Chapter 10:
Author's Note: Thank you all very much for your reviews on the last chapter! I was so happy to see many of you liked it—and even thought it was the best chapter in the story—I think the same. Like I said, it's my favorite. :) I hope you like this chapter as well! I apologize for the wait, but school's getting crazy. Please enjoy!
A note to one of my anons, Guest: Thank you so much for your review! I am SO happy you liked this story—especially considering how some people shy away from it—and I really hope you like this update! PS: If you want other AUs, I've got plenty! ;)
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All Lexie Grey wanted to do when she got home was collapse into bed. She glanced at her phone as she climbed the stairs to her apartment—it was already past one o'clock. Jackson would be dead asleep by now, and for once she was thankful for that. In her current state, she really didn't feel like speaking or interacting with anyone… least of all him.
Her feet trudged as she made her way up the old, worn, and cluttered staircase. She longed for Mark's apartment building, for the elevator that went straight to his home, that beautiful penthouse that overlooked the entirety of New York City. She smiled just thinking of it, and remembered how they'd looked out on the city together—him in his boxers and she in a borrow shirt of his—just before they'd fallen into bed together that last time. She didn't know what had happened with them tonight. They were both so angry… But then afterwards, it was like all that had melted away. Lexie felt warm just remembering that time, just thinking of how they'd laid together tangled in the sheets, how he'd held her, kissed her, paid attention to her every sigh and gasp… And what it all meant to her, how much it had meant to her.
Lexie Grey wondered for the millionth time what she was getting herself into. This thing with Mark was quickly becoming much more serious than the two of them being casual fuck buddies, that was clear, but she felt powerless to stop the process, let alone reverse it. It wasn't like she could send him away. She loved sleeping with him too much, and, if this was one of those rare moments that she was being honest with herself, she loved spending time with him too. Granted, they didn't spend much time together. They'd had a few meals, a few conversations—they mostly fucked—but tonight…
Tonight had been different. Tonight had been so different, and yet, she still couldn't put her finger on what it all meant. All she knew was that things were changing between them—changing much more drastically than they ever had over their many hook-ups these past few weeks. As she approached the landing of her floor, Lexie had the odd feeling that, later, when this was all over and done with, she might look back on this night and see it as a kind of turning point, just like that first morning when he'd taken her in the exam room. She still wasn't able to tell if that first encounter was for the better or for the worse… But she had a suspicious feeling that she'd soon know. Things had gone on rather smoothly for much too long.
Lexie Grey sighed as she thought that, wishing her mind didn't immediately go to her boyfriend. No matter what situation she was currently engaged in, the moment he popped into her mind (which was admittedly, embarrassingly, rarely), she was always overcome with an enormous rush of guilt. Tonight, in her weary and beleaguered state, that rush of such a strong emotion practically threated to knock her over. To combat it, she pushed those thoughts away, fumbling for her keys inside her purse as she stood in the empty hallway.
And just like her mind immediately went to her boyfriend when she started feeling guilty, the second she tried to think of anything but him, the first solution her consciousness always offered was Mark. She knew she should hate herself for that—and especially for the way thinking of him always caused the faintest smile take shape up her lips—but she couldn't help it. And now, after tonight, thinking of Mark became something so different—something so much more than just recalling scandalous instances of sexual gratification. Now, instead of recalling how heatedly he'd taken her, or how eager she'd been to see him, all she could think about was that last time. All she could think about was listening to him call her beautiful, feeling his arms wrapped around her, hearing herself tell him to call her endearing names like 'baby,' a moniker that was usually reserved for use by a boyfriend or significant other.
She shook her head, amused at the thought, the term. Significant other. Well, that was an apt description, wasn't it? If Mark was anything, he was certainly that. (And she knew he was so much more than just 'anything.') He had had such an unignorable presence in both the real world and the fantasy that played out in her mind every time she saw him. It was almost unreal how much power he had over her, unimaginable how strong his pull was when he flexed its muscle between them.
What surprised her even more, though, was that she seemed to have the same effect on him. Lexie Grey could not ever remember having sex with anyone the way she had it with Mark—she couldn't ever remember her body responding like that, but more so, she couldn't ever remember a man responding like that to her. She had wondered multiple times if he was screwing with her. She had wondered if he was just trying to heighten the experience, to make it better for her so she'd make it better for him… But after weeks and weeks and nothing changing in his performance, it was clear that his attraction to her was genuine.
She had such an insanely hard time believing that he was as attracted to her as she was to him. It seemed nearly impossible, considering who she was, who he was… Considering she had a steady boyfriend.
Steady. Lexie sighed, leaning her head against the door to their apartment. That was the word she always used to describe them in her mind: steady. And they were, weren't they? Or at least they had been. Had been. The words hurt more than she'd expected, mostly because she knew it was her fault that they were drifting even further apart. What was it that Mark had said earlier? Admit that you're tired of him. Lexie Grey closed her eyes. And she had, hadn't she? Just because she was horny and weak she'd gone and told him that she was his… and she hadn't even regretted it afterwards.
What was wrong with her?
How was she still living like this? How had she not gone insane?
The idea occurred to her as she rested her key against the lock. Maybe she was insane. Maybe that's why she hadn't thought of her boyfriend when she'd went and fucked another man, maybe that was why—still—part of her didn't regret it. Maybe that was why she could swear her heart beat faster in her chest whenever she thought about Mark, why just remembering what he looked like, tasted like, smelled like, made her knees go week and wobble beneath her body. Jackson had never done that to her; no one had ever done that to her… except him.
By the time she put her key in the lock and twisted it, she was certain: she was insane. What other explanation was there?
The sight that greeted her as she stepped inside only solidified this opinion. Her first thought was to wonder how long she'd been hallucinating. She noted that she should probably see a neurologist—or, in the very least, a psychiatrist.
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Jackson Avery looked like he'd been sitting there for hours.
The thought was odd, funny even, until she realized that it was the truth. She could see it in his face, in his body language, in everything that surrounded him—he'd been sitting there for hours.
She stared, wide-eyed with her lower lip hanging open, at the sight in front of her. It wasn't just his presence that boggled her mind, but what he'd done as well. Both the kitchen and dining area were spotless. The entire table was set—forks, knives, spoons, glasses and plates—and even covered with a special cloth they rarely used except for important occasions. Everything was perfectly arranged, perfectly present… except her. There was space for two people at the table, and her seat was conspicuously empty.
She couldn't take her eyes off the candles on the table, even though staring at them physically hurt her. They were burned nearly all the way to the base, though the smallest blue-orange flickers could be seen every few seconds, dancing inside the wax as they struggled to survive.
Painfully, slowly, and with more than a hint of fear and humiliation, her eyes found her boyfriend's. He stared back at her, not making a sound, not moving a muscle. She guessed he was incredibly uncomfortable, sitting in that rickety old wooden chair, but no doubt it was a statement that he chose to hold his ground. She knew he was waiting for her to speak, to explain herself. She could barely think.
"Oh, god," Lexie breathed. The realization had hit her the moment she'd walked in, the way a truck would on the highway, and now dragging her behind it, with her stuttering all the way. It took her a few second to actually get the words out, out of breath as she was, and still, she stumbled over every word. "I—It's the fourteenth, isn't it? I… Jesus, I…"
Jackson turned his wrist, checking his watch. His voice was calm when he spoke, as if the date or the time didn't matter in the least. She couldn't stop staring at the table. She wondered how much time he'd wasted setting it, cooking… She wondered how long he'd sat, alone, waiting for her. "It's been the fifteenth for almost an hour, actually."
She couldn't believe she'd forgot. She couldn't believe she hadn't shown up. What the hell was wrong with her? "Jackson, I'm so sorry, I was—"
He lurched to his feet, holding his hands up in a gesture that clearly said he didn't want to hear any more. "You know what, Lex?" He shook his head, sighing. "Just save it. I don't care what your excuse is," he muttered in parting, even though it was so painfully obvious that he did.
She watched him turn and leave the kitchen, and she could tell from his stooped posture that he was exhausted. She tried not to think about how long he'd been awake… and what she'd been doing while he was here, waiting for her. You're such a naughty, naughty girl, Lexie… She shivered, her skin suddenly crawling. The words that had aroused her before sickened her now, and she swallowed thickly, feeling the sudden urge to run to the shower, to scrub Mark's touch off of her skin and cleanse herself of what she now felt was a terrible, branding sin.
For the first time, she actually realized what she was doing, who she was hurting and how. For the first time, she felt like a cheater: dirty, dishonest, mean… She felt horrible. She felt like she was going to throw up.
"I'm going to bed." His voice drifted back to her through the haze of self-hatred and disgust that clouded her being. "There's food in the fridge," he threw over his shoulder, subdued, "if you want it, that is. I made your favorite."
Lexie swallowed, but the lump of guilt stuck in her throat. Her boyfriend rarely cooked—neither of them did—and never after a full day at work. He never had the energy or the time, and she'd never cared, but for him to make this kind of effort now… And today, of all days…
"Jackson…" His name exited her mouth sounding like a broken whisper. She hated how weak she sounded, how powerless, but it seemed to her that that's what she was these days—powerless. She simply traded one weakness for another, and she wondered sadly who would come along after Jackson inevitably left her and Mark got bored of fucking another ordinary single girl.
His only reply was to shut the bedroom door. He didn't slam it—half of her wished he had; she knew she deserved that and so much more—but instead, he let it creak slowly closed. Lexie wondered if that was a sign that she wasn't supposed to follow him to bed.
She waited a few minutes to see if he emerged—he didn't—so she then decided to clean up the table he'd made up. She felt tears prick her eyes when she saw the two nearly foot-long candlesticks she'd bought last Christmas were burned almost to their bases. She wondered if he'd ever forgive her, though she knew she didn't deserve to be forgiven. Not for tonight and not for anything else. Blinking back tears, she blew them out, unceremoniously tossing the remains in the trash.
After she'd put the dishes away and folded up the tablecloth, she slowly made her way to their bedroom. He was lying on the far side of the bed, his back turned to her. Obviously not a good sign. Lexie undressed slowly, keeping her ears alert for any faint rustling in the sheets. She didn't hear a sound, and soon enough, she was crawling under the sheets beside him.
"I'm sorry," she whispered into the pitch-black room. She stared at the ceiling because she didn't think she could take staring at his back and waiting for him to turn and face her. She knew he never would. "I didn't mean to forget, I swear, I just… I…" I was just too busy with my other boyfriend that I forgot about you, being here, waiting at home for me. I forgot about our anniversary and I forgot about everything we've ever shared together. For those hours that I was with him, I forgot you even existed. By the way, have I been cruel enough to say "sorry" enough times yet? The rest of her apology died in her throat, consumed by the sarcasm of her own thoughts at the fiery guilty that tore at her heart. She knew there was nothing she could say to make this right, but she also knew that she still had to try. She would say anything and everything it took, just to make things better, or right, or…normal. She wasn't ready to admit the truth that was staring her in the face: nothing would ever be normal again.
"I love you," she whispered, hating the way the words got caught in her throat on the way out. "I love you, Jackson." The statement came out of her mouth tasting like a lie, and upon realizing that, her stomach turning, making her feel dizzy and faint. She had never felt more horrible in her entire life.
He didn't speak for minutes—didn't reply—and waiting for him to say those three words nearly broke her heart. But eventually, he did reply. He turned—just a few inches, so she could hear his voice clearly—and murmured, "Love you too, Lex."
She felt tears spring to her eyes at the defeat in his tone when he said that, as if he didn't have another option in life except to love her. She tried so hard not to see her plight reflected in his, but it was impossible to ignore. Their parallels were too many, too confusing; it was all too much. Though she knew it wasn't the right moment, she scooted across the bed and wrapped her arms around him. Her front pressed up against his back, and her arms hung down over his shoulders to link across his chest. She tried to ignore the way he immediately stiffened at her touch.
After a couple minutes, he reached down and brought her entwined hands to his lips. He kissed her fingers softly, briefly, and in a silent apology, she kissed the back of his neck and ran her hands over his bare chest. "I'll make it up to you," she whispered, leaning her head against his back. "Whenever you want, whatever you want, I'll…" She closed her eyes and finished her promise hoarsely, "I'll make it up to you."
She didn't know whether to be relieved or heartbroken when he muttered, "Don't bother trying, Lexie," and rolled further away from her. The part that ached for Mark, that wanted him again already, that wanted him here with her instead of Jackson, was relieved beyond belief, beyond measure or explanation. That part of her let him go readily, willingly, even a bit happily. But another part of her, the part that was still in love with Jackson, the part that was still—probably naïvely—convinced they could fix things, cringed as her heart was shattered into a few more sharp and broken pieces.
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As she lay sleepless in bed later that night, Lexie tried not to think of that last time between her and Mark. Late in his apartment, just after they'd gone inside from the cold… but it was impossible to forget. She tried not to think about how soft his hands had been when they'd travelled over her skin, or how gently he'd kissed her. She understood that he was trying to erase all the sweet pain he'd given her earlier, but it wasn't necessary. She knew she would cherish that memory—angry and competitive as it had been—as much as she did the latter one, full of warm kisses and gentle caresses and looks she wasn't sure she'd deciphered correctly.
She kept going back to that moment, just before she begged him to be inside her, when his mouth was on her. He'd been so kind and gentle, and just like how he'd been rough and angry before, that she found herself stunned speechless. She couldn't understand what was happening with them. One second they were like they'd always been, fooling around, the next he was incensed with jealousy, and the one after that… What? What were they that last time? Even now, she still couldn't completely shake that feeling he'd managed to unlock in her when he took her to bed that final time. She didn't know what that feeling was, exactly, or how to explain it. She didn't know if it even could be explained.
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She couldn't take it anymore. She gasped aloud, her body, mind, and soul pleading for his cock. Pleading for his closeness. He looked almost scared when he lifted his head from between her thighs, but she couldn't let him have doubts or hold himself back from her. Not now, not ever.
"Please," she whispered, staring down at him unblinkingly. Her hands, which had been fisting his hair before, now ran through it softly, gently. She almost smiled when she realized she was trying to comb his hair back into place from where she'd previously mussed it up. "Please," she whispered again, her fingers curling around his ears. Her thumbs stretched out to stroke the high sides of his cheeks. "I need you, Mark. Now."
He looked unsure in bed for the first time she'd ever seen. He propped himself up on his elbows, pulling himself up to her. "Are you sure you want it?" He wondered softly, recalling how roughly he'd taken her before. His worried eyes roamed over her face, searching for the truth so he wouldn't have to search her hips for the bruises. He already knew he'd hurt her, though it hadn't been his intention. "Because we don't—"
"Yes," she answered quickly, her voice was resolute. "I need you, I need you inside me. I need to feel…" She trailed off. She didn't know what she needed to feel. She just knew she had to be as close to him as humanly possible. She needed to know that he was feeling was she felt, needed to look into his eyes when he made himself one with her and see the truth that would cut through all the confusion.
Thankfully, he seemed to understand. His eyes grew very tender as he looked down at her, and when he kissed her it was soft and sweet, with none of the exciting roughness from before. Surprisingly, this gentle side of him aroused her too, more so than she thought it ever would. But, as always, sex with Mark was immeasurably different, immeasurably more pleasurable, than sex with anyone else. "I know," he whispered, his hot breath ghosting across her mouth and chin. "I know what you need to feel, baby."
She closed her eyes in relief. She was so happy he understood. …But how did he understand, especially when even she wasn't sure she understood? "You do?" She wondered, breathless as her heart hammered the air out of her lungs. She couldn't stop the way her heart had expanded when he'd called her that name. 'Baby.' Why did such a simple word do such complicated things to her? Probably because you're not his baby, the snide part of her pointed out. The realization made her sadder than she would've thought, even causing part of her to whisper, But I want to be. She reached up, cupping his cheek in her hand. He blinked slowly down at her when her thumb stroked his cheekbone lightly. "You know?" She wondered quietly.
"Yes." He nodded. "I do."
She could feel him leaning in to her touch, so she brought up her other hand to frame his face. She held him there, held him above her, for a few more seconds before leaning up and kissing him. She could fear the scratch of the short stubble on her skin, and it made her lower belly fill with heat, caused tingles to spread across her skin. She couldn't help but moan softly against his hot lips.
He kissed her back immediately, bending down and surrounding her mouth with his. She gasped softly when he pushed her deeper into the mattress, but when he tried to let up, her arms kept him locked in place. She could feel his body against hers—every inch of it—and she didn't want to let go of that feeling. He was so warm and strong and familiar… She felt like she was drowning in him. She never wanted him to leave, never wanted this to end.
When he finally thrust himself up inside her, it was done gently. Softly. It was slow and kind and a hundred other things Lexie Grey wouldn't have associated with Dr. Mark Sloan an hour ago. She could still feel him pounding her into the mattress. She could still hear him whisper about how wet she was, how hot, how naughty and dirty. She could still hear herself beg for his cock. Just thinking of that made her whimper.
"You alright, Lex?"
Her eyes blinked open slowly, as if she'd been asleep and not just lost in memories. "I…"
"Was I too fast?" He wondered, staring down at her, concern turning his sharp icy-blue eyes into still, tepid pools. He stilled the slow thrusts of his hips against hers and separated them so he wouldn't rest on her injured midsection. His hands came forward to rub her hips gently where bluish-purple bruises had already started to form. He could already feel the guilt needling at him for that. "Are you… okay?"
A wide smile spread out over her face at his concern, his attentiveness, and she suddenly felt like crying. She had no idea why. She wasn't sad. She was something so far from sad, but still the tears pricked at her eyes. "I'm wonderful," she whispered. Her voice was ragged, hoarse. She willed it to be strong. "I'm so wonderful, Mark."
He remained unconvinced. Nevertheless, his eyes were tender and warm in the darkness as he stared down at her. "You'll tell me if I need to stop, won't you, baby?"
There it was again—'baby.' He called her 'baby.' Why did he keep saying that? And why did it make her lose her mind?
It was no longer a feeling now, no longer an inkling associated with that intimate word—there were tears swimming in her eyes now. Real tears. She struggled not to let them fall; she didn't want to ruin this moment. She wanted to make it last forever. She wanted to hear him call her 'baby' for the rest of her life, wanted to have him hold her in his arms and take her to bed until she was old and grey. She wanted him. For the first time since they'd started, she was admitting to herself that she wanted him for something more than sex, and she could hardly believe it. It made her want to cry; it made her want to shout. It made her feel like dying because she knew it would all be over once she went back home. "I will," she whispered. Her fingers traced over his lips. "I will, Mark, I promise."
He smiled beneath her touch, and as he continued pumping himself slowly inside her, he bent down. Her fingers still hovered over his mouth even when it was just an inch from hers. His eyes sparkled with happiness and kindness and something else, something she knew very well but didn't dare associate with him, with this man who wasn't her boyfriend. "Are you not going to let me kiss you, Lex?"
She smiled, and all thoughts of her boyfriend—what was his name again?—flew out of her mind. She turned her hand, cupping his jaw and leaving his mouth free to seek hers. "Call me 'baby' again," she whispered softly, so softly, almost as if she didn't want him to hear her secret wish, "and you can kiss me as many times as you like, Mark Sloan."
A slow smile spread over his face, and she watched as his blue eyes seemed to melt again as they stared into hers. They looked like two warm pools. After a long, silent minute, he finally replied, straining to joke to contrast her serious words, "You're an easy woman to please, it appears."
She couldn't help but grin, even through the seriousness of their words. It was true. The simplest things made her happy. He made her happy. …But he was not simple. He was complicated.
But he made her happy. She felt like she was whining, even in her mind, just because she wanted something that she wasn't allowed to have. Happiness: that was what was important, wasn't it? Didn't happiness trump every other feeling—guilt, sorrow, heartbreak?
He made her happier than she'd been in years. He made her happier than she'd ever been in her entire life. She felt the tears prick again. She didn't know what was wrong with her. Why was she thinking like this? Feeling this? She bit her lip. She would not cry. She would not ruin this moment. Nothing could ruin this moment.
"Kiss me," she whispered, casting her previous stipulation aside. She looked up into his eyes, and drew him close with her hands, legs, and every other part of her body. "Kiss me, Mark, please." He was thrusting into her with a bit more frequency now, and she could feel her orgasm snowballing towards her. It slow and gradual this time—instead of sharp and violent like the last—but that didn't mean she enjoyed it any less. In fact, somehow, she was enjoying it more. She wanted to wonder why, but she didn't have time. Her release was coming, and she wanted his mouth on hers when she came. She wanted to feel him all over.
She wanted to be his.
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Lexie Grey swallowed roughly, opening her eyes. Her dark gaze immediately sought the clock on the bedside table, and the digital readout mocked her: 2:01 AM. Quietly, she eased herself out of bed, wishing she could say that what had gone through her head over the last hour had been a dream or a fantasy.
She resisted the urge to slam the cupboard door closed after she'd grabbed a glass.
No, it'd been real. All too terribly, wonderfully real.
She took a series of calming breaths as she leaned against the skin and filled her glass. She downed the cup in one long gulp, and though it helped her aching throat, her chest still hurt. She grabbed her phone from the kitchen table, and before she even realized what she was doing, she'd pulled up Mark's contact and had started typing.
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Mark Sloan simply sighed when he heard his phone buzz on the table beside his bed. He hadn't moved since she'd left. He'd laid here, on top of her, when he'd came, he'd laid here after he'd rolled off her of her, and he'd laid her as he watched her get to her feet, put on her soiled clothes, and leave.
He hadn't said a word aloud to stop her, but he'd been pleading—praying and hoping and screaming—inside that she'd stay. He barely felt like he'd breathed since that had happened, though he knew he must've had to do so to survive this long. He pressed his lips together sourly. Survive, he thought bitterly, what a pathetic choice of words, you spineless loser. Though he told himself not to, though he told himself to leave her behind like she'd done to him, he reached over for his cell nonetheless. He knew it had to be her messaging him at this hour. He wondered how she was up for a repeat performance already. He thought he'd fucked her hard enough that she might've had trouble walking afterwards—not that that was his original intent.
His eyes scanned the message quickly, hardly digesting it as his heart pounded in his chest. When he read it a second time, he was calmer. When he read it a third, he understood.
I know you're probably asleep. That's okay. It was a long night, to say the least. I don't exactly know why I'm sending this to you, and I'll probably delete it before I even *do* send it, but I just wanted you to know, I just wanted you to hear it from me—that I miss you, Mark.
I know it's only been an hour since I left, but I can't help but think of you still. I can't forget what happened between us and, well, I guess I just hope you can't either.
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Lexie stared at her phone, wondering what else she could say. Her fingers hovered over the keys, but she couldn't put what she was feeling into words. And she couldn't call him—what she had to say wasn't something she could risk her boyfriend overhearing.
She wished she could visit him again. She wished it was acceptable for her to show up at his apartment and request that they do nothing but hold each other and stare out at the city like they had hours ago. She closed her eyes, placing her hands on her hips and squeezing her skin impatiently. She winced immediately, pulling her hands away. She lifted her shirt, discovering the previously blue bruises had taken on a darker, sinister-looking purple color.
She shut her eyes again, thankful—just for a moment—that things had gone badly with Jackson tonight. She had no idea how she'd explain such marks to him. How else would she had gotten those sorts of injuries except from sex? And they hadn't had sex in weeks. There was no explanation, no explanation except the truth, and that answer was too ludicrous to even consider admitting aloud.
Lost, she picked her phone up again, staring at the screen. It'd been over a minute, but still he hadn't said anything. He hadn't said I miss you, too. He hadn't said I want to see you again. He hadn't said a word. He hadn't even started typing.
She tried to ignore the way her chest tightened at the thought but it was impossible. It hurt too much. She knew he'd received the text, and she knew he'd read it. She didn't bother to wonder why he was awake and looking at his cell at two in the morning, because a much starker fact was staring her in the face—he was ignoring her. He didn't care. He didn't care like she did, and it was clear that if he wasn't answering now he never would. Nevertheless, she bit the inside of her cheek, stared intently at the screen, and attempted to reclaim the shreds of her dignity.
She wished she could erase or delete all that she'd just told him, and though she knew that wasn't possible, maybe she count recant it, make it null and void with another message. Her hands shook as she typed, and she was humiliated about how much his rejection hurt her. She wished she could say she didn't care, but just from her actions and reactions tonight, it would be clear to anyone involved—namely, him—that she cared.
What was the worst bit was how obvious it was, how obviously she put herself out there… and how obviously he failed to show interest.
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The second text came about a minute and a half later. It was short, unfeeling, and straight to the point. Mark hated himself for the way the rage bubbled up inside him just from these few short lines of text. He hated how much he depended on her. And he hated himself for letting it all happen. It was his fault all this happened, after all. If he hadn't touched her, kissed her, fucked her in that goddamn exam room—
He shook his head. He wouldn't think about that right now. He stared at his phone instead.
Anyway. I hope you've gotten some sleep. Call me if you want and maybe I'll see you when I see you.
Mark's hand closed around his phone in a tight fist as he rose to a sitting position. He wondered if she thought this was some sort of repayment. He wondered if she thought this was her way of evening the scales between them. Whether she meant it or not, one thing was certain: It wasn't enough. He had put it all out there—he had said the words—and all she could manage to say in reply was "I miss you"? "Call me if you want"? What kind of recompense was that?
He resisted the urge to smash his phone against the wall; that wouldn't fix anything. A second later, he realized—what the fuck—and hurled it against the far side of the room. The crunch of broken metal, glass, and plastic only added to his numbness and fueled his growing self-hatred.
Above all else, he longed for the ability, the right, to blame her for everything that had happened. Being able to blame anyone, really, would have been better than knowing that he had no one but himself to blame. He hated knowing his unhappiness was all his own fault, especially when he'd had such an exquisite taste of the opposite just hours ago. It seemed like a dream, now… or maybe a nightmare.
He could still feel the smoothness of her hair beneath his lips when he closed his eyes. He could feel the wind rushing past and the warmth from her small body.
I think I'm in love with you, Lexie.
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Lexie Grey stared at her phone for minutes upon minutes after she sent the last text. There was still no reply, and there was only one explanation. Contrary to what he'd showed her earlier tonight, it appeared that he didn't care for her. If he had, he might've replied. If he had, he might've said I miss you, too. He could have even just brushed her off and replied that he'd call her tomorrow. But he didn't.
How could he ever care for her, anyway? He had all of the glamorous women of New York at his fingertips; why would he ever care about some tiny little brunette girl he'd only known for a few months? All they were doing was having sex, anyway. He had the right to move on to whomever he wanted when he got bored with her. Just because he'd kissed her gently and called her 'baby' didn't mean that he suddenly adored her. He'd simply found the loophole for getting more and more from her and he'd begun to exploit it. She couldn't blame him. She would—and had—done the same.
Lexie turned off her phone, stuffed it deep in the bottom of her purse, and then headed back to what might as well be an empty bed.
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Author's Note: Please leave me a review on this chapter! They're always appreciated :) Thank you all SO much for reading! (PS: Out of My Hands will be updated ASAP!)