Пятьдесят оттенков серого

           Icheckmyseldom-wornmascarainthelight-upvanitymirroronmyvisor.Didn’thaveoneoftheseintheBeetle.

           Gogirl!Myinnergoddesshasherpom-pomsinhand—she’sincheerleadingmode.Intheinfinitymirrorsoftheelevator,Icheckoutmyplumdress—well,Kate’splumdress.ThelasttimeIworethis,hewantedtopeelitoffme.Mybodyclenchesatthethought.Thefeelingisjustexquisite,andIcatchmybreath.I’mwearingtheunderwearthatTaylorboughtforme.IflushatthethoughtofhisbuzzcutroamingtheaislesofAgentProvocateurorwhereverheboughtit.Thedoorsopen,andI’mfacingthefoyerofapartmentnumberone.

           TaylorstandsatthedoubledoorsasIstepoutoftheelevator.

           “Goodafternoon,MissSteele,”hesays.

           “Oh,please,callmeAna.”

           “Ana.”Hesmiles.“Mr.Greyisexpectingyou.”

           Ibetheis.

           ChristianisseatedonhislivingroomcouchreadingtheSundaypapers.HeglancesupasTaylordirectsmeintothelivingarea.TheroomisexactlyasIrememberit—it’sbeenawholeweeksinceI’vebeenhere,butitfeelssomuchlonger.Christianlookscoolandcalm—actually,helooksheavenly.He’sinaloosewhitelinenshirtandjeans,noshoesorsocks.Hishairistousledandunkempt,andhiseyestwinklewickedly.Herisesandstrollstowardme,anamusedappraisingsmileonhisbeautifulsculpturedlips.

           Istandimmobilizedattheentranceoftheroom,paralyzedbyhisbeautyandthesweetanticipationofwhat’stocome.Thefamiliarchargebetweenusisthere,sparkingslowlyinmybelly,drawingmetohim.