Пятьдесят оттенков серого

           Thetowersquawksbackathimovertheradio,butIdon’tunderstandwhattheysay.Wesailaroundagaininawidecircle,sinkingslowlytotheground.Icanseetheairport,thelandingstrips,andwe’reflyingbackoverInterstate95.

           “Hangon,baby.Thiscangetbumpy.”

           Afteranothercirclewedip,andsuddenlyweareonthegroundwithabriefthump,racingalongthegrass—holyshit.Myteethchatteraswebumpatanalarmingspeedalongtheground,untilwefinallycometoastop.Theplaneswaysthendipstotheright.ItakeadeeplungfulofairwhileChristianleansoverandopensthecockpitlid,clamberingoutandstretching.

           “Howwasthat?”heasks,andhiseyesareashining,dazzlingsilvergray.Heleansdowntounbuckleme.

           “Thatwasextraordinary.Thankyou,”Iwhisper.

           “Wasitmore?”heasks,hisvoicetingedwithhope.

           “Muchmore,”Ibreathe,andhegrins.

           “Come.”Heholdsouthishandforme,andIclamberoutofthecockpit.

           AssoonasI’mout,hegrabsmeandholdsmeflushagainsthisbody.Suddenlyhishandisinmyhair,tuggingitsomyheadtipsback,andhisotherhandtravelsdowntothebaseofmyspine.Hekissesme,long,hard,andpassionately,histongueinmymouth.Hisbreathingismounting,hisardor…Holycow—hiserection…we’reinafield.ButIdon’tcare.Myhandstwistinhishair,anchoringhimtome.Iwanthim,here,now,ontheground.Hebreaksawayandgazesdownatme,hiseyesnowdarkandluminousintheearlymorninglight,fullofraw,arrogantsensuality.Wow.Hetakesmybreathaway.