"I don't think Cuddy will go for something like that," I said.

"So?"

"It might not be a good idea to shock the person in charge."

"Losing your nerve already, Jimmy?" Greg said. "If you don't want to do it, then I will. It might be tomorrow, next week, or next year, but I'll get it done."

"Next year? What–"

"Don't start playing Boy Scout with me," he said with a yank of my tie, the growl returning to his voice. "It's all fine and dandy unless she has the power to hire and fire you, hmmm? You queer hypocrite. I'm good enough to shack up with, but not good enough to kiss in front of the boss." His left hand came around the back of my neck, holding me there.

"I was just making an observation. I didn't mean anything by it." I had to look back down at the floor. My heart was racing. Those blue eyes were staring, and I knew the pupils were dilated.

"Still don't know what to do with me," he chuckled quietly. "That's okay. Until then, I know exactly what to do with you." The hand holding my tie loosened. "Jimmy, look at me."

I straightened up. His pupils were the size of dimes.

"Kiss me," he said, using that same low gravelly voice from the night he waited for me behind the door.

I obliged. Greg sat perfectly still, not making an effort to make my task any easier. He didn't kiss back. He probably didn't even close his eyes.

"Now kiss me like you mean it," he growled, "and pretend Cuddy is watching."

"Take back what you said and I'll think about it," I replied.

"Take back what?" he asked, unable to hide the surprise in his face.

"What you said about me being a queer hypocrite."

"Why should I?"

"Because I want you to, and you owe me that."

"And if I don't? Are you going to sit there and pout all goddamn night? Is that why you're ready to rip my clothes off, because I hurt your precious fucking feelings?"

"You want something from me, Greg," I informed him, sitting back, "you have to give me something in return."

"Do I?"

"Yes," I said, folding my arms for emphasis.

"Okay," he agreed with obvious and deliberate hesitation. Just being a bastard for the hell of it. "You're not a queer hypocrite."

"Say it like you mean it."

"You, James Wilson, are not a queer hypocrite." The sincerity sounded so fake it had to be real.

"Thank you." I plastered on a small fake smile. "Now was that so bad, Greg. Did it kill you to play nice for a change?"

"I'm not playing nice," he said in a flat tone. "If you really wanted 'nice', you'd be out there looking for Suzy Creamcheese number four. Would you still see me on the side? Be a real queer hypocrite, or just a queer cheating bastard husband again. How long would it be this time before 'nice' just isn't enough for you anymore?"

"Are you finished?"

"For now."

"I'm not going to be a husband again."

"So you've said."

"Is there something you want from me, Greg?"

"Kiss me like you mean it," he answered, eyes glowing.

"Is Cuddy still going to watch?"

"If she wants."

"She might not like what she sees," I said.

"I'll let you both know when I care," he said, yanking me forward by my tie again. "You're taking too goddamn long."