I do not own Fifty Shades Trilogy or the characters. They belong to E. L. James. I am only exercising my right to exploit, abuse, and mangle the characters to MY discretion in MY story in MY interpretation as a fan. I hope you—as a fellow fan—enjoy it, too.
Chapter 04—Mr. CEO
Now this is classic. This group has to be the dullest bunch of losers I have ever met. It’s not that I get off on great calamities, but this is not what I envisaged when I got into Psychology. I mean, I knew I’d meet the odd crazy woman who wore purple shoes with a green hat and an orange dress and carried her dead husband’s ashes around with her everywhere she went, but I never thought my legacy would be people who get depressed because the sunset is not the perfect shade of orange. I mean, it’s just that trivial.
As I am sitting in my borrowed office at the community center going over my notes, I’m dismayed to discover that I don’t think I have one Stoley in this group—not one! Oh, we have some interesting characters. There’s always at least one bottle-job that went a little too heavy on the color, trying to capture her long-lost youth and this time, it’s Gwendolyn Hardison.
Poor Gwen married young in what I would consider a modern-day arranged marriage. Her parents “betrothed” her to young Mr. Hardison at the ripe old age of 17, after which she immediately began punching out his children. After seeing their third child through college, Mr. Hardison—who was ten years her senior—proceeded to have the world’s biggest midlife crisis and left his wife for a younger woman.
Although Gwen received most of his assets in the settlement, she is 45 years old with—as she puts it—the best years of her life behind her while her husband gets to go out and start all over again with his new hot totty. And even though she is very well off, she still can’t seem to find the happiness that always seemed to evade her all of the years that she was married to her husband. As pitiful as this may sound, so far, she’s the most interesting member of the group.
Then there are my court-ordered attendees—Mr. Logan Wheeler, who attacked a man he caught sexing his wife in their bed, and Mr. Christian Grey, who apparently assaulted a drunk driver who ran into his car. Just what I need, a couple of hotheads—justified hotheads, but hotheads nonetheless. So, what does the great City of Seattle expect me to do with these guys? Gee, Mr. Wheeler, you pummeled this guy while he was in a pre-orgasmic state with the woman who vowed to honor and cherish you in the bed that you sleep in every night… how do you feel about that? Good fucking grief.
And Mr. Grey. Mr. Grey. Damn, those eyes. That man has a body like Zeus, a face like Ares, and the swooning power of Adonis. And that voice. Damn, that voice! The tones he took with me tonight; it was like he was trying to make me yield to him. I can see why any woman would, but I’m not any woman.
That arrogant bastard was trying to control me tonight. Getting on his fucking blackberry in the middle of the session—how rude! And the way he insisted on calling me Ms. Steele. Well, I guess it’s better than Sweetheart, Darling, Doll, and all of the other names my being a petite woman seems to draw out of the average condescending male. He’s going to be a handful. He’s not accustomed to taking instructions from anybody and I am only too sure that he will not get all warm and squishy about his feelings with this lot!
But why was he looking at me that way? And what was he thinking that he didn’t know what the group was talking about up until then? I mean, hell, the group had been talking for half an hour—where the hell was he? My mind wanders to when I first raised my head and met those heated gray eyes. It was like he was looking through me, right down into the darkest recesses of me and picking apart my most intimate secrets.
Nobody is supposed to be there but me, but when I shut the door and turned around, there he was—in my secret place—hooded gray eyes, sexy copper locks, and all. It only lasted a moment, but it felt like an eternity. He just gazed at me, through me…
He has this magnetism that draws you to him, and it’s not just the face. It’s something about him that makes you forget yourself if you’re not careful—and he knows it. He knows that he has that power over people and he is accustomed to exercising it to his advantage. And then when he speaks—his voice ranges from seductive and suggestive to commanding. He’s like the male version of Helen of Troy; he could bring empires to their knees.
It would be so hot if he wasn’t so fucking arrogant and annoying.
I remove my glasses to try to give my eyes a rest. I’ve been here long enough. It’s nearly 7:00. I release my bun and fluff my hair while massaging my sore scalp. I feel a slight headache coming on. Nothing that a nice Cabernet and a little Michael Franks won’t cure. I drop my head and rub the back of my neck as I ponder those eyes… that voice…
“Dr. Steele? A moment?”
Now I am fucking hearing the voice. I have got to get this guy out of my head.
I raise my head to see none other than Christian Grey standing in the doorway of my office. Oh shit, what does he want?
Are you mad because he’s here or are you mad because you were just mentally drooling over him and now he’s here?
Not now, Bitch. I can’t deal with you, not to mention that I just fluffed my hair and I probably look like I was recently chased by banshees.
“Mr. Grey,” I respond, trying to hide the weariness in my voice. I hope he doesn’t want one-on-one sessions. I don’t think I could handle it. “What can I do for you?” He visibly pauses for a beat, but then he comes into the office a few steps.
“You keep late hours for a therapist, Dr. Steele. Difficult patient?” The words roll off his tongue. Breathe, Steele.
“Not this evening, Mr. Grey. I don’t see patients on Mondays, only the group sessions. How can I help you?”
“May I?” He gestures to one of the chairs in front of my desk. Just over his shoulder, I can see a gentleman standing outside my office. He looks like ex-CIA or Men In Black or something. Who knows? I mimic his gesture toward the chair, letting him know that it’s okay for him to take a seat.
“Friend of yours?” I ask, nodding toward the gentleman in the hallway.
“Private security.” He crosses one leg over his knee and then folds his hands in his lap. Suddenly the room feels too small and I am very ready to go home. “What is it that you need, Mr. Grey?”
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I would like to talk to you about these… sessions.” And here we go. At least one of my COA’s always comes to me with some sort of attempt to get out of the sessions and still have me submit their completion paperwork. On more than one occasion, I have been very tempted to do just that, but for some reason the court has decided that these people have to come to these classes—who I am to say that they are wrong?
“Let me stop you right there, Mr. Grey. If you’re trying to get me to say that you have attended classes you have not, that’s not going to happen.” He smirks at me and raises an eyebrow.
“I think it was you who mentioned not wanting to waste anyone’s time, Dr. Steele. I can guarantee you that group therapy—in my case—would be a complete and total waste of time.”
This arrogant asshole.
“And why would you say that if you haven’t even tried it?” I ask, bemused. He leans in further, closing the space between us even more. Thank God for the desk.
“You recognized my counting, so you already know I’m addressing some issues. I’m not going to discuss them in front of a group of strangers.” His eyes are piecing again and his voice is sharp. Is it getting hot in here?
“Nonetheless, Mr. Grey,” I try to wrangle my scattering thoughts, “the court says you must attend these sessions, so you must attend them. That decision is out of my hands. Why don’t you just give them a try?” He laughs at my last statement, or more like scoffs at it.
Now, I’m really getting pissed.
“Dr. Steele, I wouldn’t even begin to discuss my life in front of strangers unless everyone in the group was willing to sign an NDA…”
“A non-disclosure agreement…?” I say in disbelief. His face changes—a bit taken aback.
“You know what it is. Impressive.” He shakes his head as if to rid himself of some stray thought. “Anyway, that’s a moot point as I have no desire to share in a group setting.” What is his big hang-up? And why would he need a non-disclosure agreement for group therapy? Has he committed some crime? Did he kill someone?
“I don’t know how you could possibly dismiss something you haven’t even tried, Mr. Grey. I’ve seen the right kind of therapy work wonders for people who were considered lost causes.”
He smirks again. “Ms. Steele…” I glare at him again. “Dr. Steele… quite frankly, I’ve done it all. Let me assure you, I’m not new to this. I have stories that will shock and amaze anything you have ever seen in your little doctor mind.” Somehow, I doubt that.
Wait a minute! Did this jerk just say “little doctor mind?” This pompous, puffed-up fucker… what the fuck…!
Easy, Steele… down, Girl…
“And I see that you, like many others, already have me figured out now, have you, Mr. Grey?” I sit back in my chair, resting my elbows on my armrests.
“I’m an excellent judge of character, Dr. Steele. I make it my business to know with whom I am dealing,” he says smugly. I give him a half smile.
“Well, Mr. Grey, let me assure you that if you underestimate me, I’m very likely to surprise you. You see…” Now it’s my turn to lean in, “my ‘little doctor mind’ has seen a whole lot more than you think… in a very short period of time. So, it would be to your benefit not to try to manipulate me in any way because I can tell you now that your efforts will be futile. Now, I’m bound by my oath not to repeat specifics from our sessions anyway unless someone’s safety is at risk. However, I’m not going to ask 19 other people to sign NDA’s so that you can feel comfortable telling your horror stories. So, speak if you like—and if you don’t like, don’t speak. Either way, I’ll see you on Thursday.” I narrow my eyes at him, hoping that he gets the clue that this conversation is over. Mr. Men In Black gently knocks on the open door.
“Excuse me, Sir, you indicated that you needed to be back at Escala at 8:00pm. We should be leaving soon if you don’t want to be late.” He stands without looking back at his hired arm. He straightens his jacket, and I would know that stance anywhere.
He’s preparing for battle.
Shit, I don’t need this, but hell if I’m going to back down to this pompous asshole.
“Ms. Steele,” he says as a goodbye and turns to leave. I know he did it on purpose.
“Grey,” I respond to his back. He pauses for a moment, then proceeds out of my office past his bodyguard, and I could swear I saw the guard trying to keep from laughing.
Infuriating little… Who the fuck does she think… Little social worker, do-gooder… I’m so fucking pissed, I can’t even subconsciously finish a fucking sentence! She thinks she can play with me? Fine! You have no idea who you’re dealing with, Ms. Steele. I’m on my blackberry as soon as we get into the elevator.
“Welch, I want a background check on Anastasia Steele immediately.” When I end the call, I can hear an almost inaudible sigh from Taylor.
“Something you want to say, Taylor?” I ask as we’re leaving the building.
“Nothing at all, sir,” is his clipped response.
Yeah, I didn’t think so.
“Hello Christian.” Elena strides into the great room a few moments after I arrive back at Escala. Her fascination with black clothing is something that never really grew on me, but tonight she’s laced up like a Thanksgiving turkey. She’s wearing a black double-laced corset, front and back, that pushes her breasts almost up to her chin. Her black satin pants have similar lacings down the side of both legs, exposing the skin on her thigh. I’m only too sure that you would be able to see the skin all the way down to her ankles were it not for the knee-high boots she’s wearing, also laced up the back from ankle to knee. I would almost think this outfit was hot if it was on one of my subs.
“Elena,” I say, going to the kitchen for a glass of wine, “I can’t help but notice that you’ve arrived alone.” I told this woman I needed a sub. After dealing with Ms. Steele this evening, I need one in the worst way.
“I’m sorry, Christian,” she purrs with obvious fake contrition, “but something came up at the last minute and she cancelled on me. I hurried over to see if there was anything I could do to help.”
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
My service didn’t call back either,1 so I guess I just gave too short notice for anybody to come and help me release tonight, assuming Elena actually put any effort into the task at all. I know what’s next, but I can’t seem to get this woman to understand that we are not going to be involved that way, although tonight… in this get-up she’s wearing… she’s damn near bound already.
“You could have called, Elena. You didn’t have to make a trip all the way over here.”
“But I’m concerned about you, Christian,” she coos. “After that nasty business with Naomi and how badly that turned out, I thought you may need a little… reconditioning.” Her voice is oozing seduction and, for some reason, tonight, it’s just making my skin crawl.
“Let me know when you find a suitable candidate. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some work to do.”
“Christian,” she’s damn near moaning now, “you know I would be only too happy to help you release this tension you seem to be carrying. You seemed so eager when you called earlier.” She sashays around the breakfast bar and strokes my arm. “You know how good we can be together. Let me help you ease this stress, for old times’ sake.”
The longer she stands here, the angrier I get. There never was a sub available; she simply came over to play this little game with me. What is it with these defiant women tonight? First Anastasia and now Elena… and I can’t get that woman’s face out of my head! Those sapphire eyes challenging me as I sit in her office, her long brown locks cascading over her shoulders—mussed up and unkempt like she had just been fucked. Fuck me. I have half a mind to take Elena to my playroom and beat the hell out of her—and I know I’d be pretending she was Ms. Steele the entire time. My dick is playing hockey with my balls again, fighting for room to get out of my pants. I have to get Elena out of here.
“Elena?” I command in my Dom voice. She gasps and removes her hand from my arm.
“Yes?” she breathes.
“Call me when you find a suitable candidate. You can go now.” I take another drink of my wine. She’s gaping at me in disbelief.
“You know you want it, Christian!” she snaps. “Look at you. You can barely keep it in your pants right now. Admit it. I have you all hot and bothered! Why would you resist it?” She is seething.
“I’m not bothered for you, Elena. I’m bothered by you. Now leave!” I say between clenched teeth. A myriad of emotions come over her face—disbelief, crestfallen, anger. She turns on her heels and storms out of the apartment, slamming the door behind her. Some poor sucker is going to get the shit beaten out of him tonight, and where the fuck does that leave me?
Standing here duly frustrated over defiant brunettes and predatory blondes, with a raging hard-on and no closer to any release. Nice job, Grey. Time for a strenuous workout and one hell of a cold ass shower.
A/N: Pictures can be found on Pinterest at http://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/paging-dr-steele/
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