corner of her mouth. She’s trying not to laugh. She’s trying not to laugh at me. After all the heartache Darker is a book that should've have been written in my opinion. I get that it's Christian's POV but I already hated the books from Anna's POV.. so why would I really need to reread the same book from the guy? this whole situation could've been fixed if the books were originally dual POV... but I didn't write them. holds my attention. Her face is pale, almost translucent. There are dark circles beneath her eyes, and

Taylor is pacing outside and glancing toward the front door. Christ, he looks as nervous as I feel. Please don't bite your lip, Anastasia." My voice is low, full of longing. Will I always want her like this? I want to kiss her, press her into the elevator wall like I did during our first kiss. I want to make her mine again. She’s been hovering at the edge of my consciousness all day, like a guardian angel. My guardian angel. Ever present but not intrusive.

Taylor-Johnson didn't return to the franchise, at least in part due to her problems working with James—who exercised as much creative control as she could, even bringing in her husband, Niall Leonard, to write the script for the sequels, Fifty Shades Darker and Fifty Shades Freed.

For the first time in any of my reading, watching and listening experiences, I actually thought *Geez, Christian, talk about double standards*. He friggin gives Leila a bath?!?! Holy Bloody Hell!! AND HE DOESN’T EVEN TELL ANA BECAUSE HE KNOWS IT WILL MAKE HER CRANKY!! Gee whiz, what a friggin surprise… His controlling ways were something that I accepted as part of his “charm” but to blatantly have one rule for him and one for Ana drove me bonkers. He didn't seem to take Ana’s feelings into consideration at all which made me angry. For the first time EVER I was disgusted with it all. I nearly gave up. I was so incensed, I even thought of forgoing the last movie. I was THAT disgusted and overwhelmed with loathing. There she is. Seven full-blown portraits of Anastasia Steele. She looks jaw-droppingly beautiful, natural, and relaxed—laughing, scowling, pouting, pensive, amused, and in one of them, wistful and sad. As I scrutinize the detail in each photograph, I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that he wants to be much more than her friend. “Seems I’m not the only one,” I mutter. The photographs are his homage to her—his love letters—and they’re all over the gallery walls for any random asshole to ogle. building is shabby and in need of renovation; the company’s name is etched haphazardly in the glass, Oh, Ana,” I whisper, and I hold her, too dazed and too…replete to say anything else. She snuggles into my arms, her head on my shoulder, and we listen to the Rachmaninov. I go over her words.I wanted more from the past - Elena, little Christian, maybe a bit from school or something like that. reach for her hand because I can’t live another minute without touching her. Her hand feels small and

of the last week recedes. Slowly, I begin to relax, enjoying a serenity I’ve not felt since she left. I Damn. I’m right. She’s been suffering—and it’s all my fault. But her words give me a modicum of hope. Perhaps she’s missed me. Maybe? Encouraged, I cling to that thought. “Me, too. I miss you.” I reach for her hand because I can’t live another minute without touching her. Her hand feels small and ice-cold engulfed in the warmth of mine. Her innate sensuality stems from her innocence: her willingness to experiment, and her ability to trust." Well, you have all those—” She stops, glancing at Taylor once more, and her voice lowers. “Things in your playroom, the canes, and whips, and they frighten the living daylights out of me. I don’t want you to use them on me.”Taylor sits in the driver’s seat, staring straight ahead, wordless, looking his usual composed self, In the car on the way to the gallery my anxiety doubles; we’re attending the opening of an exhibition by her so-called friend. The man who, last time I saw him, was trying to push his tongue into her mouth. Perhaps over the last few days they’ve talked. Perhaps this is a long-anticipated rendezvous between them. And now that I’m sitting here, alone and waiting, the determination and confidence I’ve enjoyed all Fundamentally, Christian, it’s your joy in inflicting pain that’s difficult for me to handle. And the idea that you’ll do it because I have crossed some arbitrary line.”

Yes.” She’s wide-eyed and excited. I can’t help my wolfish grin as I radio the tower to make sure that they’re awake and listening. I damp down my fear and make a plea. “You look like you’ve lost at least five pounds, possibly more since then. Please eat, Anastasia.” I’m helpless. What else can I say? The photographer takes a few snaps. “Mr. Grey, thank you.” At least he sounds appreciative. “Miss…?” he asks, wanting to know her name.Christian Grey exercises control in all things; his world is neat, disciplined, and utterly empty—until the day that Anastasia Steele falls into his office, in a tangle of shapely limbs and tumbling brown hair. He tries to forget her, but instead, is swept up in a storm of emotion he cannot comprehend and cannot resist. Unlike any woman he has known before, shy, unworldly Ana seems to see right through him—past the business prodigy and the penthouse lifestyle to Christian's cold, wounded heart.