"What the hell is all that for?" Greg frowned as I piled fresh and canned fruit into the cart.

"You probably didn't eat a single piece of fruit while I was gone," I said, bagging up some out-of-season and outrageously expensive cherries. "Am I right?"

"I had two or three strawberry shakes," he replied defensively. "Does that count?"

"No."

"I say it does. When I come down with scurvy then you can say I was wrong."

"Greg, you can't keep gorging on junk food like that."

"Why not? Food is food is food."

"No, it's not."

"Who says?"

"Doctors for starters. Sooner or later all that crap is going to catch up with you."

"Diet advice from the man who stuffs himself and me with macadamia nut pancakes. Excuse me while I call the irony police."

"I also stuff you and myself with some healthy food every now and then too."

"Oh, I get it now," he said as we made our way to the flour and sugar, the sweet, cloying scent filling the entire aisle. I was the official grocery scout and he was the cart pusher. Even if his leg was perfectly fine, he'd still push the cart and make me get everything he wanted from the high shelves. "You let me in your hotel room because you were afraid that I was going to eat too many Twinkies and go on a rampage."

"If that's what you want to believe." I shrugged off his rancor like an old coat.

"All right, then; I will. I find it funny that a queer like you fills up his shopping cart with all this here fruit. How very poetic. Or am I reading too much into this?"

Thankfully, the aisle was practically empty. A roly-poly mom with a whiny brat hanging off the cart turned the corner, not hearing us over her obnoxious child. Not that Greg would have hesitated for a second if the store had been packed wall to wall. I shot daggers at him and he only smirked in return.

"Behave," I warned him in a low voice, tossing in a bag of flour.

"Or what?" he challenged, his eyes glittering as if he had been waiting all day to try and rattle my cage. "Are you going to send me to bed without any dinner? Ground me for a week? Gonna spank me for being bad, Dr. Wilson?"

Pushing my buttons, testing my patience, right here in a public place. Being all alone in the apartment with no one, namely me, to tease, he must have been climbing the walls by the time he hired someone to follow me back to the hotel.

"Behave," I warned again, "or I'm putting all these ingredients back and you can make your own pancakes by adding water and stirring."

"Is that supposed to be a threat? I'm shaking in my sneakers. Really."

"It's a promise." I put the flour back on the shelf, and reached for the macadamia nuts. Greg seized my hand before it even touched the bag.

"Promises were made to be broken," he said, the smirk still plastered on his face.

I pulled my hand out of his grip. "Can you keep your queer remarks to yourself until we get home?"

He looked me right in the eye, put his hand to his heart, and answered, "I promise."

Everything for the pancakes was left out on the counter as I helped put the rest of the groceries away. Actually, I put most of the stuff away while Greg drank a Pepsi and watched. In other words, the usual. I asked him to get out the big mixing bowl, he could at least do that for me, while I hunted down the big frying pan. Buried on the bottom shelf. The most inconvenient place in the kitchen and he insists on hiding it there. Probably just to watch me dig it out. I did, and the damn thing was still in my hand when I was suddenly seized from behind and thrown against the refrigerator.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I demanded, wondering if he had picked the most inopportune moment to finally lose his mind.

"You should know by now," he said in a strangely calm and determined voice. Before I could do anything, he grabbed the frying pan out of my hand and threw it on the floor. Then I saw that his pupils were dilated and it wasn't from drugs. His eyes were fixed on me, the way a hawk fixes on a field mouse before it swoops in for the kill.

"Can't this wait–"

"No," Greg answered cooly, pushing me back against the refrigerator door.

"But–"

The words were cut off as he pressed his mouth to mine, feeding the kiss with a fierce and raw passion, and he was so damned good at that. All my frustration, anger, resentment, and regret melted away as I fed back with everything I had, wrapping my arms around his neck, wanting him to get closer and closer even as his heat joined with mine and the room became too hot and I could have cared less. All I cared about was him and me, me and him, we were together again, the way we were supposed to be. His pelvis ground into mine and I couldn't help but moan. My self-control was waning, my knees were buckling; his body weight was the only thing holding me up. I could feel him smiling as the wonderful raw kisses continued.

He finally broke away, breathless, and I bit my lower lip as I felt the blush climb from my neck to my cheeks. My heart slammed into my chest and the sound filled the kitchen. Or maybe I was just hearing things as my brain scrambled to form a coherent thought.

"Gonna pay some attention to me now, Jimmy?" he sneered. "Do I have your attention now?"

"Yes," I gasped. My pupils had probably grown to the size of his in the half-second it took to get that word out.

"Good."

"I thought you were hungry," I murmured shakily.

"Dinner can wait. I want dessert first."

He grabbed a handful of my hair and yanked my head backwards before kissing me again.

He was right. Dinner could wait. Having dessert first was a truly fine idea.