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He relaxes. “On that we can agree, Mrs. Grey.”

“You do want kids though, don’t you?”

“Sure, yes. Eventually. But I’m not ready to share you yet.” He kisses my neck again.

Oh . . . share?

“What are you making? Looks good.” He kisses me behind my ear, and I know it’s to distract me. A delicious tingle travels down my spine.

“Subs.” I smirk, recovering my sense of humor.

He smiles against my neck and nips my earlobe. “My favorite.” I poke him with my elbow.

“Mrs. Grey, you wound me.” He clutches his side as if in pain.

“Wimp,” I mutter disapprovingly.

“Wimp?” he utters in disbelief. He slaps my behind, making me yelp. “Hurry up with my food, wench. And later I’ll show you how wimpy I can be.” He slaps me playfully once more and goes to the fridge.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” he asks.

“Please.”

Christian spreads Gia’s plans out over the breakfast bar. She really has some spectacular ideas.

“I love her proposal to make the entire downstairs back wall glass, but . . .”

“But?” Christian prompts.

I sigh. “I don’t want to take all the character out of the house.”

“Character?”

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“Yes. What Gia is proposing is quite radical, but . . . well . . . I fell in love with the house as it is . . . warts and all.” Christian’s brow furrows as if this is anathema to him.

“I kind of like it the way it is,” I whisper. Is this going to make him mad?

He regards me steadily. “I want this house to be the way you want. Whatever you want. It’s yours.”

“I want you to like it, too. To be happy in it, too.”

“I’ll be happy wherever you are. It’s that simple, Ana.” His gaze holds mine.

He is utterly, utterly sincere. I blink at him as my heart expands. Holy cow, he really does love me.

“Well”—I swallow, fighting the small knot of emotion that catches in my throat—“I like the glass wall. Maybe we could ask her to incorporate it into the house a little more sympathetically.”

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.

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“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 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.

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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 fucker?” 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.

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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.