There's always that moment of hope when he thinks she's not going to throw him out.

He makes her come, screaming, moaning, breathing hot and gasping into his ear while she grabs his ass and pulls him inside her, meeting him thrust for thrust in a kind of passionate standoff.

It's good. It's dirty. It's some of the best sex he's ever had.

But that little nudge she makes against his shoulder, three seconds after he's come? That hurts a little. He'd like to stay inside her a while; run a finger down her jaw; nuzzle the soft part of her neck.

He thinks he'd like to love her. At least, he'd like a chance to find out.

But that's not happening anytime soon. She makes that clear when the nudge is followed by a shove (and okay, it's light, pretending to be playful, but it's insistent all the same) and she moves off the bed, wrapping a sheet around herself.

"Thanks for all of the sex," she smiles, brightly, falsely, already thinking better of what he just shared with her. "You should go . . . you know? Before . . . well, I have to go over a case before Derek gets home and then there's dinner . . . and I'm sure you have," she swallows, "patients? Women who need screwing?"

There's a little laugh, because she's embarrassed now, struggling. So he does her a favor, like always, and impersonates the self she wants to think he is, slapping her on the ass and winking as he walks into the bathroom.

She needs to go back to her life, the world where there's a chance with Derek and they sip red wine and read novels together like married, world-renowned surgeons are supposed to.

But there's still always that moment of hope when he thinks she's not going to throw him out. And each next time she does, it cuts him just a little bit more.