A/N: I initially wrote this piece as a gift for a friend, catering to her preferences - married, vanilla, romantic, sweet, passionate sex - and the lack thereof (she's a virgin who's also a bit reserved). She's also in denial about Sloan's death, evidently. She did make an errant comment about a fantasy she's had about having sex against a tree during a thunderstorm, so I made that happen. She wanted some passionate McSteamy sex, with herself as his wife. So there you have it: Olivia, our main character, is modeled after her.

There you have it. Enjoy!

The moment that she enters the dark on-call room, she finds herself pinned down against the back of the door. The surprise impact makes her drop her bag – okay, throw would be a more accurate term – sending it off somewhere into the abyss. One strong, muscular forearm lies across her chest, and one knee leans against the door between her legs. She has been effectively trapped – in the span of two seconds, no less.

Well he must be in some kind of mood.

She can assume as much, going by the cryptic text she got at exactly 4:11 pm.

5 pm sharp, 4th floor, OC room 2
bring a sandwich
wear something comfy
3

When she first got the text, the dumb little heart emoticon at the end made her smile.

"Evening, Olivia."

Beside her, she hears a slow click as the lock on the door slides into place, a sweet harmony when combined with the sound and feel of heavy panting against her neck. As theatrically as she can manage, she delivers the line: "You may have me pinned, but the bag I just dropped held your sandwich."

On that note, he quickly releases her and flicks on the light switch, ending the dramatic scene he enacted upon her arrival. The light in the room only lends a dim, warm sort of glow in overcast, not reaching the corners of the room at all. It's like someone glued a table lamp to the ceiling and went, 'Well, my work here is done!' At any rate, the light allows her to finally look at him – Dr. Mark Sloan, M.D., F.A.C.S. – in all of his candid glory. From a brief moment of fleeting eye contact, she can gather a few minute details about his current state: his blown pupils, his slightly wrinkled scrubs, his disheveled, almost-overgrown hair, and his three day-old stubble say a lot about his level of arousal. Well, I mean, so does the tent in his scrubs. He's delectable. And he's hers.

He turns around and gets on his hands and knees, quickly retrieving Olivia's bag, and incredibly relieved to find his blessed sandwich unscathed. "God, I was scared for a moment there. Well played, sweetheart – very well played. You sure do know how to pinpoint my weaknesses." After placing both her bag and his sandwich on a nearby table, Mark turns and gets a proper look at the woman standing before him. He looks as savage and as hungry (for food or for something else, it's impossible to tell) as he did just moments ago, but now, he looks more like a predator stalking his prey. "I've been going mad waiting for you," he says, his voice low as he saunters over to her. Finally, he wraps his arms around her waist, his hands coming to rest comfortably, folded at the small of her back. "And you wore those tight yoga pants that I love so much. I hoped you would," he says, smiling while his hands travel downward to grope her... assets – playfully. He doesn't hesitate to kiss her passionately, with a fervor that he rarely shows without restraint. He usually calculates every single move and sounds he makes, assuming control and taking Olivia apart bit by bit. He plays her like a piano, with smooth, practiced ease. She gladly gives over control – he's much better at it anyway. It's his 'thing.' But this fire that she now sees, ignited in his cool, slate-gray eyes – this is raw and uninhibited. "Mrs. Sloan," he says, dragging out the syllables with a smirk on his face. That really never gets old. Breathlessly, she asks,

"How long do you have?"

Mark checks his watch. "Fifty-five minutes 'til I have to scrub in at O.R. #3." He continues his kissing, but abandons her lips in favor of assaulting her neck and collarbone. His mouth never ceases its ministrations, only taking short pauses as he mumbles against her skin, "Bilateral complete cleft palate reconstruction... on a 6 year-old kid... A lot of interns are – are gonna be there... and it's being recorded... for teaching purposes or something."

"Fifty-five minutes – that's awfully generous. And rare."

He returns to eye level. "If Owen asks, it was a matter of personal crisis." Without warning, he sweeps her up into his arms and carries her to the single bed under the window. He looms over her, saying, "And it's a perfectly valid crisis too. Because how am I supposed to operate – with this," he growls, emphasizing his words with a grind of his hips to hers. His body stays pressed to hers as he continues, "taking up all of my attention?" They pant in unison – Olivia feeling the bulge straining in Mark's pants, pressed against her thigh, and Mark for finally getting somefriction. "I love doing this with you."

"What, sneaking off like schoolchildren when we're a married couple?"

"It's exhilarating." He cuts her off with another searing kiss. "Oh, but we should probably be quick. I don't want my sandwich to get soggy." She gives him a light smack on the arm, and he just shrugs.

"You could eat first," Olivia suggests.

"Nope," Mark replies, shaking his head, "can't wait any longer – losing my freaking mind." A purposely playful touch to her side makes Olivia giggle. "Plus, we could probably fit in an encore after I finish eating." He winks.

"Oh, how romantic. You really do know how to charm a girl."

"Hey, I'm great at being romantic and charming! Just, uh – just not when I'm in a hurry, or when I'm starving, apparently."

She laughs, "I'm not accusing you of anything, love." She runs her fingers through his hair, earning a sigh from her partner. In a clueless tone, she wonders out loud, "Maybe – well, you could remind me why they call you 'McSteamy' again..." There's an animalistic glint in his eyes. "I seem to have forgotten..."

He pounces on her before she can finish the sentence.

"Are you sure that it's okay to leave for that long? It won't, like, cause an apocalypse?"

Mark smiles, keeping his eyes resolutely on the road ahead. "Of course it's fine," he assures, "and really, it's only two days. What could possib-"

"No, don't you dare finish that," Olivia warns in a sharp tone, covering his lips to stop him from finishing his sentence. "Haven't you learned by now that that is a stupid thing to say? Bad things happen – like, seriously bad things – when someone says that. Always. You don't want to ruin our lovely weekend, do you?"

"No, sweetie, I promise."

She smiles at him – at how he looks so regretful. It's adorable. "I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to seem like I was yelling at you – that was really weird of me. I sounded so... so bitchy."

"A bit, yeah," he says, taking her hand and kissing it lightly. "But really, it's okay," he says, chuckling. "Hey, don't make that face – that 'I-think-I'm-guilty-but-I'm-really-not-actually-that-guilty' face." He squeezes her hand, his upbeat voice turning into something slightly more serious. He parrots, "You don't want to ruin our lovely weekend, do you?"

"I didn't even know you had a cabin."

"Very few people know about this place. That's the point, really: it's an actual getaway."

"It's so – beautiful," Olivia says as she looks around in awe.

"Hardly. I mean, really – a cabin on a lake, one bathroom, one tiny bedroom, a main room with a kitchenette, and a deck. It's really just a glorified tree house for grown-ups."

"But tree houses are awesome!" Olivia loves that she can consider Mark her best friend. After all, they really enjoy each other's company, and it's not always about domesticity and fucking. They can drink together, they can stay in and watch movies, they can just hang out with that being enough. It's not a struggle – their relationship is the closest one could come to seamless. Their arguments are about petty things, and they rarely actually fight. This is what it means to be soul mates: best friends, cold beer, long talks about important things, cabin getaways, plus the added bonus of quixotic, mind-bending sex. This is what runs through Olivia's mind every second of every day. "Sure, it may be small, but you have a futon!" Olivia flops down onto the piece of understated furniture, closing her eyes and smiling softly. "The world desperately needs more futons."

Mark deadpans, "You should start a petition."

"If you're so opposed, what else is there to do around here?" They're less than five minutes into their evening hike – the one that Olivia somehow convinced Mark a great idea – and he's already huffing.

He pauses to consider the question, thinking back to his previous visits. "Usually, when I come here, it's to wallow and drink pathetic, sad people cocktails."

"… sad people cocktails?"

"Namely, gin. Gin and tonic. It's the most pathetic of them all." Olivia laughs, but secretly, he's not joking. "I mostly just drink and yell at wildlife and neglect to shave or put pants on for several days. I do that for a while – sometimes I even venture to sit out on the deck to wallow some more – and then I just go home, questioning why I even wanted to come in the first place."

He looks to her for a reply, but all she can manage is a huge grin, trying desperately not to laugh. "I'm sorry, I'm just picturing in my head what you'd have looked like... all unkempt –" Olivia cannot stop laughing. "– with a rolled up newspaper, shouting at the squirrels on your property as you sit outside on a rocking chair wearing just a wife-beater, a pair of boxers, and tube socks."

Mark stops in his tracks. "Your description is strangely – really strangely – accurate." He looks at her as if she's just foretold his future or demonstrated the act of divination.

Sarcastically, Olivia quips, "Sorry, Mark – I've gotta confess something to you... I'm an immortal witch and I've been following you for years. I've got you under my spell."

Before Olivia has the time to blink, she's pinned hard against a tree – evidently, pinning her down is one of his big turn-ons. "That would explain why," he begins, mumbling in her ear as he presses against her, "I'm so fucking turned on by you." His hands roam over her back and her sides. He curses when he gets fired up. He finds a sliver of exposed skin where Olivia's top meets her jeans, taking advantage of the opportunity by first mindlessly playing with the hem of the shirt before stealthily slipping a hand underneath the fabric. His palm glides over her stomach as he ravishes the softness and the comfort of her skin. He hums his satisfaction. It's not rough like she was expecting – he's being intimate. "Whenever I look at you," he mutters, his voice thick with something unidentifiable, "I feel like nothing else matters. Everything stops –" he grunts as he pops the button on the front of her jeans. Before he can continue, Olivia draws his shirt over his head by the hem to reciprocate. Okay, yes. That is... Holy wow. Yes please. "You make my fucking head spin – do you know that?"

They're intoxicated by one another, reveling in the feel of feverish skin-on-skin contact, soaking in the scent that is the consummation of their passions and desires. And though one might not think that shared breaths, sweat, shampoo, toothpaste, body wash, and sexwould make up the epitome of sweet fragrances, the air that surrounds them is the essence of what it means to come together. Add the scent of petrichor – damp earth – and, yup, there's definitely going to be a storm, and the overall product is an aura so powerful that it envelops them. This is the embodiment of what it means to truly make love.

They don't care when it begins to downpour. They don't care that they're soaked or that it's going to be cold; there's no way to tell the difference between sweat and rain, and they won't freeze so long as they stay pressed so close together, soaking up each other's body heat. Maybe the thunder should scare them. Maybe it should seem menacing or intimidating. It doesn't. Nothing can stop them now. Hell, maybe the storm is some sort of personification illustrating the chemistry between them, both physically and emotionally (it's rather appropriate for the occasion, in any case).

With a feverish hand, Olivia undoes the button fly on Mark's jeans. Before she has the chance to go further, he hoists her up, holding her against the tree as she wraps her legs around his waist, clasping her ankles together behind his back. Olivia hangs on desperately as she's threatened by the prospect of slipping from Mark's wet, slippery grasp. His actions have progressed from slow and sensual to rough and desperate, but that's okay, because Olivia's there too.

It doesn't take much – there's only one layer between them. All it takes is Olivia's panties being pulled to the side and Mark's boxers being pushed down just enough to expose his erection, and as a crack of thunder resounds in the air, he guides her down onto him and enters her.

When his hips are fully pressed to hers and he's seated deeply inside of her, he pauses to give her a moment to adjust – to get used to the frankly ridiculous size of him. He's long and thick, in a way that Olivia feels one could never, ever be fully accustomed to. She whimpers in her struggle – her struggle to hold herself up, her struggle to not scream or beg, her struggle to not shut down completely. A nod from Olivia assures Mark that she's ready for him to move. And, by god, he does.

It's hard to be slow in these circumstances, and Mark doesn't even try. Olivia is grateful. The rhythm he sets is fast; his thrusts are hard and deep. Of course, he's doing all of the work; all she has to do is hang on. Plus, it's hard to vocalize, "Faster, harder, come on, I won't break!" when her ribcage, held in place between his body and the tree, restricts her lungs and her speech. Instead, she looks to him, locking eyes to convey her absolutely savage need, then leans in to kiss him with all of the energy she has left (which is more than one might expect).

"You..." His words are broken as he bites off a groan, wavering momentarily in his rhythm. "Shit." He exhales a breathy chuckle. "You... you will be – the absolute death – of me." He can't get out a sentence unless he pauses his movements, and there's no way in hell he's slowing down now. He slams her hips down onto his, gripping her hard enough to leave bruises.

Thunder sounds again – it's so close now. She doesn't have time to worry about the weather while she's being pounded into relentlessly. Lightning flashes in the sky, twice in succession, followed by another clap of thunder soon thereafter.

Olivia feels the faint spark form deep down in her belly, indicating that her orgasm is near. At the same time, Mark's head rests against her chest, and each shaky intake of breath grows shorter and shorter and closer together, and he's moaning so loud, deafening over the sounds of the storm. "Olivia. Oh... oh f–"

Surprisingly, Olivia falls over the edge first, shutting her eyes tight while whimpering over and over again. As she succumbs to her rapture, her inner walls clench, the muscles tightening to a delicious extent, bringing Mark over the edge alongside her. With a final howl, he pulls her down hard against him, burying himself deep inside of her, holding her in that impossibly close position as he empties himself.

They stay that way for a minute, needing to catch their breath. With a shudder, he pulls out and helps Olivia to her feet – she can hardly walk at first. He grins at the thought.

"Oh, hell," Olivia groans as she dramatically drops to the ground, holding her arms out to Mark in invitation. "I'm not getting up. No way. Not yet."

He gives her a strange look before laying himself on the ground beside her. He pulls her close – partly for the sake of warmth, partly for the sake of reveling in her perfect scent, but mostly for the sake of closeness. With one arm pillowing her head and the other wrapped around her, their legs tangle together and they're so comfortable that they could sleep. When he speaks, it's more of a murmur, his words falling from his mouth slowly. "You, my love, are the most beautiful creature I've ever laid eyes upon."

"I love you so much."

"And I love you."

They sit at the very edge of the deck, with nothing but water beneath them. Their bare feet dangle over the reflective surface as they lean on a (sturdy) wood rail. When they got back to the cabin, they shared a shower – you know, to save hot water. After changing and wrapping themselves up in blankets, they noted that the storm had passed, and so they decided to sit out on the deck.

Mark sips at a bottle of beer (Olivia has her tea), occasionally lending conversation to the otherwise silent atmosphere. He talks about his friends, but mostly, he talks about his work. More specifically, he likes to talk about his patients, how his surgical finesse has changed people's lives. And Olivia is all too eager to listen.

After a long interlude, Olivia says, "I'm really hoping that you won't get too upset over this. I've been putting it off, but I need to get this weight off of my chest." He doesn't reply. Instead, he directs all of his attention to what she has to say, giving her a very confused/concerned expression. She meets his eyes for a few moments, her countenance suddenly dark – as if she were on the edge of tears. She faces forward and continues before she loses all of her courage. "Mark, I have something I've been waiting to talk to you about." She bites her lip, looking downward into her lap and taking a deep breath. "We, uh... I'm – well, I'm pregnant."

She can't look at him. She doesn't want to see the look in his eyes when the full weight of the news hits him. However, when he puts a hand on her jaw and directs her to face at him, she doesn't really have a choice. What she sees is not what she was expecting. He's crying. He stares at her for what seems like forever, breathing heavily, maintaining eye contact. His expression is unreadable. In the well of emotions in those beautiful eyes, none but two are distinguishable in their entirety. The first one, the most obvious one, is fear. The second one – though it could be easily misconstrued – is love. At some point – she doesn't remember when, exactly – she started crying as well. After his interminable pause, slowly, a timid smile creeps up on his face, taking over the unreadable visage that lay there just moments ago. She attempts to smile back, but the dread in her eyes makes it look more like a grimace.

"I love you so, so much," he says, kissing her with more of himself than he's ever given. The tears stream freely down Olivia's face, but she's not sure if they're sad tears or not. Sad tears. Happy tears. Scared tears. Anticipation tears. But mostly scared tears. Is that even a thing? Mark cradles her head in his hands, and when they break the kiss, they rest their foreheads against one another. "You have just made me the happiest man in the world." They laugh uncontrollably, shaking with both nerves and joy. "And I'm kind of offended that you thought I'd be angry," he remarks.

"Well, we've never talked about it before. And I know your work schedule is erratic. It's not the best time..."

"It's a great time," he replies. He bursts with another fit of laughter, bringing Olivia along with him. "Holy shit. I'm gonna be a dad!" He deflates a bit. "Well, I mean, like, a real, full-time dad this time. I get to be there; I get to raise them – and I get to do that with you."

"I'm scared, Mark." She laughs a bit hysterically, more tears streaming down her face. "I'm so, so very scared."

"God, I'm scared shitless, but we'll figure it out. We'll be amazing. You'll be amazing."

"I hope so. I'm worried, but that's okay, because I have you here beside me. I wouldn't have it any other way." She kisses him again, scooting closer to take comfort in his embrace. With her head resting on his shoulder, she says softly, "I love you."

"I love you too, so much. "

~ Le Fin ~

A/N: I learned – in the process of writing this – that it's much easier to create flawed characters when they're reflecting from somewhere inside of me. Rather, when I have to write a character based on a friend, I feel like I tend to highlight the good I see in them. So, this story is actually very telling with regard to the way that I see this friend of mine (not that I frequently imagine my friends having sex with fictional characters).

(I'm sorry if she's a Mary Sue. I tried, really, but I guess I'm not a very good writer if I cannot find faults in people I care about. That makes for less dynamic characters. Maybe that makes me a small-minded writer; but by the same token, maybe I make up for being small-minded by being big-hearted.)

Let me know if you'd like to see a sequel - I'm totally up for the challenge!

I really appreciate your feedback, whether it be compliments or criticisms; both help me grow as a writer (and I actually mean that).