A/N: Okay, so I couldn't do it. Even with my brain turned off, I couldn't do smut. Well, I tried to do the smut but … uh… More "plot" than smut, I think. LOL, if it's cringe-worthy, let me know! ;)

Oh, and how about we ignore that Lexie is allergic to eggs? =)

It's supposed to be one drink with Derek. Only one to celebrate making it 40 years (with surprisingly few sexual harassment claims), but one turns into seven because Derek and him never quite know when to end things. Then they're stumbling into a cab, slightly drunk and laughing over God-knows-what. Any other year he would have ended up at a strip club (courtesy of his best friend), shamelessly flirting with the exotic looking woman gyrating on his lap. Most likely, he would have gone home with said exotic looking woman and all in all, it would have been considered a pretty good night.

This year's different. This year he has Lexie.

The taxi rolls to stop and he climbs out, leaning on the door more heavily than usual. "Hey," Derek calls out from behind, "happy birthday, man."

A goofy grin takes over and, somewhere between stripping Lexie in his head and taking her on the kitchen counter, he manages to rumble a "thanks," letting the door close and the cab drive away. The elevator ride up has him bouncing on the balls of his feet, almost giddy with the need to see her. He all but slams the door shut once he gets inside.

"Mark? Is that you?"

He quietly snorts at the thought that she might actually think it's someone else. Not bothering to take off his jacket or his shoes (which he'll get hell for later), he makes his way to the kitchen. She's standing in front of the island in one of his button down shirts and a pair of his boxers, hair damp from the shower. Her cheeks are rosy and she's showing a full set of teeth when she looks over her shoulder at him. "Hey."

He closes the distance, hands cupping the back of her head, fingers delving into tangled hair, and slides his lips over hers. His tongue pokes into her mouth, slipping over her teeth, the roof of her mouth, along her tongue. There's a moan and it really doesn't matter from whom because all he can feel is the pressure of her tongue against his. Her nails scratching down his neck. The wet heat of her mouth. His hands move down, searching for skin and it doesn't take long to find the end of the shirt and manoeuvre his hands underneath it and up her torso.

With a tiny gasp, the warmth of her lips disappears. He chases after it, giving a small growl when she laughs and turns her head, his fingers along her sides gripping harder. "Are you drunk?" She narrows her eyes, but not in anger. It's playful, the tilt of her head and the raised eyebrows.

"No," he says bluntly, then proving himself a liar when his misjudges the angle between their lips and ends up kissing her nose. Her body shakes with silent laughter and he grins, happy to hear the sound (even if it is directed at him). "I meant to do that."

"Hmmm," she sounds appraisingly, then shakes her head, half laughing still. "I told Derek not to get you drunk." It clicks in the back of his mind that probably he should be offended Derek ran it by his girlfriend first before inviting him out. Mark Sloan is not a whipped man (in theory anyways). If the thought didn't make him smile (and if it were eight months ago), he would take offense. "Scotch tastes good on you," she murmurs against his lips and it's his turn to bark a laugh.

"I thought I was promised sex," he says, sounding petulant. His hands drop to the waistband of the boxers she's wearing, skirting along the hem and briefly resting on her ass before forced off as her own fingers unzip his jacket, pushing it off and letting it drop to the floor.

"What makes you say that?" Her breath is hot against his jaw, and her hands cool against his skin as she slides his shirt up and over his head (his hands promptly returning to their place after). There's a smart aleck retort about to come out but it's forgotten when his inebriated brain finally registers the big orange glob sitting on the counter behind her.

"Is that–" he starts, breaking off into a laugh. "Did you bake a cake?" If there is one thing he's learned since moving in with her two months ago, it's that Lexie Grey cannot bake to save her life.

"A little tact would be nice," she replies turning around while effectively elbowing him in the ribs. He lets out a tiny oompf.

He can't keep the smile off his face though. "It's…interesting." She elbows him again, but it doesn't faze him quite the way it should. "Why is it–"

"Because I like the colour."

"Ah. Well…" He searches for something to say. "Orange is sexy."

"Shut up." He can hear the roll of her eyes behind that sentence. "Here." She dips a slender finger into the bowl of icing until it's covered in the stuff, and then offers it up to him. Mark watches her as he smirks, leaning forward to take her entire finger in his mouth, curling his tongue to lick off the icing. It's sweet like candy, exactly something Lexie would like.

Her eyes widen slightly when he runs his tongue along the length of her finger, her breathing growing heavier. He makes sure to graze her finger with his teeth, giving a gentle nip at the end when she extracts her hand. "You like?" she asks breathlessly, at which he almost laughs at the Lexie-ness of the question.

Mark answers with a kiss instead, hard and insistent against her mouth and she's bends into him, moaning, hands gripping his belt buckle while his unbutton her shirt to reveal bare skin. He tastes himself on her, the scotch from before mixed in with the icing. It might not be a pleasant combination on its own, but on Lexie, it's intoxicating. With Lexie, everything is intoxicating.

She shifts closer, arms around his neck, and when she brushes the bulge in his pants, he bites her lip. Hard. She pulls back with a start and he smoothes his tongue over her lips in silent apology. "Bedroom," she mutters, placing an open-mouthed kiss along his jaw.

Mark shakes his head, "here is fine." She pulls him down with both hands on the back of his neck, and he breaks away just long enough to grab the bowl of icing off the counter.

"Mark," it's an eruption of giggles. "Are you sure?" She's lying on the cold tile, shirt open, boxers riding low on her hips.

He quirks an eyebrow, setting the bowl the floor within reach. "Sex on the kitchen floor?" he gathers a healthy one-finger serving of icing and smearing a wide circle around her bellybutton. "Somehow, I think I'll manage," he says dryly and any further comments she might have made are silenced the instant his tongue touches naked skin. Then she's inhaling sharply and moaning his name and grasping at his hair. He follows the path he made moments earlier, working his way around, licking and sucking the sugary mess.

"Fuck," she softly breathes and he can't help but smile at the sound, at the pleasure rolling off her. "This wasn't supposed to happen."

"No?" He runs his tongue in a circle one last time, still tasting a hint of candy. When he glances up, her eyes are closed and her lower lip in clenched tightly between her teeth. Then, he is being pulled by his hair to meet her face, and he can't resist not tasting her again so he drives his tongue in her mouth, more forcefully this time, but they're on the same page because he feels pressure at his hip and shoulders, and he is being turned. Down on his back on the cool tile with her straddling him.

"What are you doing?" he asks, half amused at her antics.

"It'll be more fun for you this way."

There's a hidden promise in her voice that he would have left it at except he particularly enjoys getting the last word in, and so, he twists his lips into a smirk and drops his voice just low enough to imply promises of his own. "There are many positions I could have fun in." She leans into his touch, eyes closed and mouth parted, when he kneads her breasts and pinches her nipples. It's on the cusp of painful, her nails digging into his chest and his erection straining in his jeans, and she rocks against him once. Twice. Stops before a third time and he groans in frustration, hands falling to her hips as he bucks up instead.

Lexie smiles lazily, hovering over him, hair cascading down. "This can't be good for my back," he murmurs softly, pushing her hair back behind one ear.

She laughs. "I warned you." He sends a prayer of thanks when he finally hears the sound of metal moving against metal and the tension in his pants loosens just a bit. Next are the echo of the button snap and the unwinding of the zipper.

He licks his lips, staring at the ceiling. "I'm an old man now, Grey." It's funnier in his head, and when he sneaks a peak at Lexie, she's staring at him. Like she sees him.

"No pity party tonight, Mark," she whispers. He swallows thickly and looks away, a strange lump in his throat because she always reads past his words.

"So is this old man going to get laid tonight?" he says half-jokingly, and thankfully, Lexie lets it go and follows his lead.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" she teases, pulling his pants and boxers down and he obliges by lifting his hips (shoes and socks also come off).

His erection springs free and she rakes a single nail up his shaft, leaving him to shudder at the antagonizing sensation. A warm hand replaces the nail and he jerks at the unexpected touch, fingers clawing at anything to get a grip and that's when he remembers for the third time since they've moved into the apartment why they don't have sex on the kitchen floor more often.

It's tiled.

Her hand continues to work up and down, stroking languidly as he gasps, "This is torture." His eyes squeeze, one hand fisting on his forehead and the other manages to find the edge of the island (the only thing within reach) to mould around. "Lexie," he growls.

Her breath sweeps across the head of his cock, and he moans at the warmth spreading from his groin to his head. The laughter is evident in her voice when she speaks. "Oh, shut up and enjoy it."

Even with his eyes closed, he knows what's coming next. Isn't the least bit surprised when one hand holds him securely at the base or the cool partial liquid that's dropped on the tip of him. Prying his eyes open, he watches her drop more icing down him. Lexie looks up then, eyes shining brightly enough to make his heart flutter in his chest. She doesn't break eye contact as she goes down on him, taking him in her mouth as much as she can.

He breathes out a Shit at her pursed lips and hollowed out cheeks creating a blissful kind of friction. She lets go for a moment, and he inhales sharply at the loss but it doesn't last for long, creating a trail of icing along the side of his shaft.

She begins to lick. The pink flesh of her tongue strokes his penis leisurely, treating it like a lollipop and the sight of it has him threading his fingers through her hair to hold on to sanity. "Oh god…" he mumbles. "Jesus, don't stop. Lexie." It's an incoherent mess of words, and he's left gaping to draw in sufficient amounts of oxygen. When he is icing free, it's more icing and more licking. His shaft, his head, his balls. Nothing goes untouched, and it's all really too much.

"Fuck," he hisses, eyes rolling back in his head and he is trying to not arch his back, to not hold her head firmly in place while he thrusts into her mouth. The tightening in his balls heightens, and he can feel himself about to tumble over the edge. Her hands move to massage his sac with one hand, rubbing the skin with her fingers and thumb and her tongue is still moving, up, down, all around his rigid cock with her teeth skimming along his shaft and the pleasure from it all so overwhelming, he wants to crawl out of his skin.

The pressure builds as she sucks him, sliding all the way up before letting him go with a plop, then swallowing him whole. Repeating. His toes curl and fingers flex in her hair, and breathing becomes a struggle. "Don't stop." It's hoarse. Ragged. On the verge of begging. "I'm…" he pants, "keep going."

He's close. So close. She squeezes a hand around his shaft this time as she goes up, and he inhales sharply, ready to let go and—


His eyes pop open the instant her lips and hand disappear. "The fuck?" he starts, his brain not quite functioning yet. She's scrambling to get up (the bowl of icing kicked over in the process)."What – where are you going?" Disbelief rocks through. This does not happen to him.

"The hospital–" her face is flushed, strands of hair sticking to her and she's out of breath too. "My pager–"


"No," he growls, getting up to pull her back down but she's already half way to the table in the living room. "Lexie."

"I'm sorry – It's a 911 for Mrs. Jorgsen. She's been seizing all day and – Cristina will kill me if I don't – I'm so sorry, Mark." Her face is apologetic and her tone more so, and if he were a better man (and a less selfish boyfriend) he'd sacrifice sexual gratification to keep his girlfriend in good standing with her boss.

But he's not, so he doesn't.

He follows her into the bedroom. "Yang will get over it, I'm her Attending. I'm your Attending – You can't just leave after what you started!" The aching in his balls intensifies, needing some sort of release. "Stay." The plea goes unheard as she shimmies into a pair of jeans and an old sweater, putting her hair in a messy ponytail. "Lexie–"

Zipping her boots, she grabs her car keys and jacket and heads to the front door, Mark trailing after her. "Mark, I can't not–"

"Stay," he pulls her in for a hungry kiss, nipping at her mouth.

She pulls back. Shakes her head. "I'll make it up to you, I promise." Standing on her toes, she tries to kiss him except he's feeling particularly cheated (it is his birthday) so turns his head away at the last moment, and she gets a mouthful of his beard instead. "Mark…" she pleads, and he knows she doesn't want to leave it like this.

"Go," he sighs in defeat and leans down to peck her on the lips. Giving one last apologetic look, she opens the door and steps out. He walks back to the kitchen and eyes the overturned bowl of icing lying forgotten on the floor. Then eyes himself (still at full attention).

He lets out a heavy breath, and picks up his clothes off the tiles.


It's almost three in the morning when the tumbling of the locks jerk him awake. He's sitting on the couch in a pair of sweats, feet propped up on the table with the TV open to some random channel. There's muffled shuffling, then light footsteps that get louder until Lexie's standing next to him.

"Hey," she says quietly. Collapsing on the spot beside him, she takes his hand in hers and since he quite likes the contact, he doesn't bother removing it. "Mrs. Jorgsen is doing okay." When he doesn't respond, however, she nudges him.

"What," he grunts.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her tilt her head. "You're not still mad, are you?"

"No." It would be believable if he didn't sound like a five-year old to his own ears. "I'm fine." That one is even worse.

She laughs softly, and it does nothing to help his mood. "Oh, come on. You don't find it the least bit funny?"

He scowls. "You do?"

He can see her shoulders shake in the glow of the television. "No?" He makes to get up, but she tugs him back by their joined hands, placing her legs over his thighs to keep him in place. "I'm sorry."

"That loses all meaning when you're grinning like a hyena," Mark informs her flatly, not at all amused. He's not mad, not really. But there's something to be said about kicking a wounded dog when it's down.

She settles a hand on his cheek, turning him to face her and leans into him, rubbing her lips over his lightly. He doesn't move, staring at her from down his nose until she bites his lip, prompting him into action.

He pulls her fully so she's straddling him once again that night, liking the feel of her in his lap. Then he kisses her. Soft. Taking her bottom lip in between his and just resting there. "I'm not mad," he mumbles after a few minutes.

"I know," she nods, "but I am sorry."

"So am I," he answers ruefully, and she chuckles.

"It's not all bad. There's the cake."

He looks over her shoulder at the coffee table, where he had moved the thing after she left, a fork protruding from the centre. "I was waiting for you," he says in way of an explanation, and she smiles. She stretches to grab the plate, never moving from her place even when only balancing it in one hand precariously. Extracting the fork, Lexie breaks off a small piece and offers it to him.

"Good?" she asks after he swallows a bite.


"Yeah?" She takes a bite and instantly grimaces. "Mark, this is terrible."

"No," he says softly, lips curving up, "it's good."

"I think I just ate an eggshell."

"I like eggshells," he says in all seriousness. He doesn't tell her that the last time anyone loved him enough to bake a cake (let alone buy one) was Derek's mom for his 11th birthday. And he certainly doesn't tell her that that one also consisted of eggshells since he had insisted he help make it and dropped in the shells along with the yolk. "It's good," he repeats.

She laughs again. "You're delusional." The plate is set on the cushion beside them and soon forgotten.

He sweeps his hands along her arms, up her shoulders and neck, and cups her head in his palms. Her smile widens to the point where he likes to think she might be more than just somewhat satisfied to be with him. "I love you." The words come easier now than they did three months ago, and it doesn't sound so foreign or wrong coming from his lips anymore.

She still blushes, like the first time he whispered it in her ear after a particularly difficult but successful surgery. "I know," she breathes, tipping forward and his heart stops for a moment like it did that first time. "I love you too," she mumbles against his lips, and his heart starts again (again, much like that first time).

He closes his eyes and feels her smile on his lips, her thumbs swiping his temples, fingers sifting through his hair. He grins when her mouth comes to rest somewhere on the side of his head, her voice pleasant and soothing in his ear.

"Happy birthday, Mark."

Good? Bad? Half-decent? Thoughts appreciated =) And chapter 4 of BSS is in the works =)