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- Э. Л. Джеймс
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- Стр. 78/797
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“
You
know
I
like
you
Ana
,
please
.
”
He
has
one
hand
at
the
small
of
my
back
holding
me
against
him
,
the
other
at
my
chin
tipping
back
my
head
.
Holy
fuck
…
he
’
s
going
to
kiss
me
.
“
No
,
José
,
stop
—
no
.
”
I
push
him
,
but
he
’
s
a
wall
of
hard
muscle
,
and
I
cannot
shift
him
.
His
hand
has
slipped
into
my
hair
,
and
he
’
s
holding
my
head
in
place
.
“
Please
,
Ana
,
cariño
,
”
he
whispers
against
my
lips
.
His
breath
is
soft
and
smells
too
sweet
—
of
margarita
and
beer
.
He
gently
trails
kisses
along
my
jaw
up
to
the
side
of
my
mouth
.
I
feel
panicky
,
drunk
,
and
out
of
control
.
The
feeling
is
suffocating
.
“
José
,
no
,
”
I
plead
.
I
don
’
t
want
this
.
You
are
my
friend
,
and
I
think
I
’
m
going
to
throw
up
.
“
I
think
the
lady
said
no
,
”
a
voice
in
the
dark
says
quietly
.
Holy
shit
!
Christian
Grey
,
he
’
s
here
.
How
?
José
releases
me
.
“
Grey
,
”
he
says
tersely
.
I
glance
anxiously
up
at
Christian
.
He
’
s
glowering
at
José
,
and
he
’
s
furious
.
Crap
.
My
stomach
heaves
,
and
I
double
over
,
my
body
no
longer
able
to
tolerate
the
alcohol
,
and
I
vomit
spectacularly
on
to
the
ground
.
“
Ugh
—
Dios
mío
,
Ana
!
”
José
jumps
back
in
disgust
.
Grey
grabs
my
hair
and
pulls
it
out
of
the
firing
line
and
gently
leads
me
over
to
a
raised
flowerbed
on
the
edge
of
the
parking
lot
.
I
note
,
with
deep
gratitude
,
that
it
’
s
in
relative
darkness
.
“
If
you
’
re
going
to
throw
up
again
,
do
it
here
.
I
’
ll
hold
you
.
”
He
has
one
arm
around
my
shoulders
—
the
other
is
holding
my
hair
in
a
makeshift
ponytail
down
my
back
so
it
’
s
off
my
face
.
I
try
awkwardly
to
push
him
away
,
but
I
vomit
again
…
and
again
.
Oh
,
shit
…
how
long
is
this
going
to
last
?
Even
when
my
stomach
’
s
empty
and
nothing
is
coming
up
,
horrible
dry
heaves
rack
my
body
.
I
vow
silently
that
I
’
ll
never
ever
drink
again
.
This
is
just
too
appalling
for
words
.
Finally
,
it
stops
.
My
hands
are
resting
on
the
brick
wall
of
the
flowerbed
,
barely
holding
me
up
.
Vomiting
profusely
is
exhausting
.
Grey
takes
his
hands
off
me
and
passes
me
a
handkerchief
.
Only
he
would
have
a
monogrammed
,
freshly
laundered
linen
handkerchief
.
CTG
.
I
didn
’
t
know
you
could
still
buy
these
.
Vaguely
I
wonder
what
the
T
stands
for
as
I
wipe
my
mouth
.
I
cannot
bring
myself
to
look
at
him
.
I
’
m
swamped
with
shame
,
disgusted
with
myself
.
I
want
to
be
swallowed
up
by
the
azaleas
in
the
flowerbed
and
be
anywhere
but
here
.
