Пятьдесят оттенков серого

           Heliftsthehemofmybathrobe,andforsomereason,thisfeelsmoreintimatethanbeingnaked.Hegentlycaressesmybehind,runninghiswarmhandalloverbothcheeksanddowntothetopsofmythighs.

           “Iamdoingthissothatyouremembernottorunfromme,andasexcitingasitis,Ineverwantyoutorunfromme,”hewhispers.

           Andtheironyisnotlostonme.Iwasrunningtoavoidthis.Ifhe’dopenedhisarms,I’druntohim,notawayfromhim.

           “Andyourolledyoureyesatme.YouknowhowIfeelaboutthat.”Suddenly,it’sgone—thatnervousedgyfearinhisvoice.He’sbackfromwhereverhe’sbeen.Ihearitinhistone,inthewayheplaceshisfingersonmyback,holdingme—andtheatmosphereintheroomchanges.

           Iclosemyeyes,bracingmyselffortheblow.Itcomeshard,snappingacrossmybackside,andthebiteofthebeltiseverythingIfeared.Icryoutinvoluntarilyandtakeahugegulpofair.

           “Count,Anastasia!”hecommands.

           “One!”Ishoutathim,anditsoundslikeanexpletive.

           Hehitsmeagain,andthepainpulsesandechoesalongthelineofthebelt.Holyshit…thatsmarts.

           “Two!”Iscream.Itfeelssogoodtoscream.

           Hisbreathingisraggedandharsh,whereasmineisalmostnonexistentasIdesperatelyscrabblearoundmypsychelookingforsomeinternalstrength.Thebeltcutsintomyfleshagain.

           “Three!”Tearsspringunwelcomeintomyeyes.Jeez—thisisharderthanIthought—somuchharderthanthespanking.He’snotholdinganythingback.

           “Four!”Iyellasthebeltbitesmeagain,andnowthetearsarestreamingdownmyface.