A/N #1: Yes, I know. It's been a long time. I have many unfinished stories. I am a very bad person, and I really am sorry. I hate being that writer who doesn't finish things. Life changes, but my love of Cristina and Owen has always remained, and suddenly I found myself with a free day and a story to write. So here it is – I do hope you enjoy it.
This was inspired by the song I Don't Wanna Love Somebody Else by A Great Big World. Heartily recommended.
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Lust-Colored
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The doorbell rings. Bare feet slap on every stair as she runs. Her heartbeat fills the air. The hallway sounds impatient as she opens the door.
The first thing she notices is his eyes. They're a dangerous shade of blue. Lust-colored.
"You're a bad man –"
He catches her words in his mouth, tucking them under his tongue so there's room for hers in there as well. His fingers slide into her hair. She can only gasp at the ferocity of his greeting, and he swallows that too. The door slams and she's trapped between it and him, between hard and harder. Even the softness of his mouth is betrayed by his teeth as he bites on her lips, her neck, her earlobe.
"I am a bad man," he groans, and his voice is as deliciously rough as his beard.
Then he looks at her and smiles a half-mischievous, half-apologetic smile. She understands the second half instantly: it's for his weakness, his being here. It's for the hurt it's going to cause them both tomorrow.
He's half apologizing for wanting her. But the other half of him?
"Let's go upstairs. I can't wait any longer to fuck you."
He lifts her into his arms and she giggles because that's what she does with him; that's how he makes her feel. That's who she is when she's his.
II
Her bedroom door shuts behind them and he's overwhelmed by her. She smells like the shower, her skin still slightly damp. He knows she's not wearing a bra - her nipples have already told him that much - but when he slides his hands into her pyjama pants he discovers she's not wearing underwear at all.
"Holy fuck, Cristina."
His voice sounds hoarse to his own ears. He pushes his hips into her, feeling her all along his length through their clothes. She pulls off her t-shirt. The corners of her lips are curved upwards and he knows how much she is enjoying seeing, feeling his desire for her. He may have suggested this and he may be setting the pace now, but she still has all the power. She always will.
In forty years' time, no matter what happens in the rest of their lives, he will still be worshipping her.
He sets her on her feet then kneels down, taking her pants with him, and puts his mouth on her. She's already ready for him. In fact she's so ready he could make her come like this in no time at all.
It's amazing to know her body so well; to know what she likes and how, and how fast. It's so easy, he doesn't even have to think about it. He just lets himself react to her; lets his tongue play with her and his fingertips mould her until she's whimpering and writhing and coming. Cristina coming is his favorite sight in the world. It shouldn't be, now, but it is. She's beautiful all the time, but especially then.
Especially now, as she grips his shoulders and he can feel her legs trembling. She moans his name and he gazes up at her, his tongue relentless against her. Her breasts look magnificent from this angle. He reaches up to touch one, to rub his thumb over her nipple, and she bucks against him.
Come for me, he thinks as she does just that, and he holds her tightly around her waist and eases her to the floor as her body goes utterly slack in his arms.
In the past, this is where he'd say it. And, when she'd recovered, she'd say it too, in a voice filled with contentment; with breathless, orgasmic bliss.
"I love you."
It's on the tip of his tongue. It was while he was licking her, and it's still there. But he shuts his mouth and keeps it warm. He thinks his eyes are probably saying it anyway. Hers are.
In the quiet air, as the softness of her breathing slows, it's in every line of her face. He can't look away. He just wants to stay here and drown in her forever.
II
"You have too many clothes on."
She breaks the spell. She has to, because otherwise she might start to cry and that's not what tonight is for. Sitting up, she begins to unbutton his shirt. Although he is trying to hide it, she can sense his disappointment that the moment is over and it stabs at her heart.
He gently takes her wrists in his big hands and holds them. She stills. She is looking at the pulse in his neck, suddenly aware of how difficult it is to fill her lungs properly.
"Cristina-"
"Don't. Please."
She exhales, and her body seems to empty not just its lungs but itself entirely. Her forehead comes to rest against his shoulder and she squeezes her eyes shut. This is just sex, this is not supposed to be happening right now. How could we have been so stupid?
"Cristina, look at me."
She doesn't move. She feels his fingers brush her hair behind her ear, and then his lips are against her cheek.
"I don't want women to love me."
She wishes he would stop stroking her hair like that. She also wishes he would carry on forever. After a long moment of silence, in which she finally acknowledges that her whole plan to help him find someone else was always going to be in vain, she whispers: "I know."
Of course she does. She always has.
He kisses her cheek, just next to her ear. Then he lifts her chin so she is looking straight into his eyes.
"I just want-" he starts to say, but she can't bear it so she kisses him instead.
"I do," she murmurs, lifting her hand to run her fingertips through his hair. "I do love you, Owen. I'll always love you."
On another day, in another room, she would say something else now: something about how there are other things to consider; about how love is not always enough; about how she just can't give him what he wants. But tonight, sitting naked on her bedroom floor with him fully clothed, her body still shivering from his touch, it's okay.
It's okay.
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He's not sure what they're supposed to do now but he knows what he wants to do, so he goes with that. Hearing her say those words, all the desire that was just put at bay suddenly flares up inside him again. This is much easier than thinking, than worrying. That's for tomorrow. Now, he just wants her.
His gaze falls to her lips and he can tell from her slight intake of breath that she's sensed the sudden change in the air. He looks into her eyes one last time, seeking her permission.
"Yes," she says softly.
"Yes what?"
He's drawing out the anticipation, a favorite game of his. She's so exquisite when she's turned on and wanting him; her skin flushing the loveliest shade of pink. He runs his palms down her arms and then over her body, watching the hairs rise.
"Yes, you can fuck me now."
He grins and she smiles back, acknowledging him his win. "You're so beautiful," he tells her as his smile fades. His body is so taut and so hard it's difficult to concentrate on anything but her. He leans forward and kisses her, cradling her face in his hands. From the moment their lips meet, they're lost. One minute he's fully clothed and the next he's not and she's crawling over him on the bed, covering his body with her mouth. It's too much.
He flips them over and returns the favor, licking a trail from her tongue to her nipples, his fingers circling and teasing and dipping into her in a rhythm which he knows makes her crazy. And then suddenly it's not his fingers at all, and the way she groans his name almost makes him come then and there.
Missionary is his favorite position. They've tried everything, and he's enjoyed every single one, but when he gets to choose and when the mood is right, he chooses this. He chooses to kiss her, to nuzzle her throat, to nibble her breasts; to feel her soft body beneath his, her legs around his hips, pulling him deeper. He chooses to look into her eyes and smile and share every moment of her pleasure, everything she is making him feel, and all the love in his heart.
He takes her hand and places it between their bodies so she can touch herself, and together they spiral higher and higher until she breaks away from his kiss and tenses and he knows she's almost there.
"Look at me," he whispers, and as she shatters beneath him it's just the hottest sight. He fucks her through her orgasm, taking her further, and when she's just about finished he lets himself go too.
He will never have sex like he has with Cristina, and he knows why - because what they have is not sex. It's not fucking. It's not even making love. It's just them. It's her, and how beautiful she is, and how gorgeous her body is, and he loves every single inch of her. He is only ever his complete self, the person he wants to be for the rest of his life, when he is with her. They make each other who they are because of what they've been through and what they've done and how they've felt about it all.
And nobody else will ever know him like she does. Nobody else will ever come close.
II
His heartbeat is slowing beneath her ear, although she is still getting little aftershocks down her thighs and all the way to her toes. He was phenomenal, as always. It brings a lump to her throat.
"Can we... not talk?" she asks quietly
"I haven't said anything."
She smiles. "You know what I mean."
There's a pause. "Can I say one thing?"
She sits up slightly and leans on her elbow, looking down at him. His eyes are still so blue, but they're no longer dangerous. They look calm, content. He strokes her hair. His voice is steady when he speaks.
"I am a bad man, Cristina. I just... I don't want to love someone else."
I just want to love you, he doesn't say, but he doesn't have to.
They gaze at one another for what feels like an eternity. There are a million things she wants to say, but she's already said enough for one night. She's already given him more than she should. They've already ruined themselves, all over again.
"I know," she says softly, and lays her head back on his chest, closing her eyes. A tear falls onto her nose. "Let's talk about it in the morning."
II
But in the morning, he's gone. She finds a note on the bedside cabinet.
I will always be in love with you.
First she smiles, and then she cries for a long time. Then she takes a shower, gets dressed and sends him a text message with trembling fingers.
We need to talk.
But what she wants to say, and what she needs to say, are two different things entirely.
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Fin.
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A/N #2: despite the ending, I'm not going to continue this. I didn't write it to make a decision either way: it's more of a reflection on them and their relationship at this point. I think it's an impossible situation, so I'll leave you to come to your own conclusion about what happens next... :)