Пятьдесят оттенков серого

           BecauseIcan’ttouchyou,becauseI’mtoofrightenedtoshowyouanyaffectionincaseyouflinchortellmeofforworse—beatme?WhatcanIsay?

           Istaremomentarilyoutofthewindow.Thecarisheadingbackacrossthebridge.Wearebothshroudedindarkness,maskingourthoughtsandfeelings,butwedon’tneedthenightforthat.

           “Why,Anastasia?”Christianpressesmeforananswer.

           Ishrug,trapped.Idon’twanttolosehim.Inspiteofallhisdemands,hisneedtocontrol,hisscaryvices,IhaveneverfeltasaliveasIdonow.It’sathrilltobesittingherebesidehim.He’ssounpredictable,sexy,smart,andfunny.Buthismoods…oh—andhewantstohurtme.Hesayshe’llthinkaboutmyreservations,butitstillscaresme.Iclosemyeyes.WhatcanIsay?DeepdownIwouldjustlikemore,moreaffection,moreplayfulChristian,more…love.

           Hesqueezesmyhand.

           “Talktome,Anastasia.Idon’twanttoloseyou.Thislastweek…”

           We’recomingneartotheendofthebridge,andtheroadisoncemorebathedintheneonlightofthestreetlampssohisfaceisintermittentlyinthelightandthedark.Andit’ssuchafittingmetaphor.Thisman,whomIoncethoughtofasaromantichero,abraveshiningwhiteknight—orthedarkknight,ashesaid.He’snotahero;he’samanwithserious,deepemotionalflaws,andhe’sdraggingmeintothedark.CanInotguidehimintothelight?

           “Istillwantmore,”Iwhisper.

           “Iknow,”hesays.“I’lltry.”

           Iblinkupathim,andherelinquishesmyhandandpullsatmychin,releasingmytrappedlip.