It was true, most of it at least: you never meant to fall in love. However, there were a lot of things you never meant to do, like clinic duty, or be nice to, well, anyone. He forced you to love him, really, but a small part of you believed that you had been just as willing to love as he had. The voice in your head that niggled constantly was silent now, as his breath flashed over your lips, a second before his tongue invaded your mouth, probing deeper than you'd ever let anyone go. Your muscles seized, the death grip on your cane head almost painful beneath your palm. Running your hand up the buttoned seam of his Oxford, you pushed him away roughly, the lust in your eyes masked in disgust. Sneering, you turned to leave, before his voice caught you in rapture.
"Don't pretend, Greg. You're terrible at it," the rich timbre of his baritone echoed, as he breezed past you, no more than a ghost of a thing, just out of your grasp but still right in front of you. Standing in the break room, your pants obviously tented out in front, you ran your tongue over your teeth and then your lips, the burn of his kiss still hot. Sighing, you returned to your office to ignore someone else.
It was all I could do to not jump him a million times in the past. He's always been the object of my obsessions, my desires. He's been the reason for one or two failed marriages too, but I'd never admit it. I guess that there's nothing gained and nothing lost. No hearts broken... well, except mine.
The next week is painfully awkward, with lost glances and forgotten quips. The ducklings notice, Cuddy notices, hell, your patients notice. It's the Friday after that Monday when he finally comes to you again, this time exhausted and too worn out to care. The door slides open, barely dragging the carpet, and he glides in, almost invisible: at least, that's how you treat him. He talks, about his patients and other things, for ten minutes, but your eyes never leave your PSP. It's the sound of your own name that finally catches your attention.
"Greg," he says, his voice barely more than a gruff whisper. You grunt in return, looking up and avoiding his gaze. "Greg, I can't do this anymore". And with that, he's gone, his movements as fluid as the liquid arousal that floods your core. Watching him through your window, you followed him down the hall with your eyes and waited until he had left his office for the night to breathe again. Slumped back in your chair, the sighs coming heavy waves, you wished that for just one day, you could care about him one iota as much as he cared about you. Heaving out of your chair, you walked lugubriously down the hallway, and out into the thick October night, breathing in the icy daggers the wind carried. Mounting your bike, you followed a pre-programmed path home, where, of course, he was waiting. Entering your house without even acknowledging him, you didn't even budge when he wrapped his arms around you and kissed your neck. Quite the contrary:
You kissed him back.