Fifty Shades Freed (Fifty Shades #3)(28)
Author: E.L. James

Christian grins. "Sure. Whatever you want. What about the plans for upstairs and the basement?"

"I’m cool with those."

"Good."

Okay . . . I steel myself to ask the million-dollar question. "Do you want to put in a playroom?" I feel the oh-so-familiar flush creep up my face as I ask. Christian’s eyebrows shoot up.

"Do you?" he replies, surprised and amused at once.

I shrug. "Um . . . if you want."

He regards me for a moment. "Let’s leave our options open for the moment. After all, this will be a family home."

I’m surprised by the stab of disappointment I feel. I guess he’s right . . . although when are we going to have a family? It could be years.

"Besides, we can improvise." He smirks.

"I like improvising," I whisper.

He grins. "There’s something I want to discuss." Christian points to the master bedroom, and we start a detailed discussion on bathrooms and separate walk-in closets.

When we finish, it’s nine thirty in the evening.

"Are you going back to work?" I ask as Christian rolls up the plans.

"Not if you don’t want me to." He smiles. "What would you like to do?"

"We could watch TV." I don’t want to read, and I don’t want to go to bed . . . yet.

"Okay," Christian agrees willingly, and I follow him into the TV

room.

We have sat here three, maybe four times total, and Christian usually reads a book. He’s not interested in television at all. I curl up beside him on the couch, tucking my legs beneath me and resting my head against his shoulder. He switches on the flat screen with the remote and flicks mindlessly through the channels.

"Any specific drivel you want to see?"

"You don’t like TV much, do you?" I mutter sardonically. He shakes his head. "Waste of time. But I’ll watch something with you."

"I thought we could make out."

He whips his face to mine. "Make out?" He gazes at me as if I’ve grown two heads. He stops the endless flicking, leaving the TV on an over lit Spanish soap opera.

"Yes." Why is he so horrified?

"We could go to bed and make out."

"We do that all the time. When was the last time you made out in front of the TV?" I ask, shy and teasing at the same time. He shrugs and shakes his head. Pressing the remote again he flicks through another few channels before settling on an old episode of The X-Files.

"Christian?"

"I’ve never done that," he says quietly.

Oh! "Never?"

"No."

"Not even with Mrs. Robinson?"

He snorts. "Baby, I did a lot of things with Mrs. Robinson. Making out was not one of them." He smirks at me and then narrows his eyes with amused curiosity. "Have you?"

I flush. "Of course." Well kind of . . .

"What! Who with?"

Oh no. I do not want to have this discussion.

"Tell me," he persists.

I gaze down at my knotted fingers. He gently covers my hands with one of his. When I glance up at him, he’s smiling at me.

"I want to know. So I can beat whoever it was to a pulp."

I giggle. "Well, the first time . . ."

"The first time! There’s more than one f**ker?" He growls. I giggle again. "Why so surprised, Mr. Grey?"

He frowns briefly, runs a hand through his hair, and looks at me as if seeing me in a completely different light. He shrugs. "I just am. I mean – given your lack of experience."

I flush. "I’ve certainly made up for that since I met you."

"You have." He grins. "Tell me. I want to know."

I gaze into patient gray eyes, trying to gauge his mood. Is this going to make him mad, or does he genuinely want to know? I don’t want him sulking . . . he’s impossible when he’s sulking.

"You really want me to tell you?"

He nods slowly once, and his lips twitch with an amused, arrogant smile.

"I was briefly in Vegas with Mom and Husband Number Three. I was in tenth grade. His name was Bradley, and he was my lab partner in physics."

"How old were you?"

"Fifteen."

"And what’s he doing now?"

"I don’t know."

"What base did he get to?"

"Christian!" I scold – and suddenly he grabs my knees, then my ankles, and tips me up so I fall back on to the couch. He slides smoothly on top of me, trapping me beneath him, one leg between mine. It’s so sudden that I cry out in surprise. He grabs my hands and raises them above my head.

"So, this Bradley – did he get to first base?" he murmurs, running his nose down the length of mine. He plants soft kisses at the corner of my mouth.

"Yes," I murmur against his lips. He releases one of his hands so that he can clasp my chin and hold me still while his tongue invades my mouth, and I surrender to his ardent kissing.

"Like this?" Christian breathes when he comes up for air.

"No . . . nothing like that," I manage, as all the blood in my body heads south.

Releasing my chin, he runs his hand down over my body and back up to my breast.

"Did he do this? Touch you like this?" His thumb skims over my nipple, through my camisole, softly, repeatedly, and it hardens under his expert touch.

"No." I writhe beneath him.

"Did he get to second base?" he murmurs in my ear. His hand moves down across my ribs, past my waist to my hip. He takes my earlobe between his teeth and gently tugs.

"No," I breathe.

Mulder blurts from the television something about the FBI’s most unwanted.

Christian pauses, leans up, and presses mute on the remote. He gazes down at me.

"What about Joe Schmo number two? Did he make it past second base?"

His eyes are smoldering hot . . . angry? Turned on? It’s difficult to say which. He shifts to my side and slides his hand beneath my sweatpants.

"No . . . ," I whisper gazing up at him, trapped in his carnal gaze. Christian smiles, wickedly.

"Good." His hand cups my sex. "No underwear, Mrs. Grey. I approve." He kisses me again as his fingers weave more magic, his thumb skimming over my clitoris, tantalizing me, as he pushes his index finger inside me with exquisite slowness.

"We’re supposed to be making out." I groan.

Christian stills. "I thought we were?"

"No. No sex."

"What?"

"No sex . . ."

"No sex, huh?" He withdraws his hand from my sweatpants.

"Here." He traces my lips with his index finger, and I taste my slick saltiness. He pushes his finger into my mouth, mirroring what he was doing a moment earlier. Then shifts so he’s between my legs, and his erection pushes against me. He thrusts, once, twice, and again. I gasp, as the material of my sweatpants rubs in just the right way. He pushes once more, grinding into me.

"This what you want?" he murmurs and moves his hips rhythmically, rocking against me.

"Yes." I moan.

His hand moves back to concentrate on my nipple once more and his teeth scrape along my jaw. "Do you know how hot you are, Ana?"

His voice is hoarse as he rocks harder against me. I open my mouth to articulate a response and fail miserably, groaning loudly. He captures my mouth once more, tugging at my bottom lip with his teeth before plunging his tongue into my mouth again. He releases my other wrist and my hands travel greedily up his shoulders and into his hair as he kisses me. When I pull on his hair, he groans and raises his eyes to mine.

"Ah . . ."

"Do you like me touching you?" I whisper.

His brow furrows briefly as if he doesn’t understand the question. He stops grinding against me. "Of course I do. I love you touching me, Ana. I’m like a starving man at a banquet when it comes to your touch." His voice hums with passionate sincerity.

Holy cow . . .

He kneels between my legs and drags me up to haul off my top. I’m naked beneath. Grabbing the hem of his shirt, he yanks it over his head and tosses it on the floor, then pulls me onto his kneeling lap, his arms clasped just above my behind.

"Touch me," he breathes.

Oh my . . . Tentatively I reach up and brush the tips of my fingers through the smattering of chest hair over his sternum, over his burn scars. He inhales sharply and his pupils dilate, but it’s not with fear. It’s a sensual response to my touch. He watches me intently as my fingers float delicately over his skin, first to one nipple and then the other. They pucker beneath my caress. Leaning forward, I plant soft kisses on his chest, and my hands move to his shoulders, feeling the hard, sculptured lines of sinew and muscle. Jeez . . . he’s in good shape.