Пятьдесят оттенков серого
Chapter 2
“WereyouaGirlScout?”heasks,sculptured,sensuallipscurledinamusement.Don’tlookathismouth!
“Organizedgroupactivitiesaren’treallymything,Mr.Grey.”
Hearchesabrow.
“Whatisyourthing,Anastasia?”heasks,hisvoicesoft,andhissecretsmileisback.Igazeathim,unabletoexpressmyself.I’monshiftingtectonicplates.Trytobecool,Ana,mytorturedsubconsciousbegsonbendedknee.
“Books,”Iwhisper,butinside,mysubconsciousisscreaming:You!Youaremything!Islapitdowninstantly,mortifiedthatmypsycheishavingideaswayoutofitsleague.
“Whatkindofbooks?”Hecockshisheadtooneside.Whyishesointerested?
“Oh,youknow.Theusual.Theclassics.Britishliterature,mainly.”
Herubshischinwithhislongindexfingerandthumbashecontemplatesmyanswer.Orperhapshe’sjustveryboredandtryingtohideit.
“Anythingelseyouneed?”Ihavetogetoffthissubject—thosefingersonthatfacearebeguiling.
“Idon’tknow.Whatelsewouldyourecommend?”
WhatwouldIrecommend?Idon’tevenknowwhatyou’redoing.
“Forado-it-yourselfer?”
Henods,hiseyesalivewithwickedhumor.Iflush,andmygazestraystohissnugjeans.
“Coveralls,”Ireply,andIknowI’mnolongerscreeningwhat’scomingoutofmymouth.
Heraisesaneyebrow,amusedyetagain.
“Youwouldn’twanttoruinyourclothing.”Igesturevaguelyinthedirectionofhisjeans.
“Icouldalwaystakethemoff.”Hesmirks.
“Um.”Ifeelthecolorinmycheeksrisingagain.ImustbethecolorofTheCommunistManifesto.Stoptalking.
