An unbridled moan passed through Callie's parted lips and her back arched. Her nails raked down the bare back of the man on top of her, leaving swollen and pink crescent moons in their wake. The man's stubble tickled the sensitive skin of her exposed and hypersensitive neck, eliciting yet another moan from the surgeon. She'd missed this, the loss of control. She'd missed being handled roughly, the gruff grunts that consumed her with each movement.
Strong, large, and artfully calloused hands explored the expanse of her naked body – and suddenly, she remembered just how different sex with a man could be. It felt foreign, it felt…forbidden, something that only added to the sense of urgency. The only resounding familiarity was the sounds and the sensations that awakened her heart and sent it soaring. "Oh god," she gasped, one hand shooting to the nape of her partner's neck as her buried his face in her shoulder.
Her deft fingers combed through his hair, colored a brilliant shade of dark chocolate, and she bucked her hips – driving herself into him in search of the fullness she so desired.
Callie could feel it all, spreading from deep within her and tugging at her abdomen; the anticipatory tension was rising within her, tightening her muscles and driving her into him with unparalleled fervor. She was rising, her body slick with sweat and their mutual arousal. A pleasurable pain shot through her as the man buried himself within her, his teeth sinking into a soft patch of skin on her shoulder to muffle his own moans. This was it for her. One hand fell at the small of his back, keeping him in place, guiding him into her while she settled back down to Earth. Her hands were tangled in his perfectly coiffed hair, and she settled back against the mattress, gasping quietly as she rolled off of her – resting his head on the pillow they shared.
Is this your first time on a ferry boat?
Callie furrowed her brow, still breathless, and glanced at him in confusion. "What?" She mumbled and turned on her side to run her fingertips down his chest and under the covers. "Stop talking about boats, Derek. We're going again," she teased, her fingers tracing invisible patterns along his thigh until he jumped – moving on top of her so suddenly that they both fell from the bed.
"Ooof!" She grunted, one hand shooting up to rub the bump that was forming on the back of her head. Her fingers tangled in her own hair, and she scrunched her face up in confusion. "Derek Shepherd." She whispered, her voice laced with disdain. Not because he was bad, or unsavory…but because his hair was softer than hers.
She needed to get her hands on him, er – his hair, to test this theory and put her follicle insecurities to rest. That's all it was. Of course. No need to feel guilty.
It was his hair.
It had always been his hair.
AN: I'm sorry I don't even know what this was.