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Fifty Shades Darker : Fifty Shades Trilogy, Book 2
by E L James and Becca Battoe

Overview -

MORE THAN 150 MILLION COPIES SOLD WORLDWIDE
NOW 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.  Read more...



 

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More About Fifty Shades Darker by E L James; Becca Battoe
 
 
 
Overview

MORE THAN 150 MILLION COPIES SOLD WORLDWIDE
NOW 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.


 
Details
  • Publisher: Penguin Random House Audio Publishing Gr
  • Date: Apr 2012
 
Excerpts

From the book


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...

 
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"In a class by itself." - Entertainment Weekly

 
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