Пятьдесят оттенков серого
Chapter 8
“You’llbeexhaustedinthemorning.”
“Iwokeandyouweren’tthere.”
“Ifinditdifficulttosleep,andI’mnotusedtosleepingwithanyone,”hemurmurs.Ican’tfathomhismood.Heseemsalittledespondent,butit’sdifficulttotellinthedarkness.Perhapsitwasthetoneofthepiecehewasplaying.Heputshisarmaroundmeandgentlywalksmebacktothebedroom.
“Howlonghaveyoubeenplaying?Youplaybeautifully.”
“SinceIwassix.”
“Oh.”Christianasasix-year-oldboy…mymindconjuresanimageofabeautiful,copper-hairedlittleboywithgrayeyesandmyheartmelts—amoppet-hairedkidwholikesimpossiblysadmusic.
“Howareyoufeeling?”heaskswhenwearebackintheroom.Heswitchesonasidelight.
“I’mgood.”
Webothglancedownatthebedatthesametime.There’sbloodonthesheets—evidenceofmylostvirginity.Iflush,embarrassed,pullingtheduvettighteraroundme.
“Well,that’sgoingtogiveMrs.Jonessomethingtothinkabout,”Christianmuttersashestandsinfrontofme.Heputshishandundermychinandtipsmyheadback,staringdownatme.Hiseyesareintenseasheexaminesmyface.IrealizethatI’venotseenhisnakedchestbefore.Instinctively,Ireachouttorunmyfingersthroughthesmatteringofdarkhaironhischesttoseehowitfeels.Immediately,hestepsbackoutofmyreach.
“Getintobed,”hesayssharply.Hisvoicesoftens.“I’llcomeandliedownwithyou.”Idropmyhandandfrown.Idon’tthinkI’veevertouchedhistorso
