Пятьдесят оттенков серого

           Isitdowninmyallottedseat,andhecrouchesbesidemetostrapmeintotheharness.It’safour-pointharnesswithallthestrapsconnectingtoonecentralbuckle.Hetightensbothoftheupperstraps,soIcanhardlymove.He’ssocloseandintentonwhathe’sdoing.IfIcouldonlyleanforward,mynosewouldbeinhishair.Hesmellsclean,fresh,heavenly,butI’mfastenedsecurelyintomyseatandeffectivelyimmobile.Heglancesupandsmiles,likehe’senjoyinghisusualprivatejoke,hiseyesheated.He’ssotantalizinglyclose.Iholdmybreathashepullsatoneoftheupperstraps.

           “You’resecure,noescaping,”hewhispers.“Breathe,Anastasia,”headdssoftly.Reachingup,hecaressesmycheek,runninghislongfingersdowntomychin,whichhegraspsbetweenhisthumbandforefinger.Heleansforwardandplantsabrief,chastekiss,leavingmereeling,myinsidesclenchingatthethrilling,unexpectedtouchofhislips.

           “Ilikethisharness,”hewhispers.

           What?

           Hesitsdownbesidemeandbuckleshimselfintohisseat,thenbeginsaprotractedprocedureofcheckinggaugesandflippingswitchesandbuttonsfromthemind-bogglingarrayofdialsandlightsandswitchesinfrontofme.Littlelightswinkandflashfromvariousdials,andthewholeoftheinstrumentpanellightsup.

           “Putyourcanson,”hesays,pointingtoasetofheadphonesinfrontofme.Ipullthemon,andtherotorbladesstart.Theyaredeafening.Heputshisheadphonesonandcontinuesflippingvariousswitches.

           “I’mjustgoingthroughallthepreflightchecks.