Right Side of the Wrong Bed
It has finally all worked out, Owen thinks as he sits with his friends - the 'survivors' - in a fancy downtown restaurant and his recently reconciled lover and now former wife unsubtly nibbles on his ear. She's drunk and happy, and she should be. He's just come from a meeting with the board and their lawyers, and the insurance company is paying up: no appeal, no loopholes. Just five cheques for fifteen million dollars apiece.
That is a hell of a lot of money, even to him with a substantial surgical budget at his disposal. Fifteen million dollars means four new MRI scanners, two fully-staffed hospital wings, dozens of new residents and attendings. It would go far on his spread sheets, but he can't imagine how far it could go for Cristina. Can one person use up all that money in a lifetime? Especially someone like her, who already earns way more than she can be bothered to spend.
He is wondering if he'll be around to see her try when she bites down on his earlobe and moans; desire courses through him and he hopes to God that he will be.
"Cristina," he mutters, leaning away from her. She's so handsy and uninhibited when she's drunk; so feisty, so unbearably sexy. If she carries on taunting him at the table like this he knows he'll end up doing something very decisive and very inappropriate.
Her eyes focus on his with just a slight delay, and she is trying to look innocent but the wicked smile on her lips betrays her. "You need to have a drink," she says, pointing her finger at the tip of his nose and missing, grazing the side and hitting his cheek. "You'll have more fun."
Owen smiles and takes her hand in his, grateful that the other two couples around the table are now engaged in their own flirty conversation. "I'm happy to drive. And believe me, being with you when you're drunk is entertainment enough."
"You mean when I get naked and dance on tables?"
The expression on her face is so playful and so full of promise that the last lonely months without her suddenly catch up with him all at once. He leans in again and puts his lips very close to her ear. "I mean all of it. All of you. Fully dressed or naked, on a table or against a wall or even on the goddamn floor... I love all of you, Cristina, all the time. I want to make love to you all the time."
He kisses her jaw, careful to scratch her skin with his beard, and he can feel the shiver which runs right through her. "Now," she breathes, clutching onto his arms. "Make love to me now, Owen. Please."
"I will, but not here."
"Why not?"
He doesn't hear her because he's suddenly pushing his chair back and making excuses to the rest of the table, the words rolling off of his tongue without thought as his mind is now on a single track and will not be derailed. He pulls Cristina to her feet in front of him, hoping to conceal just how aroused she has made him, but evidently she's not too inebriated because she very deliberately steps back against him and he knows she's smirking even as his eyes fall closed and he fights the temptation to push his hips right back into her again.
"Have fun you two," Callie grins, and Owen realises he was naive to hope that none of their friends would notice the spark in the air, the flush of their cheeks, their very abrupt departure. Meredith and Arizona are smirking while Derek gives him a friendly wink. And while normally this situation would embarrass the hell out of him, tonight he just does not care.
They barely make it back to his car before he's crushing her against the passenger door, kissing her wildly, teeth bruising lips and fingertips on bare skin. It's painful, loving her this much; wanting her this much. He's feels like he's never known desire before this moment, never needed anything or anyone like he needs to make love to her right now.
And partly it's because they're all new again, re-discovering one another; enjoying the laughter, the flirting, the smoking hot sex in this place without walls or rules. Maybe they wanted different things before, and maybe that's something they will eventually begin to discuss. But for now, maybe they just love each other and maybe that's enough. Maybe they are allowed to be blissfully happy, just for a little while.
And maybe the other reason he wants her so much right now is simply because she's drunk. It's been so long since they've been happy together but even longer since they've had loud, crazy, alcohol-fuelled sex; since she's filled the Firehouse with screams and they've collapsed onto the floor like they've just run a marathon. She is never more exquisite than when she is ripping off their clothes and unable to tear her mouth away from his body, all the while telling him how much she wants him inside of her, how hard she wants to fuck him, how fucking heavenly he's going to feel when she makes him come.
With all this running through his mind, Owen barely registers when she begins to pull away. "Wait, wait," she murmurs, her eyes dark and somewhat dazed. Her breathing is deep and staggered. "Get us home. Now. I can't stand this any fucking longer."
Oh yes, the drunken swearing. He'd forgotten how acutely arousing that was.
Fuck.
"I can't drive like this," he admits, still fighting the urge to grind against her, to push his hand beneath her jeans, to bite on her swollen bottom lip. "We should get a cab."
She actually grins then, and he knows she's thinking of making out in the backseat like they've done so many times before. All these little things they keep revisiting, repeating, like sex that morning in the on call room – somehow they are even better second time around, or maybe it's just a cumulative effect. The great sex plus memories of the previous great sex equals even fucking greater sex.
And if it is, then he can't wait to replicate every experience they've ever had together. Multiple times.
"Come on," Cristina says now, pushing him off of her and leading him somewhat unsteadily down the street. "Let's go, Mr 'I'm happy to drive'."
She hails a taxi straight away and in the darkness of the backseat Owen immediately unhooks her bra and quietly coerces her into removing it entirely. "Good girl," he whispers as he puts it in his coat pocket and then slips his hand beneath the hem of her top. "Now I know you like to be loud, but try not to make a sound. Just let me touch you."
He brushes his lips against her neck just as his thumb encounters the soft skin of her breast, and she gasps and bucks her hips off the seat. God, he loves teasing her; making her respond to him and lose control. He decides to tell her this, to quietly vocalize his every thought as he slowly caresses her bare chest.
"I love you Cristina. I love driving you crazy. I've missed this so much. I've missed you." He buries his face in her hair, momentarily overcome with emotion. There are regrets there, as always, but mostly there is love.
"I missed you too," she whimpers.
"I know. But that doesn't matter any more. I'm right here." He grazes his fingers across from one breast to the other and then down her abdomen, letting them rest over the fly of her pants. She automatically raises her hips into his hand and he smiles so that she can see.
"I still think you're so beautiful, Cristina Yang. That will never change." He gently presses his fingers into her and captures her lips in a fierce kiss, swallowing her moan beneath his tongue.
Bad idea.
The second their mouths meet, he unwittingly releases all control he had over her. Something about the rawness, the heat of the kiss unlocks the wild animal inside her once again and she lifts herself onto his lap, pushing every inch of her body against his, urgently seeking the friction he knows she desperately needs. Fortunately for him - and for the taxi driver - thirty seconds later they pull up outside Meredith's old house and Owen hands over a couple of notes without even looking. Only the entrance hall light is on and he has no idea if Karev – or heaven forbid, Wilson – is home, but once again he just doesn't care. They scramble out onto the sidewalk and Cristina is in his arms again before he's barely caught his balance, holding him so close it's like she wants to disappear inside him.
"We're home," she says into his eager mouth, and he vaguely hears the sound of keys in her hand as her back hits the front door. "Get me a table and let me dance for you, baby."
She only ever calls him 'baby' when she's drunk and this, plus the image which has just burst to life in his mind, makes him growl in the back of his throat. He takes the keys from her and fumbles for the lock, desperate to get inside and get naked. Opening the door proves difficult however, as her wandering hands are all over his body and under his clothes. When she eventually manages to unfasten his belt and find her way inside his boxer shorts he very nearly kicks the damn door off its hinges.
After what feels like several minutes of this acute torture, coupled with her nipping his jaw with her teeth and moaning pretty much non-stop, he finally succeeds and lifts her up into his arms as he steps over the threshold.
"Ugh, you're so hot when you're being manly," she groans, wrapping her legs around his waist as her back hits the other side of the door. Owen barely notices how loudly it slams with all of their weight pushed against it, so focused is he on finally getting her clothes off.
The first items to go are her coat and top and then she's bare in front of him. He can't contain another animalistic noise as he begins to lavish her breasts with his tongue and teeth. The sounds she is making now are so glorious, not to mention loud, that he knows it really won't be long until he gives in and just takes her.
"Upstairs," he manages to say, not sure if it's an intention or a question.
Her response surprises him. "Oh my god... Alex bought a couch."
Owen looks up from her chest and indeed, there is a brand new couch in the living room, illuminated by the light from the hallway. But what Cristina seems to have failed to notice is the person sleeping on it, her back to them and her long, dark – excruciatingly familiar – curls falling over the edge of the cushions. His heart leaps in his chest, terrified that she's awake and has just witnessed their little display – he has already more than embarrassed himself in front of Jo Wilson today. After a few moments however she lets out a little snore and he relaxes again.
"Oh," Cristina says finally, her brain having just caught up.
"Yes." He looks straight into her eyes and they share a smile, relieved at their escape. "Upstairs then?"
"Yes please."
In her bedroom Owen sets her on her feet and they stand and look at one another, the heat of moments ago temporarily dampened by their close encounter. She links her fingers through his and raises their joined hands to shoulder height.
"What are you thinking about?" he asks, curious. He's still aching for her, still having to resist returning his mouth to her breasts or pulling her close and grinding his hips into hers. But she looks so thoughtful and so beautiful that he wants to know what's on her mind more than any of those other things.
She lets go of his hands and slowly begins to unbutton his shirt, managing quite successfully for someone who has consumed so much expensive champagne. "I'm so happy," she says eventually, as she nears the final buttons. "Like, really happy. I never thought we could be this happy again."
She finally meets his eyes and she's smiling. "I never thought becoming someone's ex-wife would feel so good."
It's the first time she's used that term and Owen can't help but laugh. "Ex-wife. Wow."
"I know. Makes me sound middle-aged and bitter, doesn't it?" She steps towards him and presses her bare torso against his. The contact between her warm skin and his, the feel of her hard nipples, of her hands sliding up and into his hair, is all suddenly quite overwhelming.
How are they here? How the hell did this all work out? This is literally his wildest dream, and it is absolutely, one hundred percent real. Amazing.
"I love you so much," he tells her quietly, knowing that she's just about sober enough to recognize the gravity of this moment. "I have always loved you and I always will."
"I know. I love you too, Owen." She reaches up for a kiss and he cradles her face in his palms, cherishing her. Then, slowly but surely their kisses begin to deepen; the noises they make starting to escalate as the flames which had momentarily calmed are reignited.
"Please make love to me now," Cristina sighs, tipping her head back as he trails his lips over her throat. "I want you so badly."
Needing no other invitation, he gradually kisses down her bare chest and abdomen until he is on his knees in front of her. Then he very slowly takes off her shoes and pulls down her jeans, covering every inch of exposed skin with his mouth until he sits back and she's just there in her lacy underwear, looking flushed and aroused and absolutely stunning.
His fifteen million dollar girl.
"Dance for me," he says in a very husky voice, meeting her heavily-lidded gaze. "I know you wanted a table but you can do it right here on the floor."
She frowns slightly, uncertain, so he sits forward and presses his face between her thighs, grazing his teeth right over her center. "Oh fuck," she mutters as her whole body quakes. "Do that again."
He leans away. "Dance for me, Cristina. Please. I want to watch you."
"But usually there's loud music and... I don't know. The mood's not right for dancing. I just want fucking."
Owen stands as she speaks, taking off his shirt and then his shoes, socks, pants and boxers. He goes to sit on the end of the bed and she stares at him, completely naked and completely ready for her. He leans back on his arms and looks up at her, smiling. "As you can see, I really want to fuck you. But I'd also really like to watch you move above me. And you can take that any way you want," he adds when he realizes the connotations 'move above me' might have.
Cristina takes it her own way, of course. She stands right up close, her legs between his, and places his hands on her backside. This is definitely a mistake. The lace barely covers her and without thinking Owen leans in to put his mouth on her again, making her moan loudly and grab onto his hair. His fingers twist into the material and he tugs it down, leaving her bare before him and utterly vulnerable to his insistent tongue. She tastes exquisite and he realizes he hasn't made her come this way yet, not since they've gotten back together. It would be so easy right now: she is so wet for him, so close already if the lengthy and intense foreplay is anything to go by, let alone the tension in her muscles and the helpless, pleading sounds coming out of her mouth.
But she owes him a dance and he hasn't forgotten. He eventually draws away, leaving her frowning and gasping for breath, before guiding her to kneel so that she is straddling his thighs. She immediately begins to rock her hips against him and she feels so amazing that he momentarily loses track of every single thought in his head.
"You stopped," she accuses, biting down on his neck. It hurts, but in a very good way. The scent of her hair is all around him, and she's very definitely moving above him now, brushing her nipples against his chest and gripping his shoulders tightly. Her pace is picking up with every passing second and she's beginning to lose it, beginning to turn into this wild creature again who isn't afraid to let the whole world know just what an incredible, earth-shattering time she's having.
It isn't dancing, but it's so much fucking better.
In one movement, Owen lifts her hips and pulls her forward, and as she grinds down he enters her. They both cry out and immediately find each other's mouths, muffling the sounds temporarily. He wants to touch her all over: to bury his hands in her hair and play with her breasts; to grab her ass and rub her clit all at the same time. He settles for a mixture of all of the above while she murmurs a stream of 'fuck's and 'oh my god's and other unintelligible noises against his tongue, meeting his every thrust and pushing him so deep he knows he's hitting every possible erogenous zone inside of her.
"I fucking love you," she moans breathlessly. "I love it when you fuck me this hard. I think you can do it even harder."
Her words almost undo him, and Owen lifts her off of him and flips her onto her back, quickly climbing over her again and proving her right. He tilts her hips beneath him and now she doesn't hold back, crying out every time he fills her, sinking her nails into his back and telling him very loudly just how close she is to coming.
"I'm so... Owen... fuck..."
"Me too... Come for me."
"Yes... Oh..."
And then she really screams, her body tensing from head to toe and pushing up into him as he feels her contract around him in wave upon wave, which tips him over the edge too. He collapses on top of her, forehead on her shoulder, heart hammering. She's murmuring "Oh my god," repeatedly but he barely registers it, lost as he is in hot, sweaty ecstasy.
After half a minute of getting his breathing back under control, he lifts his head and meets the gaze of his beautiful girl. She smiles back at him and whispers: "I love you." As if she hasn't already said it enough.
As if he'll ever get tired of hearing it.
They clean up quickly and climb back into bed, facing one another with their legs entwined. After many long moments just gazing at her, fighting sleep, Owen suddenly chuckles. "That's the reason I wouldn't have sex with you in the restaurant," he explains when she looks curious. "You're so damn loud."
"But you love it," she counters cheekily, and he concedes.
"You're right, I do. There's no way Karev and Wilson slept through that though."
The embarrassment he couldn't feel earlier comes back now to taunt him, but it's difficult to pay attention to it when the physical and emotional memory of such incredible sex is so fresh.
Cristina just smiles again, and when she speaks her words are more slurred now that she's so sleepy. "At least she'll realize you're definitely not interested in her."
"No, I'm definitely not." He leans in to kiss her, savoring her. "Hey, I hope you're going to remember this in the morning."
"Remember what?" she teases. Then she looks at him more solemnly. "I will remember this though. I have fifteen million dollars and tonight I decided what I want to do first."
"Oh yeah?"
Although it's her money and he doesn't expect a single dime, he is really intrigued to find out how she's planning to spend it.
"I want to go home," she states simply, "With you. I want to sleep in our bed. I want to be with you, in the Firehouse, for the rest of our lives."
Owen doesn't know how to react to that; he can barely breathe. "But you have fifteen million dollars," he repeats stupidly.
"I know," she says, her eyes closing. "But I don't care. I just want to go home with you."
Within a minute she's fallen asleep and he stares at her lovely face in awe. Maybe it's too soon to be planning to move back in together, and maybe she's been influenced by the alcohol and the post-coital haze. But he can't get her words out of his mind.
I just want to go home with you.
She loves him. She wants him for the rest of their lives.
It has finally all worked out indeed.