She feels elated over her newly established relationship, regardless of the fact that she doesn't really know what's going on with anything and that nothing has been exactly established in so many words, but she's beginning to feel as though maybe they're just friends. He's asked her out again for dinner and conversation, as he so sweetly defined it, but she would think that three months and many dates later he'd want something else – something more. She may be keen to naivety and relishing in the little things in life, but she isn't stupid enough to believe that Mark Sloan would date without further intentions for months on in.
She's almost tired of his purity and the way he honestly respects her womanhood; she cannot, however, very well ask him to take her right there on the stairwell, she thinks as his fingertips absently tucks a loose hair dangling in her eyes behind her ear. She loses her voice for what feels like forever, because time stands still when she turns into a giggling school girl she's realized, before she agrees despite the way her body almost shudders at the contact. She smiles at him quite carefully, fully aware of how her body is betraying her and feeling completely and one hundred percent pathetic over her arousal, before turning on her heel and continuing on her path to her next patient; she's almost sure she can feel the heat of his eyes following her.
After an emergency surgery that runs way too long, she's almost sure that Mark would be at home by the time she comes out of the locker room, but is more than surprised when she sees him in the lobby, patiently awaiting her arrival with legs propped up on a chair across from him. She releases a breath that she doesn't know she's holding when she sees him, reeling from the guilt of missing their planned dinner. He sees her and jumps to his feet, smiling politely as he lightly touches her elbow and presses his lips to her cheek.
"Surgery ran over. I thought you would have gone home by now."
"Nah," he grins. She feels the weight on her shoulder decrease as he takes her bag and fixes it onto his shoulder. It's almost enticing the way he's always the gentleman with her and she wonders if she's always been this oblivious to chivalry. "Besides, I wasn't going to let you starve. That's why I'm making you dinner."
"Since when do you cook?"
"My skills are not reserved just for the O.R."
She feels his hand hover over the small of her back and she can't help but think that she's tired of talking, not that it's been all bad. She just can't remember what it feels like to be treated like she's an actual woman. It feels like joining the military made her less of a woman and that wasn't what she wanted; she really just wanted to help and grieve and not have to worry that her life would turn out meaningless. That doesn't mean that she doesn't want to fall in love or have children or be a little less lonely.
They get to his apartment and sets her bag down beside the door and his keys on the counter; she wishes that he was tired of talking – that he needed to feel someone's body on his or that he needed to revel in the fact that someone wants to be with him. Maybe things just mean more to her than they should, she thinks, because she knows she couldn't have just cleared the cobwebs with Mark. Or maybe the war has made her sentimental because she never used to care about having sex when it was Owen she was spending time with.
"Is everything all right?"
She lifts her eyes off of the countertop, where she hadn't realized she'd been staring at, and offers him a tight smile as he sets a glass of water where she'd been staring. If she's being honest, she would say that having one more conversation is going to drive her crazy and send her into a blind fury that even she can't save herself from; she would say that she has raw talent but even she can't keep her heart from stopping. She lifts the glass to her lips and takes a long drink from it, moistening her throat before she can manage to form a coherent response.
"Yes. I just," she swallows and sets her glass down as she moves around to put her hands on his elbows – thinking that maybe contact will make him hear her (not that he hasn't been listening, but this just isn't easy for her to say) – "I don't know how to say it."
"You just do," he replies, leaning against the counter and covering her hands with his. He smiles encouragingly and she finds it warming. She knows more about him than he's told him, and she's been remarkably impressed by his ability to pretend that he hasn't had intimate relationships before her – not that they've had any particularly intimate situations. "You just say it because I'm listening."
"That's just it." She shies away from his touch and is taken off guard when he catches her by the wrist and tells her not to walk away. Her eyes slide down his figure and settle on his hand lightly wrapped around her wrist; she feels enclosed but, for once, it doesn't make her feel unsafe. "I'm tired of talking, Mark. We've been talking for three months and I know you – I know you in a way that you've allowed me to and it's wonderful but I don't want to talk."
"Then what do you want, Teddy?" Within the silence, she begins to wonder if maybe all of the talking is really just talking and that he's only spending time with her because he wants someone and not her. After all, given how he asked her out, it wasn't necessarily driven by his motivations and desires. "Because the more I know about you, the more I like you, and I kind of hoped that you would feel the same."
"I do, Mark, I do feel the same." She suddenly realizes that he's that insecure and he's been afraid all along that women would just think that all he has to offer is sex; she isn't stupid, she knows he isn't a virgin. She swallows and thinks that this is what Callie was talking about a few months ago when she'd said that Mark is a good guy he just doesn't know it. "I'm not saying that you the man don't matter. I'm saying that me the woman does matter. I'm saying that I really like you, Mark, but sometimes words alone aren't enough to reassure someone about how you feel."
"Blah, blah, blah," he says slowly as a smirk slides over his lips. She shudders as his fingertips slide up and down her arm and she lets her eyes close when his fingers trail over her jaw line; she can't help but lean her cheek into his hand. "I think you may have a point about the whole talking thing."
"I was hoping that maybe you would."
She smiles when his lips touch hers, she likes that she can feel his lips turned upward as well, and his fingers thread into her hair as her hands move to his waist. Feeling herself being pulled forward, she's reminded of all the ways that they've progressed in just the short time they've been trying to establish the possibility of some kind of future. As his tongue probes her lips for entrance to collide with hers, she wonders if maybe this will make the way that she wants to tell Owen about the connection she and Mark have go away –if the desire to tell Owen what's happening in her life will evade and she can find consolation in someone other than him. Sure, she tells Mark things, but she hardly tells him how she feels or what has happened in detail while in Iraq.
She feels his fingers trail to the small of her back and slide beneath the hem of her shirt, and she thinks that this is it – when she crosses this line with him she'll know if he's with her because he wants a future with her or because he doesn't want to be lonely. She feels his finger nails scrape across her skin and she forgets anything about everything except that he's peeling her shirt from her body and pinning her between him and the counter.
She thinks it's serene the way that his muscles contract beneath her fingertips as they glide down his chest, and she discovers that she isn't breathing because she's forgotten how to tell herself to complete rapidly flailing judgments. She notes her thoughts inclusive and allows him to guide her to his bedroom, encased in a mixture of the smell of his soap, after shave and cologne, and she's mesmerized by how sweet of a smell the mixture really is. She forgets how to work her fingers when she tries to unbutton his jeans and deems herself a giggly school girl, allowing him to take the reins. She's never really been a give up the reigns kind of girl, but she can't stay on task.
She releases quick and quiet breaths as he drops wet kisses against her skin as he tosses her pants to the floor, leaving her clad in only her bra and underwear. The smile he offers her is both sincere and pleased as he traces her smooth skin with his fingertips, and it almost reminds her to breathe. She helps him toss his shirt to the floor and she thinks that as good as it feels to have his warm body pressed against her, it feels better when his lips realign with her own.
Oh god, she thinks, she can't wait because she's already wet with arousal and slick with sweat and his nipples are grinding against her skin in sync with his hips and he's barely even touched her. His tongue flits against her skin and his fingers twist around the hook of her bra and his heart beat pulsates against her hipbone and she thinks that all she can take is just another minute of his teasing because he definitely knows his way around the bedroom. She likes him – likes the way he thinks and the things he knows and how he always knows the best things to say even when she doesn't want to hear it – but she needs to have him inside of her now because her body is pleading with her and arguing of how it's been far too long to have someone like at her like they see her.
She feels him slide into her and she hadn't been expecting it, somehow; her eyes roll into the back of her head as he allows her a minute to readjust before he starts moving slowly above her. She feels him plant kisses along her cleavage and breasts before he pulls back to look her in the eye, keeping the words limited but unable to contain the quiet groans and grunts that escape from his slightly parted lips, and she can't remember the last time someone had treated her like she means something.
She feels him release at the same time she can't help but shudder around him, and she feels him smile softly against her skin as he drops his face to the crook of her neck. He loosely wraps an arm around her waist and presses his face into her neck, and she almost feels like she's gotten her answer as he pulls her body flush to his. She thinks that as much as she likes the conversation, she might like this more – his slick with sweat skin pressed against hers and wrapped around her, chest heaving against her skin with every intake of breath.
"How do you think I feel now?"
She feels his words reverberate off of her skin and she smiles as she curls into him. They agree on a lot of things about what they want in their lives. They both want kids, ironically enough both blurted three at the same time (Mark saying that he missed out on Sloan growing up so he really wants three more), they both want dogs even though they spend most of their time at the hospital, and they both see that when they thought that they'd fallen in love before it was a brilliant recipe for disaster – for the first time in her life, she's more than just secure in her career and how necessary she is but it still feels good to have him cuddle into her.