Author's Note: Still don't own the show or characters.

Maxwell Sheffield was a man of logic. Of structure. Of restraint.

But all of that had gone straight out the window the moment Fran handed him that little black tube of lipstick and said that it was all she had planned to wear on their honeymoon.

He was ruined.

Now he was alone in his room, staring at that lipstick—her lipstick like a loaded weapon. His fingers twitched as he thought about it.

Before he slept, his mind usually swirled with thoughts about the scripts he reviewed, the investors he needed to call first thing in the morning, or all of the responsibilities he let take priority over his own desires but since she had given him that lipstick, she consumed his thoughts.

She was the only thing he thought about before falling asleep, the only thing he thought about while he was awake. She had seeped into the deepest corners of his mind - distracting him from work and life itself, everything except the moments he had with her. There hadn't been as many of those moments since the proposal incident. Probably part of making him suffer…just like the fact she wouldn't tell him what the fourth thing was… He thought to himself.

He grabbed the lipstick off of the bed stand, held it in his hands, memorized the color, and thought about what it would look like on her lips. The color was bold. Shameless. Everything Fran was. Then, he remembered what she had said about marking her territory with it…

If he couldn't even handle the lipstick, how could he ever handle knowing what his fourth request was?

Somewhere in his fantasy, he drifted off to sleep.

And then she was there.

The dream was soft at first—just candlelight flickering across silk sheets and moonlight peering in from the deck. They were on a cruise, a very expensive cruise, and they had the honeymoon suite. And there she was: Fran. Back to him. Hair pinned up messily, a few curls trailing down her neck.

She turned slowly.

She was wearing it. Only it.

The lipstick. That scandalous, impossible red. It made her lips look like a sin you couldn't say out loud.

"Well," She said, stepping toward him, voice sultry and low. "Thought I'd keep my end of the bargain."

Maxwell's mouth went dry. "Miss Fi-"

"We're married now. Remember?" She held up her hand, ring glistening in the moonlight, hips swaying as she joined him in bed.

He swallowed. He almost asked "When?" but she placed a manicured finger to his lips before he could like she could read his mind.

"Shh," She whispered. Then she replaced her finger with her own mouth, soft and slick with lipstick. The kiss was unreal—like velvet and fire at once. He could feel the imprint of her lips lingering, warm and red against his skin. The kiss wasn't like any other they had shared although those were quite passionate too—it was a claiming. It was Fran, unapologetically taking what he'd been too afraid to ask for while awake.

"You're dreaming, Maxie," Fran explained, tracing the line of his jaw with her fingertip, smudging the lipstick along his collar. She had never called him that in his life but boy did he like it.

She pulled back, admiring the soft smear of her lipstick on him, like a signature.

"Look at you," She whispered. "Marked. Mine."

He could barely speak. "God help me, I hope I never wake up."

And then she kissed him again—slow and searing, her body pressing against his. His hands were in her hair, then at her waist, then lower—he was drowning in her. "Mrs. Sheffield…" He breathed, pulling her back into him, kissing her like the fantasy was real and permanent and his to keep. Because in the dream, it was.

Her lipstick left perfect little red marks—on his collarbone, his throat, his chest—like evidence of a crime they both wanted to commit again and again. In the dream, time didn't move—it pulsed. Maxwell was tangled in sheets, the scent of Fran's perfume, a trail of smudged lipstick declarations down his skin.

"I'm so glad I didn't return that lipstick," He somehow said between kisses.

She smiled. "Return it? Oh, Max... I just wanted to see if you'd keep it. Want it. Crave it. Crave this."

Fran's mouth moved against his like she owned him—which, in this dreamscape, she did. She had already made that quite clear. Her lipstick stained his lips, his neck, his thoughts. He had no defense against her. And truth be told, he didn't want one.

He'd never seen her like this. Confident. Bare. Glowing under the warm candlelight with nothing but that siren-red lipstick and a smirk that told him she knew exactly what she was doing to him.

She straddled his lap, their breaths syncing like they'd been rehearsing this scene forever. His gripped her hard, even surprising himself, and then quickly loosened his grip as though touching her too eagerly might break the spell. Her hands slid up his chest, nails grazing his shirt.

"You always try to play the gentleman. But you've got such a naughty little imagination," She teased, as she kissed his body.

His voice was rough when he managed to speak. "Fran, if you keep doing that—"

"You'll what?" She purred. Suddenly the lipstick was in her hands, like it had teleported into the situation. Of course, it had. After all, this was a dream. She popped the lid off with her mouth a little too seductively and then drew a swooping heart with it across his bare chest. "Wake up?"

He didn't want to. Not ever again.

He roughly flipped her over so he was in the dominant position. Then, he crashed their mouths together again, urgent now. There was no audience here, no staff, no children barging in. No rules. Maxwell lowered her back against the pillows, every part of her inviting, open, his.

"Tell me you've thought about this," He demanded, trailing kisses down her neck.

"I've dreamed about this," She breathed. "But I never thought you'd be brave enough to dream about it too. You don't have to imagine anymore though, Maxie. I'm right here."

He met her eyes—soft, unguarded now. Not just a seductress. Fran. The woman who lit up his life, who made chaos feel like home.

At that moment, it wasn't just fantasy. It was a confession. A surrender - just like the name of the lipstick. "Oh, Fran…" He moaned.

He was tired of pretending. He was about to tell her how much he wanted her—loved her—but the words caught in his throat.

Her fingers curled into his hair, her smile softening. "Don't say it here, Max. Say it when you wake up." Once again reading his mind, something she had no access to in the real world or at least he liked to think that she didn't.

He kissed her again—long, deep, desperate—trying to memorize everything: the warmth of her skin, the scent of her perfume, the way her breath caught when he touched her just right.

But he suddenly heard a clank and the world around them began to fade, her figure slipping away like steam.

He sat up in bed with a sharp breath, heart pounding, chest heaving, his arousal more than noticeable beneath the covers.

And there stood Fran, in real life, with a very real look of complete shock.