Пятьдесят оттенков серого
Chapter 5
ChristianGrey’ssweat;thenotiondoesoddthingstome.Itakeadeepbreathandclosemyeyes.Ifeellikeatwo-year-old;ifIclosemyeyes,thenI’mnotreallyhere.
“Goodmorning,Anastasia.Howareyoufeeling?”
“BetterthanIdeserve,”Imumble.
Ipeekupathim.Heplacesalargeshoppingbagonachairandgraspseachendofthetowelthathehasaroundhisneck.He’sstaringatme,grayeyesdark,andasusual,Ihavenoideawhathe’sthinking.Hehideshisthoughtsandfeelingssowell.
“HowdidIgethere?”Myvoiceissmall,contrite.
Hesitsdownontheedgeofthebed.He’scloseenoughformetotouch,formetosmell.Ohmy…sweatandbodywashandChristian.It’saheadycocktail—somuchbetterthanamargarita,andnowIcanspeakfromexperience.
“Afteryoupassedout,Ididn’twanttorisktheleatherupholsteryinmycartakingyouallthewaytoyourapartment.SoIbroughtyouhere,”hesaysphlegmatically.
“Didyouputmetobed?”
“Yes.”Hisfaceisimpassive.
“DidIthrowupagain?”Myvoiceisquieter.
“No.”
“Didyouundressme?”Iwhisper.
“Yes.”HequirksaneyebrowatmeasIblushfuriously.
“Wedidn’t—?”Iwhisper,mymouthdryinginmortifiedhorrorasIcan’tcompletethequestion.Istareatmyhands.
“Anastasia,youwerecomatose.Necrophiliaisnotmything.Ilikemywomensentientandreceptive,”hesaysdryly.
“I’msosorry.”
Hismouthliftsslightlyinawrysmile.
“Itwasaverydivertingevening.NotonethatI’llforgetinawhile.”
Me,neither—oh,he’slaughingatme,thebastard.
