Fifty Shades Freed (Christian & Ana)(66)

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 television 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.

"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*cker?" 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.