Пятьдесят оттенков серого
Chapter 12
Myroomisfunctionalbutcozy—sparsewhitewickerfurnitureandawhiteirondoublebedwithapatchworkquilt,madebymymotherwhenshewasinherfolksyAmericanaquiltingphase.It’sallpaleblueandcream.
“It’sverysereneandpeacefulinhere,”hemurmurs.Notatthemoment…notwithyouhere.
Finally,mymedullaoblongatarecallsitspurpose.Ibreathe.“How…?”
Hesmilesatme.“I’mstillattheHeathman.”
Iknowthat.
“Wouldyoulikeadrink?”PolitenesswinsoutovereverythingelseI’dliketosay.
“Nothankyou,Anastasia.”Hesmilesadazzling,crookedsmile,hisheadcockedslightlytooneside.
Well,Imightneedone.
“So,itwasniceknowingme?”
Holycow,isheoffended?Istaredownatmyfingers.HowamIgoingtodigmyselfoutofthis?IfItellhimitwasajoke,Idon’tthinkhe’llbeimpressed.
“Ithoughtyou’dreplybye-mail.”Myvoiceissmall,pathetic.
“Areyoubitingyourlowerlipdeliberately?”heasksdarkly.
Iblinkupathim,gasping,freeingmylip.
“Iwasn’tawareIwasbitingmylip,”Imurmursoftly.
Myheartispounding.Icanfeelthatpull,thatdeliciouselectricitybetweenuscharging,fillingthespacewithstatic.He’ssittingsoclosetome,hiseyesdarksmokygray,hiselbowsrestingonhisknees,hislegsapart.Leaningforward,heslowlyundoesoneofmypigtails,hisfingersfreeingmyhair.Mybreathingisshallow,andIcannotmove.Iwatchhypnotizedashishandmovestomysecondpigtail,andpullingthehairtie,heloosensthebraidwithhislong,skilledfingers.
