches over and clasps my hand. “I miss you,” he adds.
Oh no. Skin against skin.
“Christian, I—”
“Ana, please. We need to talk.”
I’m going to cry. No. “Christian, I . . . please . . . I’ve cried so much,” I whisper, trying to keep my emotions in check.
“Oh, baby, no.” He tugs my hand, and before I know it I’m on his lap. He has his arms around me, and his nose is in my hair.
“I’ve missed you so much, Anastasia,” he breathes.
I want to struggle out of his hold, to maintain some distance, but his arms are wrapped around me. He’s pressing me to his chest. I melt. Oh, this is where I want to be.
I rest my head against him, and he kisses my hair repeatedly. This is home. He smells of linen, fabric softener, body wash, and my favorite smell—Christian. For a moment, I allow myself the illusion that all will be well, and it soothes my ravaged soul.
A few minutes later Taylor pulls to a stop at the curb, even though we’re still in the city.
“Come”—Christian shifts me off his lap—“we’re here.”
What?
“Helipad—on the top of this building.” Christian glances toward the building by way of explanation.
Of course. Charlie Tango. Taylor opens the door and I slide out. He gives me a warm, avuncular smile that makes me feel safe. I smile back.
“I should give you back your handkerchief.”
“Keep it, Miss Steele, with my best wishes.”
I blush as Christian comes around the car and takes my hand. He looks quizzically at Taylor, who stares impassively back at him, revealing nothing.
“Nine?” Christian says to him.
“Yes, sir.”
Christian nods as he turns and leads me through the double doors into the grandiose foyer. I revel in the feel of his hand and his long, skilled fingers curled around mine. The familiar pull is there—I’m drawn, Icarus to his sun. I’ve been burned already, and yet here I am again.
Reaching the elevators, he presses the “call” button. I peek up at him, and he’s wearing his enigmatic half smile. As the doors open, he releases my hand and ushers me in.
The doors close and I risk a second peek. He glances down at me, and it’s there in the air between us, that electricity. It’s palpable. I can almost taste it, pulsing between us, drawing us together.
“Oh my,” I gasp as I bask briefly in the intensity of this visceral, primal attraction.
“I feel it, too,” he says, his eyes clouded and intense.
Desire pools dark and deadly in my groin. He clasps my hand and grazes my knuckles with his thumb, and all my muscles clench tightly, deliciously, deep inside me.
How can he still do this to me?
“Please don’t bite your lip, Anastasia,” he whispers.
I gaze up at him, releasing my lip. I want him. Here, now, in the elevator. How could I not?
“You know what it does to me,” he murmurs.
Oh, I still affect him. My inner goddess stirs from her five-day sulk.
Abruptly the doors open, breaking the spell, and we’re on the roof. It’s windy, and despite my black jacket, I’m cold. Christian puts his arm around me, pulling me into his side, and we hurry across to where Charlie Tango stands in the center of the helipad, with its rotor blades slowly spinning.
A tall, blond, square-jawed man in a dark suit leaps out and, ducking low, runs toward us. Shaking hands with Christian, he shouts above the noise of the rotors.
“Ready to go, sir. She’s all yours!”
“All checks done?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ll collect her around eight thirty?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Taylor’s waiting for you out front.”
“Thank you, Mr. Grey. Safe flight to Portland. Ma’am.” He salutes me. Without releasing me, Christian nods, ducks down, and leads me to the helicopter door.
Once inside he buckles me firmly into my harness, cinching the straps tight. He gives me a knowing look and his secret smile.
“This should keep you in your place,” he murmurs. “I must say I like this harness on you. Don’t touch anything.”
I flush a deep crimson, and he runs his index finger down my cheek before handing me the headphones. I’d like to touch you, too, but you won’t let me. I scowl. Besides, he’s pulled the straps so tight I can barely move.
He sits in his seat and buckles himself in, then starts running through all his preflight checks. He’s just so competent. It’s very alluring. He puts on his headphones and flips a switch and the rotors speed up, deafening me.
Turning, he gazes at me. “Ready, baby?” His voice echoes through the headphones.
“Yes.”
He grins his boyish grin. Wow—I’ve not seen it for so long.
“Sea-Tac tower, this is Charlie Tango Golf—Golf Echo Hotel, cleared for takeoff to Portland via PDX. Please confirm, over.”
The disembodied voice of the air traffic controller answers, issuing instructions.
“Roger, tower, Charlie Tango set, over and out.” Christian flips two switches, grasps the stick, and the helicopter rises slowly and smoothly into the evening sky.
Seattle and my stomach drop away from us, and there’s so much to see.
“We’ve chased the dawn, Anastasia, now the dusk,” his voice comes through on the headphones. I turn and gape at him in surprise.
What does this mean? How is it that he can say the most romantic things? He smiles, and I can’t help my shy smile.
“As well as the evening sun, there’s more to see this time,” he says.
The last time we flew to Seattle it was dark, but this evening the view is spectacular, literally out of this world. We’re up among the tallest buildings, going higher and higher.
“Escala’s over there.” He points toward the building. “Boeing there, and you can just see the Space Needle.”
I crane my head. “I’ve never been.”
“I’ll take you—we can eat there.”
“Christian, we broke up.”
“I know. I can still take you there and feed you.” He glares at me.
I shake my head and decide not to antagonize him. “It’s very beautiful up here, thank you.”
“Impressive, isn’t it?”
“Impressive that you can do this.”
“Flattery from you, Miss Steele? But I’m a man of many talents.”
“I’m fully aware of that, Mr. Grey.”
He turns and smirks at me, and for the first time in five days, I relax a little. Perhaps this won’t be so bad.
“How’s the new job?”
“Good, thank you. Interesting.”
“What’s your boss like?”
“Oh, he’s okay.” How can I tell Christian that Jack makes me uncomfortable? Christian glances at me.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Aside from the obvious, nothing.”
“The obvious?”
“Oh, Christian, you really are very obtuse sometimes.”
“Obtuse? Me? I’m not sure I appreciate your tone, Miss Steele.”
“Well, don’t, then.”
His lips twitch into a smile. “I have missed your smart mouth, Anastasia.”
I gasp and I want to shout, I’ve missed you—all of you—not just your mouth! But I keep quiet and gaze out the glass fishbowl that is Charlie Tango’s windshield as we continue south. The dusk is to our right, the sun low on the horizon—large, blazing fiery orange—and I am Icarus again, flying far too close.
Most helpful customer reviews
27329 of 28482 people found the following review helpful.
Did a teenager write this???
By meymoon
I really don't like writing bad reviews. I admire people who have the courage to put pen to paper and expose themselves to the whole world, especially those writing erotica. Having just finished this book, however, I feel compelled to write a review.
About half way through the book, I looked up the author to see if she was a teenager. I really did because the characters are out of a 16 year old's fantasy. The main male character is a billionaire (not a millionaire but a billionaire) who speaks fluent French, is basically a concert level pianist, is a fully trained pilot, is athletic, drop dead gorgeous, tall, built perfectly with an enormous penis, and the best lover on the planet. In addition, he's not only self made but is using his money to combat world hunger. Oh yeah, and all of this at the ripe old age of 26! And on top of that, he's never working. Every second is spent having sex or texting and emailing the female character. His billions seem to have just come about by magic. It seriously feels like 2 teenage girls got together and decided to create their "dream man" and came up with Christian Grey.
Then come the sex scenes. The first one is tolerable but as she goes on, they become so unbelievable that it becomes more laughable than erotic. She orgasms at the drop of a hat. He says her name and she orgasms. He simply touches her and she orgasms. It seems that she's climaxing on every page.
Then there's the writing. If you take out the parts where the female character is blushing or chewing her lips, the book will be down to about 50 pages. Almost on every single page, there is a whole section devoted to her blushing, chewing her lips or wondering "Jeez" about something or another. Then there's the use of "shades of". He's "fifty shades of @#$%% up," "she turned 7 shades of crimson," "he's ten shades of x,y, and z." Seriously?
The writing is just not up to par, the characters are unbelievable, and the sex verges on the comical. I don't know what happens in the remaining books and I do not intend to read them to find out. But given the maturity level of the first book, I imagine that they get married, have 2 perfect children, cure world hunger, and live happily ever after while riding into the sunset, as the female character climaxes on her horse causing her to chew her bottom lip and blush fifty shades of crimson. Jeez!
18272 of 19187 people found the following review helpful.
Bestseller? Really???
By DS from LA
I enjoy erotica and heard so much about this book that I had to give it a shot, but I'm five chapters in and just can't take it anymore. This has to be the most appallingly atrocious writing I've ever seen in a major release. The pseudonymous British author sets the action (such as it is) in Washington State... for no reason than that her knowledge of America apparently consists of what she read in "Twilight"... but the entire first-person narrative is filled with Britishisms. How many American college students do you know who talk about "prams," "ringing" someone on the phone, or choosing a "smart rucksack" to take "on holiday"? And the author's geography sounds like she put together a jigsaw puzzle of the Pacific Northwest while drunk and ended up with several pieces in the wrong place.
And oh, the repetition...and the repetition...and the repetition. I'm convinced the author has a computer macro that she hits to insert one of her limited repertoire of facial expressions whenever she needs one. According to my Kindle search function, characters roll their eyes 41 times, Ana bites her lip 35 times, Christian's lips "quirk up" 16 times, Christian "cocks his head to one side" 17 times, characters "purse" their lips 15 times, and characters raise their eyebrows a whopping 50 times. Add to that 80 references to Ana's anthropomorphic "subconscious" (which also rolls its eyes and purses its lips, by the way), 58 references to Ana's "inner goddess," and 92 repetitions of Ana saying some form of "oh crap" (which, depending on the severity of the circumstances, can be intensified to "holy crap," "double crap," or the ultimate "triple crap"). And this is only part one of a trilogy...
If I wrote like that, I'd use a pseudonym too.
Like some other reviewers, what I find terribly depressing is that this is a runaway bestseller and the movie rights are expected to sell for up to $5 million. There are so many highly talented writers in the genre... and erotica is so much more erotic when the author has a command of the language and can make you care about the characters. For examples, check out the "Beauty" trilogy written by Anne Rice under the pen name A.N. Roquelaure, or any stories by Donna George Storey or Rachel Kramer Bussel. Just stay away from this triple crap.
*UPDATE*: Thanks to the many other perturbed readers who have shared their own choices of the most annoyingly overused phrases in this masterpiece. Following up on their suggestions with my ever-useful Kindle search function, I have discovered that Ana says "Jeez" 81 times and "oh my" 72 times. She "blushes" or "flushes" 125 times, including 13 that are "scarlet," 6 that are "crimson," and one that is "stars and stripes red." (I can't even imagine.) Ana "peeks up" at Christian 13 times, and there are 9 references to Christian's "hooded eyes," 7 to his "long index finger," and 25 to how "hot" he is (including four recurrences of the epic declarative sentence "He's so freaking hot."). Christian's "mouth presses into a hard line" 10 times. Characters "murmur" 199 times, "mutter" 49 times, and "whisper" 195 times (doesn't anyone just talk?), "clamber" on/in/out of things 21 times, and "smirk" 34 times. Christian and Ana also "gasp" 46 times and experience 18 "breath hitches," suggesting a need for prompt intervention by paramedics. Finally, in a remarkable bit of symmetry, our hero and heroine exchange 124 "grins" and 124 "frowns"... which, by the way, seems an awful lot of frowning for a woman who experiences "intense," "body-shattering," "delicious," "violent," "all-consuming," "turbulent," "agonizing" and "exhausting" orgasms on just about every page.
2847 of 3005 people found the following review helpful.
It's awful, but oh so addicting
By Vox Libris
After surviving 50 Shades of Grey, and after taking a break for a few days from Ana and Christian's tortured romance, I girded my loins and cracked open the second book of the trilogy, 50 Shades Darker.
For those of you intrigued by the words "butt plug" or "fisting," half of you will enjoy your lucky day, because one of those is kinda sorta featured in this book. As it is, the only fisting we ever see - ever come close to seeing - is that of Ana's or Christian's hands in the others' hair. And that happens a lot. Not as often as Ana or Christian gasping, or Christian setting his lips in a hard line, or Ana biting her lip, or Ana coming undone, or Christian frowning. In fact, Christian's frowning is such a "thing" that, when Ana frowns, another character observes that she's turning into Christian.
It's just ... WHERE THE HELL WAS THE EDITOR?
But I digress.
To dig too deeply into the spectacle that is 50 Shades of Grey is to approach Sisyphean frustration. Trust me, because I know of what I speak. I spent an inordinate amount of time wondering how it was that Christian Grey was 27 and a billionaire as I read the first book. I don't think we are meant to really ponder this stuff. I think we're supposed to strap on our dildos and have at it, as it were.
Okay, so. When we last left Christian and Ana, she had walked out on him, horrified at the depravity entailed in his life of BDSM. (Go ahead and Google THAT, people. I had to, so you might as well.) As with its muse, Twilight, we see our heroine descend into despair, but unlike Bella's months on end, Ana really only suffers for five days. Christian gets in touch with her, and it's game on, kids. Christian is prepared to let go of his need for dominance in his playroom, because all he really wants - all he really needs - is Ana. She has admitted that she loves him, but it takes Christian a little longer.
Now, before you start thinking that this is the end of the Red Room of Pain, let me tell you that it is not. Don't worry - Christian keeps the room, and Ana remains inexplicably drawn to it. So those butt plugs come in handy (no pun intended), although - SPOILER - Christian does point out that for the anally virgin, a finger is a better start. So Ana has something to look forward to, so to speak.
Back to the plot, such as it is. It turns out that one of Christian's former subs remains fixated on him, so she enters the story to muck up Christian and Ana's relationship. Also causing trouble is Ana's boss at the publishing house. He wants her, which pisses off Christian, who reacts as only Christian can. Meanwhile, Christian and Ana's romance progresses in fits and starts. She loves him, he really cares about her, can he say the "L" word, can they get past his need for control, why does he love her, why does she love him, can he overcome his tortured childhood, blah blah blah.
What you really want to know about are the sex scenes, right? RIGHT? I'm pretty sure you butt plug searching people aren't concerned about the dialogue.
In this book, they rock the headboard in an elevator, on a boat, in Christian's childhood room, in the shower (again - evidently they enjoy that spot), Ana's apartment bedroom, Christian's apartment bedroom, and - YESS! - the Red Room of Pain. Oh, and on top of a piano and a pool table. There may be more. Did the desk happen in this book, or the previous one? I think they wind up on Christian's desk in this one, too.
During one of the many times Ana challenges Christian, they are in the library, competing in a billiards game.
"You know, Anastasia, I could stand here and watch you leaning and stretching across this billiard table all day," he says appreciatively.
I flush. [SHE FLUSHES A LOT. That's another thing that is repetitive, and so again, I ask, WHERE THE HELL IS THE EDITOR? Oh - those are "shouty caps," according to Ana. Back to the program.] Thank heavens I am wearing my jeans. He smirks. [HE SMIRKS A LOT. So does she. Sometimes they smirk, bite lips and eye roll, all at the same time.] He's trying to put me off my game, the bastard. He pulls his cream sweater over his head, tosses it onto the back of a chair, and grins at me, as he saunters over to take his first shot.
He bends low over the table. My mouth goes dry. Oh, I see what he means. Christian in tight jeans and white T-shirt, bending, like that ... is something to behold. I quite lose my train of thought. He sinks four solids rapidly, then fouls by sinking the white.
Foreplay, Christian styles.
And now, for the butt plug seekers:
"What's this?" I hold up the silver bullet thing.
"Always hungry for information, Miss Steele. That's a butt plug," he says gently.
"Oh ..."
"Bought for you."
What? For me?
He nods slowly, his face now serious and wary.
I frown. [AGAIN - she always frowns. Or he frowns. They frown a LOT.] "You buy new, er ... toys ... for each submissive?"
"Some things. Yes."
"Butt plugs?"
"Yes."
So there you go. They come up again, so buy a copy and knock yourself out.
Is 50 Shades Darker good? Hell to the no, it is not good. But is it entertaining? Yes. Is it hot? Yes. Is it worth reading? Yes. If you can get past all of the awful writing, it's very enjoyable. I admit that I read it cover to cover, and I look forward to 50 Shades Freed. Do not, however, mistake an enjoyable read for something well written, because this is NOT well written. It's like literary crack. You know it's bad for you, and you feel dirty and low for enjoying it, but you can't stop.
I gave this 4 stars. Don't judge me.
If you want to know my thoughts on Fifty Shades Freed, check it: http://www.amazon.com/review/R16U7WCSXSQRJR/ref=cm_cr_rdp_perm
Published on cupcake's book cupboard. @VivaAmaRisata
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