Owen comes home from work, drained and tired. He settles down on the couch, exhausted. He picks up the remote and turns on the TV, searching for a game. Any sport, just something to watch. He notes that Cristina's laptop is sitting open on the coffee table next to a tall glass of water with ice - she must be elsewhere in their apartment.
Sure enough, she comes out of the bedroom, and sits down on the other couch without a word. She picks up her laptop and ignores him.
He restrains a sigh - once again, he refused to play favourites and didn't give her an appendectomy. He'd given it to Meredith, the other resident on the case. She had stormed off, and then he'd been called into two emergency surgeries with no chance to find her. Clearly, she was still mad.
He's found a classic football game. He settles back to watch.
Sure, she was mad at him earlier. Then she got called to scrub in with Derek on an interesting case, and now she was all relaxed, ready for a night in with Owen. She'd showered and gotten a little dressed up, hoping for something steamy after a long day. But she can see he is still Grouchy McGrumpersons, so she decides to continue her research. Let him talk when he's ready to.
She lifts up her hair, runs her fingers through it, then lets it drop down again. He raises an eyebrow as the scent from her perfume reaches him. Cristina doesn't wear perfume on a casual basis.
She's up to something, he thinks.
He reaches down and pulls off his socks, then props his feet up on the coffee table. He was on his feet all day, going from case to case in the Pit. He's not feeling up to any games.
They sit without a word - Cristina working on her laptop, Owen just relaxing.
Cristina was always very vocal about what she did and didn't like about men. Except for one detail.
She loves feet. Manly, masculine feet. You can tell a lot about a man from his feet.
And Owen has the sexiest feet. Long, and well-toned. A runner's feet. He keeps his nails trimmed and clean, no yucky toe jam with him. When they're rolling around naked and he rubs his feet against her legs, she just wants to die from the sensation.
But she'll never tell him that. Some things she just doesn't like to say out loud.
His feet are aching. He rubs one against the other. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Cristina is watching his feet.
Ah - the feet. He stifles a grin. She thinks he doesn't know it, but she has a foot fetish. It's one of the many fascinating puzzles about her. He'll never talk to her about it – he likes that she has these mysterious little quirks, and talking about it would probably remove the enjoyment.
He sneaks a peek at her. She drives him crazy, in bad and good ways. The mess around their apartment – that's a bad way. Sitting there, pretending not to notice him but totally fascinated by his feet – that's a good way. No longer feeling tired, he decides to drive her a little crazy too.
He stands up and goes into the bathroom. He grabs a bottle of lotion and returns to the couch. Slowly, casually, he applies lotion to his left foot and starts massaging it in. She tries not to watch, but he knows that she is. Her cheeks are turning rosy.
The bastard. If he only knew how much she loved watching him do that.
She picks up her glass of ice water from the coffee table. Her lips coquetteishly sips water from the glass, capturing a cube, and she languidly sucks it into her mouth.
Owen realizes he's staring at her scarlet lips. He turns his attention to his right foot, stretching it out before applying lotion to it. His hands are in constant motion, with slow, long strokes. He looks up at her. She's mesmerized.
When she realizes he's caught her watching, she immediately turns her eyes back to the screen in front of her. Her right hand puts the glass back on the table. Her left hand reaches up and starts twirling her hair. She's known from that first kiss that he loves her hair. He can not resist the hair.
Not the hair. She likes his feet just as much as he likes her hair. Her delicate fingers capture ebony strands, and she has him captivated. He knows that such a girly gesture is being performed purely to push his buttons, and it's working. He has to adjust the position of his legs, it's working that well.
With a quick shake of his head, he looks away and considers his next move. She's crafty, and likes to win. He's just enjoying their little game.
He reaches down, grabs the hem of his sweater, and pulls it off, tossing it beside him. Leaving his tight t-shirt on, he settles back, putting his hands behind his head, and slowly flexes, trying to pretend he's still watching the TV. He stretches, deliberately arching his back. Using his peripheral vision, he knows that she's stopped playing with her hair and is watching him again. He smirks.
Her eyes narrow and she turns back to the screen. What to do, what to do. She'd like to rip that t-shirt off of him, but that would mean conceding. Cristina Yang does not concede.
She remembers what she had planned for a night in with him. With one smooth gesture, she stands up and walks into the kitchen area.
She busies herself getting something out of the fridge, deliberately blocking his view. He cranes his neck anyways, trying to anticipate her next move.
In a few minutes, she returns and places a bowl on the coffee table. It's filled with strawberries. She places a bottle of chocolate syrup next to it. She sits down and picks up a strawberry, coating it with chocolate. She slowly opens her mouth, sucking it in ever so lusciously. Some syrup dribbles down her chin.
His hand blindly reaches for the remote and turns the TV off. She looks at him and licks up the syrup with her pink tongue. Heated brown eyes meet fiery blue.
She smirks as he pounces. He pushes her down onto the couch, as their mouths collide and their limbs entangle. She tastes of sin and her hands grab at his shirt while he buries his hands in her dark hair. He grinds against her, filled with need. She responds by dropping one hand to his waistband, unbuttoning his jeans. He shoves her sweater up, revealing a red lacy bra. He unsnaps it in the front, exposing her perfect breasts to his mouth.
Cristina reaches out to the side – and grabs the syrup bottle. He groans in anticipation. Eyes sparkling, she carefully squeezes some chocolate onto a finger. Which she then uses to encircle a nipple. She sticks her finger in his mouth and he sucks it clean for her, before lapping up the syrup.
Clothes are quickly shed. They find themselves rolling the floor, naked and sticky. They bump against the coffee table, sending her glass of water onto the floor. Grinning, Owen rubs one of his feet against her legs. She shoves a strawberry in his mouth, then follows it with her tongue.
Cristina is positively wanton and he loves that about her. She rolls him over onto his back and drizzles syrup on his chest, before licking it up. Groaning, he lifts her up and rolls them again, so she's underneath him. He slides a hand between her legs, stroking her wetness, finding that sweet spot inside. She grins up at him, before arching up for another kiss, running her dirty fingers through his hair.
He's hovering over her, doing wonderful things with his hand – she likes his hands too - when a wicked grin transforms his face into pure sex. He grabs the bottle and moves lower.
She stuffs one of her own hands into her mouth, as he squeezes the bottle, decorating her navel with some swirls, letting the sauce drip farther down, where his hand is maintaining its slow, firm strokes.
He bestows a tender kiss on her stomach – before his tongue starts lazily licking up the syrup in circles, blazing a path downwards. She moans as his mouth finally finds her clit, sucking on it. She feels transcendent, as his mouth and his tongue and his fingers, work together. God, the tongue. Even better than his hands and feet.
Cristina starts pounding the floor with her fists, as she feels elevated to new heights by the sensations he's creating. Little sparks ignite along with her body, and he just keeps going, prolonging her pleasure as she writhes beneath him in ecstasy.
She is so beautiful when she comes. As she lies there, panting and dazed, Owen moves over her again. She smiles up at him, reaching up to brush a thumb against the chocolate in his beard.
He groans as he enters her – she feels like heaven, each time. She clutches his shoulders, drawing him close, rocking with him. Owen struggles to maintain control of his thrusts, she just feels so damn exquisite. He starts slowly, as she pulls her legs up, for maximum depth.
Taking it slow is too much torture. He begins increasing his pace, thrusting harder, knowing she likes that. She slips a slim hand in between. It doesn't take long for her to start to quiver around him, and with that, he loses what little control he had, bucking harder and harder into her, grunting and spasming, until he's completely spent.
She curls up against him as he slides off of her, tucking her head against him, using one of his arms as a pillow. Still a little shaky, he draws her closer. They lie there, blissed out, slowly coming down from their shared high. They exchange gentle kisses.
She starts to feel cold. Reluctantly, she sits up in search of clothes.
She snorts as she sits up. Owen pushes himself up – and looks at the mess in their living room. The strawberries are strewn all over, and some got squished while they rolled around. The floor is smeared with chocolate, and wet where her glass fell off the coffee table.
He takes a good look at her. Cristina's hair is wild and sticky, and she has dried chocolate on her perfect skin. He looks down at himself and laughs – he definitely did not come out that unscathed.
He extends a hand to her and pulls her up into his arms. He bends down to kiss her quickly – then scoops her up and heads for the bathroom. So they can drive each other crazy all over again.