December, Again

by darlingwrecks

It's the most wonderful time of the year. What Mark gets Addison for Christmas year-by-year, from 1989 to 2005.

6. 2004

Note: Hi! Just FYI, in case you got a little skip-happy, I posted chapters 5 and 6 at the same time.

---

2004.

"Hello, Mr. Sloan." Casey, the nice girl at the front desk who is a full-fledged adult with eye-catching blonde hair, but too young for Mark to feel right about flirting with, always forgets it's doctor. Not that it matters. He would prefer to be addressed by his first name, but the lobby staff at his building don't really do that. "There's an Addison Montgomery-Shepherd here for you." Casey's voice is clear as a bell through the intercom system, but Mark still cannot immediately process what she has said. "Mr. Sloan…?" There is indistinct murmuring in the background. Addison would have assumed the hesitation means that he has company; it is after nine on a Saturday night, so it is a reasonable conclusion to draw. "Oh, sorry," Casey adds. "If it's not a good time, she said she'll leave something for you at the desk."

"No, it's fine. It's a good time. Thanks, Casey. Tell her to come up."

"Hi," Addison greets when he opens his apartment door. "Is it a good time?" She asks, sounding contrite. Her wrist is jiggling as she hangs onto a Christmas-themed bag. A gift for him, Mark guesses. Her other hand is occupied with a black bag, or purse, or whatever she calls it. "I'm sorry, I should have texted you first, but—"

"It's a good time. It's okay. Come in." Mark steps aside so she can slip past him. He watches as she gingerly sets her bag-purse on the entryway table. "Were you coming from…dinner or something?" She looks nice right now. Dressed up. He recognizes the wool coat—it's a staple in her winter wardrobe. And she is also wearing a dark green blouse in a satiny material, followed by a sea of black: a black pencil skirt, sheer black tights, and black heels. Her makeup looks carefully applied, and her hair is long and straight. And then Mark glances away, as he has trained himself to do.

"I was a few blocks from here. Holiday party." She begins to take off her coat, the process slower due to the present in her hand. "I rented the back room for my staff at that new Italian place off Lex. It was pretty good."

"I can take your coat."

"Thanks." Addison passes it to him. "And this is for you." She holds the bag up higher. "I'm going to put it under your tree."

Mark nods as he claws around for a spare hanger in the coat closet. He is grateful his back is to Addison, so that he has time to mull over her statement. She usually says, this is from us. But tonight it was different. This is for you doesn't necessarily mean the gift is not from both Addison and Derek, but over the past year, all Mark does is analyze their interactions, and then replay them after they have parted ways, returning over and over again to the tiniest moments. And Addison dropping by unannounced…she doesn't do this.

He cannot deny how thrilled he is to see her, but he also wishes she hadn't done this—it makes it more difficult to set his feelings aside. For a few really, really messed up weeks in January and February, Mark genuinely thought about moving away, because distance seemed like the only thing that would help. Somewhere sunny and warm, and good for business. Miami. Tucson. Or L.A., maybe, because at least with that one, Sam and Naomi would be there, even though he is not particularly close with them anymore.

He and Addison avoided each other throughout winter and the early part of spring, a wary benevolence hovering around them as they deliberately-but-without-a-discussion opted to only spend time together as a threesome, as that felt like the safest choice (not that Derek made himself available much). Or, they sometimes interacted at Tisch, where they both have surgical privileges, though it was mainly surface-level pleasantries. It wasn't much, for a while there. But, the more they spoke one-on-one, whether it was when Derek was out of the room, or while they ate a quick bite in the first floor café between surgeries, the easier it got for Mark to be around her again, even though there is still an energy about them. He is convinced Addison feels it, too. They do not say it aloud though. They do not talk about the tension, or anything about that night at the brownstone last December, or how they have become so drawn to each other over the past three years.

Mark would be lying though if he said his feelings had changed. They haven't. They've only grown. And he would also be lying if he said there haven't been times he has thought about Addison when he has had a hand wrapped around himself. After the ballet. When he was in Costa Rica, after their phone call, when they were talking about what she was wearing. Last year, after they almost kissed. And a lot this year, usually without the selection of a particular encounter. A shameful amount of times, honestly. You can talk to me about anything, his new shrink, Rachel, told him during their first session back in August. Yeah. Not that.

"...if I can find a place to put your present," he hears Addison say next in a cheery-tinged voice, and Mark turns around to face her. She is exaggerating, since there is plenty of room under the Christmas tree, but it is kind of cute that she acknowledged the other presents already there for him. "From your doctor parents?" She asks, smiling.

"Yeah. I had dinner with Elaine and Jim tonight, and they had some stuff for me." Mark could probably be better about keeping in touch with the Doctors Hughes consistently, but he isn't terrible. The three of them do usually meet for dinner once every other month or so. "We went to Sparks," he says. "Ironically, we had talked about going to that Italian restaurant you apparently had your office party at, but when Elaine called to make a reservation, the earliest opening they had was at eight, and—"

"That's about three hours too late for the sixty-plus crowd?"

Mark smirks. "Pretty much." And then he grows somber, because he needs to stop putting off his next question. He is wondering how long Addison will be able to stay, and the answer to this depends on another person. "Is Derek…?"

"He's in Baltimore. Guest lecturing to first-year residents at Hopkins on…I can't remember what. He's filling in as a favor for someone." Addison shrugs, either disinterested or trying to feign disinterest. Mark knows that such a quality comes more naturally to her husband. "But, that's okay." There's that cheeriness from earlier. "We don't have to talk about him."

"You, uh…want a drink?"

"Sure. If you're okay with me hanging out for a bit, I mean. I normally would have called—"

"I know you would have, Emily Post."

"—but you've been busy and you're leaving in a few days," Addison explains, "so I wanted to make sure I brought you your present before you leave for your trip. Presents deserve to be under the tree before they get opened."

"Is scotch okay?"

"Scotch is perfect."

"Okay. I'll be right back." He gestures to the sofa. "Make yourself comfortable."

Addison does not opt for the sofa though. When Mark returns from the bar cart in the kitchen with two glasses in hand, he discovers her seated on the rug in front of his fireplace. Her legs are tucked to the side; he will never understand how she is able to sit comfortably in some of those tight-ass skirts. Her heels have been abandoned on the hardwood floor, as well as a pair of knit ankle socks she must have been wearing over her tights for extra warmth and to probably not slip around in her heels, or something—Mark knows a lot about women, but he can't pretend he knows everything. He does, however, know how appealing the sinewy muscles of Addison's calves look while she is positioned like this. Again, he glances away.

She has also brought over the marble tray from his coffee table, presumably to balance their drinks on. Her hair seems brighter, and golder, this close to the fire, where the flames are soundlessly waving. It's an electric one, so what it lacks in earnestness it makes up for with beauty, due to the different flame color options and the bed of shiny white crystals. But, that's it. The fireplace is all show, no substance. Mark feels that it kind of suits him.

"Thank you," she says, accepting the drink he is offering her. "The fire feels nice."

"Yeah, it does." He sits down across from her. "I'm…I'm glad you stopped by, Red."

"Me too. I have to tell you something." Addison is smiling, maybe even close to laughing. Whatever it is must not be too serious then. She does take a large sip of the Glenlivet first though. Liquid courage, maybe? "You have to promise not to laugh," she says as she places her glass on the tray, where Mark's also sits, still untouched.

He matches her smile. "I can't promise that. But let's hear it."

"Okay. So, I almost went home first so that I could put on the green dress. I was seriously going to go twenty minutes out of the way before coming here just so I could wear the dress you like." Addison's teeth are coasting along her bottom lip, so maybe she is nervous, but she does not seem particularly embarrassed by this confession—and it's not like someone was blackmailing her into revealing this. She seems excited to talk about this with Mark, actually. "I know it's pathetic," she tacks on, still smiling.

"It's not pathetic." It is also not something to laugh about. Mark can feel his heartbeat rushing in his ears. "You still got the color half right." Her blouse is a dark green. "And…" he is not subtle this time as he studies her appearance. Addison clearly doesn't want him to be subtle. She seems hungry for his gaze. "This is definitely green dress-worthy. I like this outfit, too. I like it a lot."

Addison scoots toward him then, mostly dragging herself due to her skirt's restrictive silhouette.

There is no need for Mark to ask what is different this time. And why, almost a year later, save for a change in location, they have found themselves right back where they were. Of course it would happen now. It's December, again. That's what's different. It's something about Addison in December.

It's something about them in December.

He sets a hand on her shoulder, blocking her from additional movement. His elbow is already bent between them though, which makes the action mostly ineffective. There is not much distance remaining. No more than a foot separates them, maybe.

Addison frowns, though it is playful-seeming. "Are you not going to let me come any closer?"

"I want you to come closer. I'm just afraid"—he did not expect to say this—"of what will happen if you do."

"I'm not afraid. And I don't want you to be, either." She is searching his face, and he is doing the same to her. Addison looks as beautiful as she always looks at Christmastime.

"Mark…" she finally adds, her voice soft. "Can I kiss you?"

A grin tweaks at the corner of his mouth. Something about Addison asking is so—though Mark can't believe he's using this word—sweet. "Yeah," he tells her.

She draws in a breath, and then leans toward him. It is only a peck, as weightless as air. Tentative. Mark swears he barely feels it. But it is welcome all the same.

When she pulls away, he orders himself to stay motionless, to let Addison decide what happens next—he does not want to make a move, and be rejected. She puts her face against the side of his next. Their cheeks are touching now, and it reminds Mark of last year, but without the little kiss. And then Addison's mouth comes back to where it was just seconds ago. Not tentative this time. Not at all.

Mark has wanted this for a long, long time. He thinks he wanted it even before he actively knew he wanted it. He uses one hand to stay balanced, arm locked straight out as his palm burrows into the fluffy rug, and he places his other hand on Addison's side, kind of companionably as they continue to kiss. There is still a gap between them, but they are bowed toward each other, bodies yielding like the reactants and products of a chemical equation.

Their kisses are growing deeper, intensity and desire mounting as their tongues slink around one another, but they are still moving leisurely. Mark is enjoying the pace though, and it is clear Addison is, too. He thought it might be more frantic, just clashing mouths and insistent limb-pulling, because it often is with sad, desperate women, but it occurs to him it has probably been a long time since Addison has been touched—held, even—in any capacity. Mark thinks he would love to have the chance to hold her, after he's done all the other things he wants to do with her. And to her. He cannot believe how natural it feels to be making out with her. It is like they have been doing this for years.

"We're kissing." Addison seems delighted by this notion when she tilts away from him, needing air. "We're really kissing."

"We're really kissing. Well. Were. Do you…do you want to keep kissing?"

Please, God, please let her want to.

"Yes. And I…I want you to touch me."

Mark adjusts his position so he can stamp kisses into her neck. Her pulse point smells nice. He notices that first. Vanilla, and something else he can't name, but it's somehow familiar to him. And then his mouth lands below Addison's ear, where he stays, kissing and blowing on her skin while she makes quiet, appreciative sounds. She shifts her head at one point, nuzzling his cheek with her nose, and it is enough to make Mark ease back.

"Where do you want to be touched?" It is said as casually as if he were asking if he could borrow her gross anatomy notes. He can feel pressure building below his stomach. "Tell me where to touch you, Addison."

She exhales shakily. "Everywhere."

They work together so easily, so fluidly. Her hand closes around Mark's shoulder, bringing him with her as she stretches her legs and reclines on the rug. He moves over her, but keeps his weight off her body as he negotiates with the buttons of her blouse, each like a miniature, water-paled shell. He kisses the new flesh made visible as the fabric spreads out—warm, wet kisses while he opens Addison up to him. He hears her whisper his name when his lips skim below her navel. She has never said Mark like that before. He wishes she could always say it in that distinctive tone.

Her blouse is hanging all the way open now, soft satin against skin that feels even softer. Mark nudges at the material, exposing as much of her as he can, and then he relocates to the outside of her hip, opting to lie on his side and support himself with an elbow while he gazes down at Addison. He expects her to rise, to do some wriggling to free her arms from the sleeves, so that her blouse will be all the way off, and then after that, the lacy black bra with the scalloped edges—it looks so good on her—will follow suit. That isn't what happens though. Addison's arms arrive on her torso instead. One shielding her breasts, and the other across her stomach.

"I'm self-conscious," she admits, a sheepish grin towing her lips apart.

It is a lot of things. Like the fact that she hasn't been with anyone other than her husband since she was twenty-two. Mark can't imagine what that is like. How nerve wracking this has to be.

He would like for it to only be that. But it's not. He brings a hand up to Addison's face, runs his fingers over the square of her jaw. He knows what else it is. It's his career. People don't think about the cleft palates and gender affirmation surgeries and waxy third-degree burns and the women whose faces he puts back together after a monster has beaten them to the point of being unrecognizable. People look at Mark and see boob jobs and tummy tucks and nose reshapings. They just see a shallow, critical man obsessed with beauty and youth.

And it is who he is as a person, too. He can't even summon a guess as to how many women he's slept with by this point. The higher the number, the more bleak it becomes after a while. Body counts eventually stop feeling like a badge of honor.

"You have nothing to be self-conscious about," he assures. "You're beautiful." She rolls her eyes. Mark could have predicted that she would. "You are. And, no, I don't say that to every woman I'm trying to get with. You're beautiful." He says it again. "And you're perfect. Here." Mark clambers onto his knees, and yanks his shirt over his head, then tosses it aside. "Now we're even."

"Do you live at the gym?"

"No, but thanks for asking me that." Mark lies down beside her, on his side again, halfway over Addison's body, and he grins when her hand explores his chest. Her statement is rather accurate though. He has always been in good shape, but this is probably the best his chest and abs have ever looked—hitting the weight machines is a decent distraction when you can't be with the girl you like.

"You've seen me without a shirt before," he reminds Addison. The most recent times that come to mind are at the East Hampton house, when he would go swimming in Addison and Derek's pool, not solely for the recreational factor, but sometimes to escape his friends as they sat in Adirondack chairs and bickered. Or, Mark distanced himself because they weren't bickering, which was often worse, because it was like the entire property was swathed in passive-aggressiveness and resentment.

Addison's expression becomes tender. "I know, but…I've only ever gotten to look. It's different this time."

"It's different this time," Mark agrees. He lays a hand on her flat belly. He can feel Addison breathe out, relaxing under his touch; he can see the expansion of her ribcage as she stops trying to purposely suck in, as if there is anything to suck in in the first place. Her body is amazing. Mark moves his hand again to toy with the end of her blouse. "Can I…?" He asks.

"Yeah." Addison sits up, and she laughs as he helps her out of her sleeves—the process winds up being unintentionally clumsy. Mark is pleased to hear her notes of amusement though. Fooling around is supposed to be fun, and sometimes it should include laughter. Addison probably has not had enough of that in recent years.

He helps her down onto the rug again. He inches a bra strap over, kissing the flattened skin beneath it, but he leaves her bra where it is for now. Mark will get there, he will, but he is perfectly happy making out with Addison and cupping her lace-covered breasts for a bit, wanting to be patient with her, wanting her to feel comfortable.

Addison becomes less patient though. Her shoulders roll back and she pushes out her chest; Mark uses the opportunity to reach behind her and unclasp her bra. He flings it somewhere beyond her head, and she keeps her arms flat, allowing Mark to take her in like this.

He grins. She's still beautiful. She's still perfect. He shares some admiring words with her, ones that make Addison blush, and then he gives her another kiss, tangling his tongue with hers as his hands graze over her breasts. Hundreds of women have come to him with this size, or around this size, wanting bigger, wanting more. He loves Addison's how they are though, how they feel against his palms. He hopes she never wants to change anything about herself.

He drops a kiss on the bottom of her chin, and then lowers his head to capture rose petal-pink flesh between his lips. Addison gasps at the new sensation. She has a hand on his skull, fingertips brushing at the shorter, thinner hairs at the base of Mark's neck as he lavishes her with attention. He takes his time with the process, and makes sure that her mouth and neck get more recognition, too. She deserves to be worshiped. She deserves nothing less than everything.

Addison's voice is barely audible when she acknowledges, "This feels so nice…"

"Good." He swirls his tongue around her nipple one more time. "You deserve to feel good. And…I'm glad you're here." He needs Addison to know this. He still can't believe this is happening. She is here and she is topless and she is so fucking hot. "I'm really glad you came—"

"I haven't yet, actually." This makes Mark laugh. It's so unexpected. So not Addison's brand of humor. "I figured you'd like that one," she says, looking proud of herself.

"I did. I was going to say 'came over,' but thank you for interrupting me." One of his hands is ghosting along the top of her skirt, searching for a zipper. "That was great."

"It's on the right," Addison helpfully supplies, and Mark directs his concentration to her other hip. She arches, raising the lower half of her body as much as she can, obliging as Mark guides her skirt down her legs. He takes care of her tights next, being careful not to snag them, not to cause a run.

When he sees her black panties, and how wide Addison has parted her legs for him, he licks his lips, but he reminds himself to go slow. He wants this to last as long as possible—he has his reasons. And Addison seems fine with that, too. He expected her to be bossier, more demanding. She seems to be liking things the way they are though, happy to let Mark have the lead as she remains sprawled beneath him, limbs languid and docile.

Eventually he cannot wait any longer. His hand skates higher up her leg, proceeding with intent. She's wet. So incredibly wet for him that Mark groans against her mouth. He strokes his fingers over dampened lace, and Addison exhales a breathy oh that he can feel in his groin. There is still a barrier of material he hasn't breached, but it's thin, and he can tell that she is smooth beneath it. This vaguely surprises Mark; he assumed she'd be neat, and regularly engage in upkeep, but not be completely bare. He wonders if Addison went with a clean shave everywhere in anticipation of tonight. He wonders how long she has thought about coming over, about doing this, and what specifically made her decide that tonight was the night. Not that any of that matters, in a sense. She's here. That's what matters. He hooks a thumb under the band of her panties, and when he does, she fidgets.

"Mark…"

"It's okay," he murmurs close to her ear. "Let's get these off of you."

He is clutching Addison's outer thigh, urging her to lift her hips so he can divest her of this last article of clothing. He knows what he wants to do after. Roll those panties down her endless legs. Kiss his way back to her, slow and teasing. And then, finally, bury his face between her thighs. Stay there until she is gasping for breath.

"Wait…Mark…"

Oh. He retracts his hand then, wounded beyond measure. He was so, so sure Addison wanted this, that she wanted to go all the way. He can't manage to hide his disappointment when he looks at her.

"Sorry." His words sound broken. "I thought you—"

"No." Addison cuts him off. "No, it's not—I don't want to stop. The floor feels awful though. Even with the rug, I just feel like…like my spinal cord is going to break apart."

They are both quiet. He knows they are thinking the same thing: if it came to that, with Addison's spinal cord, they know the exact person with the skill-set to fix it.

"Maybe," she suggests, "we can go to your room?"

He wastes no time in helping her scramble to her feet. Addison's panties are bunched below her hips now, sitting too low. She breathes in, anxious, probably, and then shimmies out of them, leaving her naked in front of him. And it's a sight to behold.

"You still"—Mark touches his mouth to hers—"have nothing to be self-conscious about, if that's what you're thinking."

"I was thinking we're not even anymore, and that you should probably do something about that."

She has a point. And Mark is grateful for the opportunity; he is painfully hard now. He shoves down his pants, kicks them out of the way. And then his boxer briefs follow.

He clocks the moment Addison's eyes go wide.

"Wow."

She hastily looks back at his face. Or anywhere but below his waist, really. And then she starts to giggle.

"Sorry." Addison rests her forehead against his shoulder. She's nervous. And embarrassed. It's so—here's that ridiculous, unmanly word again—sweet. "I'm sorry. I'm being such an idiot," she shares. Mark circles an arm around her waist.

"No, you're not. You're just being good for my ego." It is clear, based on her reaction when he stripped for her, that it is not only nerves—that Addison is overwhelmed by his size, too.

His hand is on her lower spine, on the sumptuous basin where her figure dips in. And maybe this shouldn't be the case, because there are arguably more fun parts, but of all the parts of her that Mark has caressed so far, this might be his favorite.

"Addison…" he kisses the side of her head. "There's no going back. We can't uncross this line once we cross it." He noses at her temple to get her to look at him, and when she does, he kisses her again. Quickly though. Chastely. He needs her to talk to him.

It's not that Mark wants to discourage her. It's the opposite. He wants this. Badly. So fucking badly. They are standing close, but he is not quite touching her, which leaves him aching for more contact. Her hands, the wetness of her mouth, the warmth of her inner muscles, even just getting to rub himself against her stomach. Anything. Mark will take anything Addison is willing to give. Picturing her while he's jerking off doesn't in any way compare to this.

He mostly wants to be honest with her though.

"If you want to do this," he repeats, "there's no going back."

"I don't want to go back."

There is a strange formality to how they proceed down the hallway. Mark cannot say if he held out his hand first, or if she did. All he knows is that Addison's smaller hand is folded inside his.

He uses his available hand to flick on the light switch when they enter his room. The roller shades mounted at the top of the floor-to-ceiling windows are currently at half-mast, allowing a handful of squares of yellow from neighboring buildings to cast in. He tries to see his bedroom from Addison's perspective. Sleek, emotionless furniture, so much black. The headboard with the stark raised panels. Abstract wall art in muted, moody colors on gallery-wrapped canvases that mean absolutely nothing to him. Does anything mean anything? There is nothing personal in here. The few pictures Mark displays—some that include him, Derek, and Addison, but mostly him and Derek, though he doesn't want to dwell on that now—are on a tall bookcase in the living room. This room though? This is the room of someone who only lets a limited number of people get close to him, and lives alone, and at his core, always kind of figured he would.

"Sorry." Something has dawned on Mark as he observes the waiting sheets and the one pillow—the others are in a messy pile on the floor. Addison, who is still at his side, twists to look at him. "My comforter is in the washer," he explains, because for some reason, it feels important that she be made aware of this. He had been heading in the direction of his laundry closet to heave the comforter into the dryer when the intercom buzzed.

That feels like a lifetime ago.

Addison releases his hand. "We don't need it." She walks over to his bed, deliberately swaying her hips. Bolder now. Mark can't take his eyes off her. He watches as she gets settled in his bed. "You're going to join me, right?" She asks, making her already husky voice even huskier.

Is he ever. Mark has to fight the urge to stroke himself as he stares at her. He's ready, and the faintest touch between Addison's legs earlier confirmed that she is ready for him, too. He paces over to his nightstand, and opens the drawer, mumbling gimme a sec. Addison, who knows what he is doing, lies down and purposely looks away while Mark rips open the foil packet and rolls the condom down his hard length. This choice of hers does not surprise him.

Her gaze is resolute though when he joins her on the bed. "I don't want to go back," Addison says as he readies himself over her. Like she said before. It's just as stirring now.

She gasps when Mark pushes inside her. It turns him on. In his fantasies, ever since The Nutcracker, which was the first time he thought about what it would be like to have sex with Addison, this is always what happens when they begin.

He kisses the corner of her mouth. "Okay?"

"Yeah." Addison hoists her legs up, bringing her knees level with his waist. She sighs, blissful as she looks up at him. "Very okay."

Mark leaves a series of slow pecks on her lips. He is letting her get used to him, letting her adjust to the feeling of him inside her. Or not him specifically—it's not like what he's working with exceeds basic human anatomy. He's big, but he's still mortal. Plus, she's fine. Her muscles are accommodating him with ease. It is more about allowing Addison to get used to this. Someone interested in her. Someone who wants to spend time with her.

"I can't get over how beautiful you are." It sounds like a line. It's not though. There are so many things Mark can't say, but this is one that he can.

Addison looks teary-eyed at this admission. There is a quiver in her voice when she says, "Thank you for telling me that."

Her hands trail down from his shoulders to his back. She puts one on his ass, and then withdraws, perhaps rethinking it. She returns her hand moments later though, more comfortable now. But, it's the other hand that Mark is fixated on, even though he hums in pleasure when Addison gently squeezes his hard muscles. The left hand, near his shoulder blade, has his focus. He can feel the cool metal of Addison's rings against his bare skin. He held one of those rings once. Just her wedding band. And Derek's band. Addison's engagement ring was on her right finger as she walked down the aisle, and it remained there until after the ceremony. Mark can't remember why. A Bizzy-instructed etiquette thing, probably. He is thinking about this when Addison starts to wiggle beneath him.

"Mark…please…"

He thrusts slowly at first. Entirely for his own benefit. He wants to memorize everything. Her exact expressions. How she breathes in between long, tongue-wielding kisses. The pretty flush in her cheeks. The way some of her hair has fanned out against his pillowcase. How warm she is, everywhere. The smoothness of her inner thighs bracketing his hips. How she arches her neck when his mouth travels over her breasts, and the hollow of her throat. The noises she makes.

And then, when Addison starts to strain underneath him again, silently begging for additional pressure, he drives into her with force. The mattress rasps underneath them.

She is loud. It confirms Mark's once-upon-a-time suspicion that she was deliberately quiet when he slept across the hall from her, when he and Derek shared that rinky-dink apartment near Columbia and she slept over a lot.

"Yeah…yeah…" he mutters between each forward slide of his hips, on the border of incoherence as pulse after pulse of lust courses through him. Addison's hand gives him another affirming squeeze.

Or, the other thing is…Mark is better. That occurs to him, too. It makes his thoughts more alert, and as he grinds against Addison over and over again, and listens to her pant, he feels ashamed that he doesn't feel ashamed for considering that Derek's performance might not measure up to his. And it's not okay. This is not some faceless stranger. This is his best friend. And Mark is an awful person. A selfish person. An irresponsible person.

But then Addison turns her head, and her soft, welcoming lips are on his, and she means so damn much to him—everything else goes out the window. Mark is certain he could live for one-hundred more years and nothing would ever matter as much as she does.

Addison moans approvingly when he starts to fuck her harder. He's giving her better than she's ever had. He knows it now, without a doubt. And her moans have him moaning, too. Their rhythm is perfect. They fit so well together.

"Oh, my God. Mark. Oh, Mark…"

He goes for as long as he can. It's not centralized, it's not just the weight between his legs. He's feeling it everywhere. It's always good, but it has never felt this good. Ever. And it's all because of her. He wedges a hand between their heaving bodies, and rubs with fervor, coaxing out the most passionate, powerful noises he has heard from Addison yet. She cums hard, and for a generous length of time, shrieking as her muscles clench around him, and only then does Mark give himself permission to finish.

She looks exhausted, but sated, by the time he pulls out of her.

"I'll be right back, okay?" He has a hand around himself, gripping the base of the condom. He waits for a moment longer, savoring the staggered rise and fall of Addison's chest as she tries to catch her breath. Her body is flushed, and beaded with sweat.

"Okay. I'll, um…" her gaze transfers to the windows, away from him. "I'll probably use the bathroom after you."

"Sure. And I'll grab a blanket for us."

As Mark is leaving the primary bathroom, and then his bedroom, he spots Addison out of the corner of his eye, getting out of bed. Her legs seem wobbly, fawn-like. Good. He's done his job then. The usual cockiness isn't there though. Or, it is, but to a lesser degree. He's more just…content. He made her feel as wonderful as she should always get to feel.

He wanders into the room that doubles as his guest room and home office, but before he can haul the comforter off the bed, he has another idea: the Christmas blanket. He collects it off his desk, and then heads into the kitchen to get scissors to cut off its tight, store-tied bow. He almost laughs at the chaotic trail of clothing dotting his living room floor as he passes through.

You look great in my bed. Mark keeps this thought to himself when he sees Addison next. She is lying down again, one arm slung lazily across her stomach. The scraps of her hair that aren't hidden by the pillow behind her neck are messy, despite—Mark assumes—her attempts to finger-comb her hair in the bathroom mirror. And, as he makes his way over, blanket bundled in his arms, he realizes that she plucked one of the other pillows off the floor and placed it on the bed next to her. So, there's a pillow for each of them now. That has to be why Addison did it, right? He doesn't know what the next portion of their night holds; he hopes she wants to stay over though.

"This is your Christmas present," Mark announces. "I guess I'm giving it to you unwrapped." The blanket is for her. Not Derek. He hasn't even thought about what to get Derek yet—beer, probably, and then just act like the queen-sized blanket is for them both.

Mark shakes it out and then flips it up, letting it fall over Addison's body. It is like watching the winter elements come to life; the blanket is a deep, night sky blue, festooned with snowflakes.

"Oh." Her fingers glide over one of the snowflakes as Mark crawls into bed with her. "Oh, wow. Thank you, Mark. I love it." She rolls to her side and rearranges the blanket, holding it out so that he can join her underneath it. "Thank you. It's perfect. And so thoughtful."

Warmth washes through Mark when she kisses him, when this is how she chooses to express her gratitude. This is not the same thing as Addison kissing him because he's around and she wants to get laid. It's different. And it's astonishing.

So astonishing that he swipes an arm out to push the blanket off them, and then he works his way down her body. It's instinct at this point: the need to pleasure her, to please her. He glances back up though when her legs jerk beneath his questing lips, which have been occupied with scattering kisses along her inner thighs, heading closer to the area he is dying to taste.

"Sorry." He rubs his thumb over one of her hip bones. Maybe this isn't her thing. Outside of an understandable bashfulness, which felt reasonable given the circumstances, there haven't been any indicators so far, but maybe Connecticut-bred WASPs have weird foreplay hang-ups. "I don't have to, if you don't—"

"I want you to." Addison interrupts him. "It's okay. I want you to. It's just…" he can hear the faint snag in her voice. "It's just been such a long time. That's all."

It shouldn't be, Mark wants to tell her. He keeps his face neutral, not wanting to upset Addison, but her confession has made him livid. Derek should be camped down here. He should be doing this for you every fucking night. I would. I would never get tired of you.

"This is okay though?" He asks again, for superfluous reasons. He does not wait for a response though. Addison's legs are spread, beckoning him. He kisses her warm flesh.

"It's—oh." Whatever else she was going to say right then comes to an end when Mark's lips circle around her. And then he ramps up the pressure with the tip of his tongue, and she gasps, as he suspected she would. He knows what he's doing. He's never wanted to do it better than he does right now though.

"Oh, God," Addison says as he moves his tongue around. He slides down further, wanting to lick and taste her more thoroughly before he returns to where she needs stimulation the most. "Don't stop."

He doesn't. He feasts on her. Kissing, licking, sucking. She cums quickly, keening only seconds after Mark has crooked two fingers inside her. Quickly. And almost violently. Mark is not sure he's ever seen someone's thighs shake this hard before. He cups one of Addison's legs as her breathing starts to even out, noting how her muscles are still trembling under his grasp.

A long time, like Addison said. She probably couldn't have held out for a few more minutes even if she wanted to. It makes him sad though. It would take so little for Derek to make her feel good.

"That…that was amazing."

Mark can feel a growl bubbling in his throat as he tells her, "I'm not done yet."

She has barely recovered from her last orgasm, but he knows she can take more. He just knows. And Addison must know, too. She doesn't protest, and if she's too sensitive, she doesn't try to convey this to Mark. It is evident that she trusts him. With herself. With her body.

He goes slower this time. He scoops his hands under her, lifting her up, making her more available to him, and then just focuses where she needs attention, flicking his tongue. Gentle, even motions. The benefit is that concentrating more on one place allows Mark to keep his eyes on her. Addison has one hand on her breast, playing with her nipple, which is an awesome visual, and the other hand is fighting for purchase against the sheets. Mark directs one of his hands over to her so that she can hang onto it instead. Her grip tightens, fingernails carving half-moons into his palm when he takes her over the edge again.

"You're a machine…" Addison declares as he shuffles back up the bed. And he could say the same of her, considering how her body has responded to him each time.

The thing is, he has to be a machine. There will not be more than this, more than this December night. Addison will remember her vows, and she'll hate herself for breaking them, and she'll tell Mark—as delicately as she can, because it's her—that this can't happen again. So, he needs her to understand what she's going to be missing. There's no way that, even when Addison's marriage was at its strongest, that Derek was able to fuck her and eat her out as well as he can. It's not even close. And, less egotistically, Mark needs to enjoy this—cherish this time with her—as much as he can for himself, too.

He told Addison earlier that they can't come back from this. And that's true. There is no erasing that tonight has happened. But they will not be going forward, either. Mark is sure of it. Addison will never leave her husband. He wonders, because of all this, if he should feel like he is being used. Probably. He doesn't though.

Her eyelids have slid shut by the time he lies down next to her. Not sleeping. Just resting. And…basking in this. Mark takes Addison's cheeks between his hands, directs her face toward him. He breathes over her for a few moments, and then kisses her lightly. He pulls back and assesses her reaction, finding a pleased smile. In his experience, not all women have liked to feel his lips after what he just did, or to taste themselves on his tongue. Especially women who—quite frankly, like Addison this last time—came like a fucking levee broke.

She likes it though. Without opening her eyes, she lifts her face, eager for more of his touch. Mark kisses her deeply, reassuringly, but then moves around a bit, wanting to kiss other areas, too. Her jawline. Her long, elegant neck. Her ears. Her closed eyelids. Her forehead, which segues into kissing her all over her face. It becomes something of a game. As long as Addison can't see him, she can't guess where his next kiss will land. And she keeps making the sweetest little sighing noises. He swears he falls in love with each one.

"You're going to open your eyes eventually, right?" This makes her giggle. Mark kept his tone easy, carefree, but his chest feels heavy with the thought that when Addison opens her eyes, she will regret everything. "Hi," he says when she peers back at him, because he does not know what else to say.

"Hi. God, I needed that." Addison's eyes are hazy, lustful-shaded. Mark chuckles and kisses her again, cradles her breast in his palm. It is not lost on him that I needed that is different from I wanted that. But, didn't Addison say that she wanted this earlier? It is difficult to remember. He kisses her again. She moans against his mouth, and Mark feels the vibration everywhere.

"You're such a good kisser." Her voice sounds dreamy, affected. "Well, you're really good at everything." Addison laughs a little. "But…but, yeah."

"Back at you, Red."

She glances down when she feels him straining against her. It's all this contact with her body. And the taste of her lingering on his mouth. And that compliment, too. "Already?" She asks.

"Still young at heart, I guess." Mark releases a long, low sigh when she closes a hand around him. Her touch feels great. "But…it's you." He whispers in Addison's ear, "It's because of you. This is what you do to me." It sounds so seductive, and she whimpers appropriately, yearningly. And then Mark takes a deep, shudder-filled breath, and adds, bravely, and perhaps very God damn stupidly, "It's not just about sex though."

"I know."

He could lose it simply from hearing that, not from how her hand is still pumping up and down the length of him. This means something to Addison too, then. He is floored by how serious her expression is.

"Do I…" Addison's wrist goes still. "If we don't use a condom…"

Mark assumes she is on the pill, or has an IUD or something—something—but he understands the need for extra precaution. It's the smart thing to do. But that's not why she is asking. She probably only didn't ask earlier because she couldn't think straight once they started touching.

"I'm clean. And I always wear condoms." With all the others, he doesn't add. It has been a long time since Mark hasn't used one with a woman. He only forgoes protection for himself if it's one birth-control-using woman he's consistently sleeping with. And that hasn't been the case since Colette, the ballerina, which was well over a year ago. "You can trust me."

Addison bobs her head. "I know I can trust you."

She can, in this circumstance. She absolutely can—Mark, for all of his flaws and questionable choices, would never lie about this sort of thing. But he still wonders what it says about Addison—about them—that she does trust him so completely. It's as poignant as when she said I know earlier.

He is eager to climb on top of her, eager to fill her again, eager to feel nothing between them—that's why Addison wants this too, right? But, before Mark can do any of that, she nudges his chest with the heel of her hand, bringing his back flat against the mattress. She looks triumphant when she straddles him, trapping him between her legs. He grins up at her. He is more than ready. And, as Addison reaches a hand back and guides him inside her, so wet—more like still so wet at this point—and slick with need, it is obvious she is ready, too.

Or…maybe not. She is breathing sharply. Mark thumbs her cheek, worried. And confused.

"Ad…?"

"Yeah." He assumes that is supposed to mean "fine," or something. "Just. Fuck," Addison calls out. "You feel so good."

Mark smiles, amused. "I don't think that I've ever heard you say that word before."

Immediately though, he realizes this is not true. He has heard Addison say this before. The first time was when she accidentally cut herself, in the Hamptons. Her hands had been so soft then, when he took care of her. But they are softer now. And she had been vulnerable then, too. But even more vulnerable now.

"Well, this seems like the ideal time." Her breathing has quieted, but she seems to be unable to move. Mark can tell that she wants to, but it is like pleasure has rooted her where she is.

He plants his hands on her sides. "Let me help you."

It turns out Addison does not need help though, not once he pulls her toward him and away from him a few times, getting her going. After that, it's nothing short of a performance. And it's like Mark is in a trance. He is uncharacteristically still beneath her, satisfied with watching her, satisfied with letting Addison be in charge as she rides him. She rocks forward and backward, establishing the most delicious tempo. Her head is tossed upward. She has one hand skimming his thigh, and the other is fisted in her hair, closed around huge swaths of it while she arches her back for him. It's hot. It's so fucking hot. Mark tells her this. She briefly varies her approach, bouncing against him, legs stretching up and down, and that feels just as good and for damn sure looks just as hot, but then Addison returns to her previous rhythm. Mark's hands ascend to cup her breasts. She places hers on top of his, moaning.

She is so free right now. And so passionate. Her eyes have fallen shut again. Mark puts his hands back on her outer thighs as pressure begins to increase for them both. Addison is rocking more insistently now, and he digs his fingers into her flesh to get her attention.

"Look at you," he praises. "Where did my self-conscious girl go?"

Mark knows he should not say it like that. She is not his.

Maybe it's okay to pretend for tonight though. This is all he has.

"Not self-conscious." Addison is likely too far gone to give his specific wording much thought. She is lost in how this feels, and soon she'll be lost to Mark, too. "Not…not now…" her hand snakes down her stomach so that she can touch herself. "Oh…"

Not now for that. Now for something else though. Mark is reaching the finish line—definitely aided by watching Addison roll two fingers like that. He tugs her against him, wanting to be as close as possible. He uses all his strength to push upward, driving hard with his hips as he takes control. Addison's head is hanging over his shoulder, and she moans when her muscles seize in the most glorious way, causing him to unravel at the same time. Mark pants feverishly, and mutters her name as he empties himself inside her.

She collapses further against him, and he locks his arms around her, holding her through her own aftershocks. He wants her to stay like this, for a little longer. He whispers encouraging, though lascivious words as she continues to convulse.

He does get his wish though. Once Addison's body stops shaking, she sighs happily, and goes still in his embrace. Mark relaxes his grip, and traces patterns with his fingertips along her back while she lazes on top of him, spent. Her muscles relax more, and softness causes him to slip out of her, but they do not move. Her hands are both up, resting against his shoulders. It's so peaceful. So intimate. He ducks his chin to his chest so he can kiss her head.

"I couldn't wait anymore." This is the first thing Addison says. And then she grows tense in Mark's arms, even when he keeps rubbing her back, trying to soothe her. He recognizes that she must be terrified to say this. Physically, there is nothing between them. And now? There is really, really nothing between them. "I've wanted this for such a long time."

His heart rate speeds up. He wants to know for how long, when specifically she started to feel something for him—because it's clear now that she does—but he is too afraid to ask.

"Me too, Addison."

He can feel the scrape of her teeth against his chest when she smiles. Her body softens over his.

I've never felt like this with anyone before, Mark adds. But this time, only in his head.

Leave him. Be with me. I know it's complicated, but we'll figure it out. I think about you all the time. We could be happy together.

I love you.

"Do you want to sleep here tonight?" He asks next, which triggers a long pause from Addison. Maybe she was not planning to. "Or stay over but not sleep…" Mark elaborates, hoping to shield his vulnerability behind a joke. Albeit, a truthful joke. "We don't have to sleep." He smooths a palm over the rounded flesh below her waist. "I could go all night with you." He gives her a light, commendatory pat.

Addison starts to laugh. "I believe that." She raises her head, situates the point of her chin against the wall of Mark's chest as she studies him. She looks flattered. Impressed, too. "And…and yeah. I want to stay with you. Would you mind…is it okay if I rinse off? Just really fast?"

"Go for it. Take your time. And there's plenty of towels in there."

Mark could join her. He should join her. It's not like she expressly said she wanted to shower alone. And Addison soaking wet—Addison soaking wet post coital with steam floating all around her—is something worth getting a glimpse of.

But…he doesn't want to see her reach between her thighs and wipe away whatever is left of him.

She leaves the bathroom door cracked. It might be an invitation, but Mark only goes in there—very slowly and quietly, as to not disturb her—to set a shirt and a pair of sweatpants on the marble countertop. Addison will drown in the sweatpants, but that's okay. He rummages in one of the cabinet drawers until he locates an unopened toothbrush. He puts that, and the tube of toothpaste, on top of the clothes.

The sheets come next. Mark swaps out the sweat-drenched ones for a Christmas set he keeps in the storage closet, with a few extra linens. He actually—though he will not disclose this to Addison—has to take them out of their packaging, because he has never used them before. She got them for him for Christmas once—white sheets, with green and gray trees extending over the fabric. That was…Mark can't place the year. They were still in med school, he thinks.

He has just finished securing the clean sheets on his bed when Addison comes out of the bathroom, clothed in his shirt and sweatpants. With a jolt, he remembers that Derek has the same exact CBGB & OMFUG shirt that Addison has on. He and Derek bought them together several years ago. Surely, this has occurred to Addison as well, but Mark knows she will not say anything.

He watches as she blinks, adjusting to the change in light. Before Mark put the sheets on, he dimmed his bedroom light, and then, in direct conflict to this action, sent the roller shades all the way up.

"I usually sleep with the shades up," he explains. "But if it's too bright for you, I'll just—"

"No, it's fine." Addison gives him a smile, twirls a piece of hair between her fingers. "And I can understand why," she says. "You have a great view."

"I'm kinda liking the view I'm looking at right now a little better." It's such a stupid pickup line, but it works: she blushes, and plays with her hair some more, charmed by Mark's affection. He thinks the hair part is unintentional though. Probably just shyness.

"My Christmas sheets," Addison comments next. She comes over to the bed, and rests her palm against the fabric. "Well"—she corrects herself—"your sheets. You know what I mean."

"I do. But we can share them tonight. And you can take the side closer to the windows, if you want. For the view and all."

She seems uncertain, sweetly shy again, when she gets into bed with him. Mark is not either of those things though. He folds an arm over Addison's waist and pulls her toward him. He brings her back into contact with his front, and then maneuvers them a little more so that her luscious curves can be flush against his groin. Addison briefly rotates her hips, wordlessly informing him that it feels good to be this close. Wisps of hair are curling near her ear and temple that are still visible to him, Mark realizes—she probably got hit with some residual spray while she was lifting her hair off her neck during her shower. And she smells like him, too. She must have used his body wash. He wishes she could always wear this scent.

"Thanks for the PJs," Addison quietly says, speaking straight ahead. "And the toothbrush."

"You're welcome. You warm enough?" He probably should have gotten her a long-sleeved shirt, or at least brought in the guest room comforter, as the snowflake blanket is on the thinner side.

"Yeah." Her hand locates his under the blanket. She gives him a tender squeeze. "You're keeping me warm."

Mark grazes his lips to the space between her shoulder and neck. He can't help it. Holding her is as incredible as he imagined. There is a delicate pattern to Addison's breathing now. She is getting closer to falling asleep, probably.

"Hey, I never asked you…why Bora Bora?"

"Oh. I don't know. My travel agent recommended it. It seems nice. And the resort has good reviews." He can make out the curve of Addison's grin in the shadows after he has answered.

"You still use a travel agent?"

"Yeah. He's a nice guy. It's not his fault his line of work is slowly becoming obsolete." Mark hesitates, and then adds, "I'll have my phone on, and international minutes and stuff…if you wanted to call me on Christmas."

"I just…I hate that you're going to be so far away from me."

Mark wishes he could say, Come with me. We'll watch the sunset in our over-the-water villa. We'll go swimming. We'll take a boat ride over to Motu Tapu. It'll be too warm for it, but you can still wear the green dress, if you want. Or we'll just stay in bed the entire time—we can fuck all day and night. We can shower together. We can fall asleep like this, with my arms around you. Whatever you want to do. We'll be together and we'll be happy.

"It's only two weeks," he points out, not sure what else to say. "And I'm here right now."

"You're here right now," Addison repeats. "But…Mark. This can't ever happen again. I care about you so much"—her voice cracks hard, and he hugs her tighter, wishing there was a way to take away her pain and not make her life more complicated, or his by extension—"but I'm married. I'm married to Derek. And I'm sorry—I'm so sorry—but I can't leave him. So, this can only be tonight. Tomorrow morning, I have to go back home and go back to being a wife."

He thinks that Addison is selfish, and maybe even manipulative, for coming over—for sleeping with him while knowing full damn well she will not end her marriage. And for not taking his feelings into consideration. This is not lost on Mark. But…he loves her too much to get hung up on this. Because, the truth is, he would have rather had this than nothing at all.

"I know," he tells her.

"I wish things could be different." A tear is on Addison's cheek now, eerily shiny in the darkness. He kisses it away. "Like, you have no idea"—he does though—"how much I wish that."

"I know. Let's just…enjoy the time we have left then."

That's all Mark can say. It's what he expected. And he knows. He does know. But the thing he doesn't really know, is how to grieve for someone he hasn't even lost yet.