Пятьдесят оттенков серого
Chapter 8
Hisexpressionissadandforlorn,likethemusic.Hisplayingisstunning.Leaningagainstthewallattheentrance,Ilisten,enraptured.He’ssuchanaccomplishedmusician.Hesitsnaked,hisbodybathedinthewarmlightcastbyasolitaryfreestandinglampbesidethepiano.Withtherestofthelargeroomindarkness,it’slikehe’sinhisownisolatedlittlepooloflight,untouchable…lonely,inabubble.
Ipadquietlytowardhim,enticedbythesublime,melancholymusic.I’mmesmerized,watchinghislong,skilledfingersastheyfindandgentlypressthekeys,thinkinghowthosesamefingershaveexpertlyhandledandcaressedmybody.Iflushandgaspatthememoryandpressmythighstogether.Heglancesup,hisunfathomablegrayeyesbright,hisexpressionunreadable.
“Sorry,”Iwhisper.“Ididn’tmeantodisturbyou.”
Afrownflitsacrosshisface.
“Surely,Ishouldbesayingthattoyou,”hemurmurs.Hefinishesplayingandputshishandsonhislegs.
Inoticenowthathe’swearingPJpants.Herunshisfingersthroughhishairandstands.Hispantshangfromhiships,inthatway…ohmy.Mymouthgoesdryashecasuallystrollsaroundthepianotowardme.Hehasbroadshoulders,narrowhips,andhisabdominalmusclesrippleashewalks.Hereallyisstunning.
“Youshouldbeinbed,”headmonishes.
“Thatwasabeautifulpiece.Bach?”
“TranscriptionbyBach,butit’soriginallyanoboeconcertobyAlessandroMarcello.”
“Itwasexquisite,butverysad,suchamelancholymelody.”
Hislipsquirkupinahalfsmile.
“Bed,”heorders.
