Пятьдесят оттенков серого

           Bynine,I’veheardnothing.Perhapshe’sout.IpoutpetulantlyasIplugmyiPodearbudsin,listentoSnowPatrol,andsitdownatmysmalldesktorereadthecontractandmakemycomments.

           Idon’tknowwhyIglanceup,maybeIcatchaslightmovementfromthecornerofmyeye,Idon’tknow,butwhenIdo,he’sstandinginthedoorwayofmybedroom,watchingmeintently.He’swearinghisgrayflannelpantsandawhitelinenshirt,gentlytwirlinghiscarkeys.Ipullmyearbudsoutandfreeze.Fuck!

           “Goodevening,Anastasia.”Hisvoiceiscool,hisexpressioncompletelyguardedandunreadable.Thecapacitytospeakdesertsme.DamnKateforlettinghiminherewithnowarning.Vaguely,I’mawarethatI’mstillinmysweats,unshowered,yucky,andhe’sjustgloriouslyyummy,hispantsdoingthathangingfromthehipsthing,andwhat’smore,he’shereinmybedroom.

           “Ifeltthatyoure-mailwarrantedareplyinperson,”heexplainsdryly.

           Iopenmymouthandthencloseitagain,twice.Thejokeisonme.NeverinthisoranyalternativeuniversedidIexpecthimtodropeverythingandturnuphere.

           “MayIsit?”heasks,hiseyesnowdancingwithhumor—thankheavens—maybehe’llseethefunnyside?

           Inod.Thepowerofspeechremainselusive.ChristianGreyissittingonmybed.

           “Iwonderedwhatyourbedroomwouldlooklike,”hesays.

           Iglancearoundit,plottinganescaperoute.No—there’sstillonlythedoororwindow.