Пятьдесят оттенков серого
Chapter 2
“Haveyouworkedherelong?”Hisvoiceislow,andhe’sgazingatme,concentratinghard.Iblushbrightly.Whythehelldoeshehavethiseffectonme?IfeellikeI’mfourteenyearsold—gauche,asalways,andoutofplace.Eyesfront,Steele!
“Fouryears,”Imutteraswereachourgoal.Todistractmyself,Ireachdownandselectthetwowidthsofmaskingtapethatwestock.
“I’lltakethatone,”Greysayssoftly,pointingtothewidertape,whichIpasstohim.Ourfingersbrushverybriefly,andthecurrentisthereagain,zappingthroughmelikeI’vetouchedanexposedwire.IgaspinvoluntarilyasIfeelitallthewaydowntosomewheredarkandunexplored,deepinmybelly.Desperately,Iscrabblearoundformyequilibrium.
“Anythingelse?”Myvoiceishuskyandbreathy.Hiseyeswidenslightly.
“Somerope,Ithink.”Hisvoicemirrorsmine,husky.
“Thisway.”Iduckmyheaddowntohidemyrecurringblushandmovetowardtheaisle.
“Whatsortwereyouafter?Wehavesyntheticandnaturalfilamentrope…twine…cablecord…”Ihaltathisexpression,hiseyesdarkening.Holycow.
“I’lltakefiveyardsofthenaturalfilamentrope,please.”
Quickly,withtremblingfingers,Imeasureoutfiveyardsagainstthefixedruler,awarethathishotgraygazeisonme.Idarenotlookathim.Jeez,couldIfeelanymoreself-conscious?TakingmyStanleyknifefromthebackpocketofmyjeans,Icutitthencoilitneatlybeforetyingitinaslipknot.Bysomemiracle,Imanagenottoremoveafingerwithmyknife.
