Пятьдесят оттенков серого
Chapter 7
Whatistheappropriateresponsetofindingoutapotentialloverisacompletefreakysadistormasochist?Fear…yes…thatseemstobetheoverridingfeeling.Irecognizeitnow.Butweirdlynotofhim—Idon’tthinkhe’dhurtme,well,notwithoutmyconsent.Somanyquestionscloudmymind.Why?How?When?Howoften?Who?Iwalktowardthebedandrunmyhandsdownoneoftheintricatelycarvedposts.Thepostisverysturdy,thecraftsmanshipoutstanding.
“Saysomething,”Christiancommands,hisvoicedeceptivelysoft.
“Doyoudothistopeopleordotheydoittoyou?”
Hismouthquirksup,eitheramusedorrelieved.
“People?”Heblinksacoupleoftimesasheconsidershisanswer.“Idothistowomenwhowantmeto.”
Idon’tunderstand.
“Ifyouhavewillingvolunteers,whyamIhere?”
“BecauseIwanttodothiswithyou,verymuch.”
“Oh,”Igasp.Why?
Iwandertothefarcorneroftheroomandpatthewaist-highpaddedbenchandrunmyfingersovertheleather.Helikestohurtwomen.Thethoughtdepressesme.
“You’reasadist?”
“I’maDominant.”Hiseyesareascorchinggray,intense.
“Whatdoesthatmean?”Iwhisper.
“ItmeansIwantyoutowillinglysurrenderyourselftome,inallthings.”
IfrownathimasItrytoassimilatethisidea.
“WhywouldIdothat?”
“Topleaseme,”hewhispersashecockshisheadtooneside,andIseeaghostofasmile.
Pleasehim!Hewantsmetopleasehim!Ithinkmymouthdropsopen.PleaseChristianGrey.AndIrealize,inthatmoment,thatyes,that’sexactlywhatIwanttodo.
