Why the fuck not
A Study in White Silk and Hawaiian Salt
The pounding inside Izzie Stevens’s cranium was timed to the exact rhythm of a jackhammer tearing through asphalt, but the sheer velocity of her adrenaline was far more dangerous than any hangover.
Standing in the opulent, marble-clad bathroom of Mark Sloan’s penthouse suite at the Archfield Hotel, Izzie smoothed down the skirt of her crisp, white crepe A-line mini dress. The hem brushed mid-thigh, showing off long, toned legs that ended in a pair of towering, patent-leather nude pumps. She slid a thick, white silky padded headband over her polished blonde curls, letting them cascade over her shoulders in loose, retro waves, and finally pulled on a pair of delicate, wrist-length white lace gloves.
She looked like a 1960s French pop starlet about to either star in a romantic comedy or commit a very chic felony.
"If this is a hallucination brought on by cheap reposado," Izzie whispered to her reflection, adjusting the vintage pearl drop earrings she’d managed to throw into her overnight duffel, "then I am at least an extremely fashionable ghost."
"Are you talking to the mirror, Stevens, or are you preparing your opening arguments for the jury?"
Mark was leaning against the bathroom doorframe, looking so criminally handsome that Izzie felt her left eyelid twitch. He was wearing a classic, tailored black suit that fit his broad shoulders and narrow waist with bespoke perfection, a crisp white dress shirt unbuttoned at the throat, and polished black Oxford shoes. His silver-flecked hair was expertly tousled, and his jaw held just enough morning scruff to make him look like a rogue billionaire attending his third court-ordered mediation.
"I am hyping myself up," Izzie said primly, smoothing the gloves over her slender fingers. "Because unlike you, I have an internal sense of consequence. We are about to commit legal fraud against our own better judgment."
"It’s not fraud if we sign our real names, Blondie," Mark said, pushing off the wood and stepping into the bathroom. The scent of sandalwood, expensive espresso, and cedar soap rolled off him in a dizzying wave. He paused, his hazel eyes roaming slowly down her silhouette—taking in the high neckline of the mini dress, the flare of the skirt, the scandalous expanse of bare legs, and the pristine lace gloves. His eyes darkened with raw, unabashed appreciation. "Christ, Stevens. You look... incredible. Like a pin-up bride."
Izzie felt an involuntary blush rise to her cheeks, though she lifted her chin with haughty defiance. "Of course I do. I am a woman of standards. You, on the other hand, look like you’re going to a high-end mafia funeral."
"I look like a man with five million dollars in diversified municipal bonds who is about to marry a knockout," he corrected smoothly. He pulled two cell phones from his pocket, tossing hers onto the marble vanity. "Time for the hardest cut of the day. Call the chief."
Izzie stared at her hospital pager and phone like they were unexploded ordnance. "What do I say? 'Good morning, Dr. Bailey, I won't be rounding on the post-op cholecystectomies today because Dr. Sloan and I are heading to City Hall to engage in a mutually agreed-upon social experiment'?"
"Tell her you have acute viral gastrointestinal distress," Mark offered, dialing his own phone. "Nobody asks follow-up questions about diarrhea."
"I am not telling Miranda Bailey I have explosive diarrhea on my wedding day!"
"Your call," Mark muttered, holding his phone to his ear. After two rings, his voice shifted into that deep, authoritative, effortlessly casual tone he used with hospital administration. "Richard. It’s Sloan... No, I’m fine. Listen, something personal has come up. Urgent family business... No, Derek doesn't know, don't ask him. I need my three weeks of accrued personal leave activated immediately... Effective today. Page Chang for plastics emergencies, he can handle the rhinoplasties... Yeah. Thanks, Chief. See you in three weeks."
He hung up, looking completely unbothered.
Izzie clenched her gloved fists, dialed Bailey's direct line, and immediately squeezed her eyes shut. "Dr. Bailey? Hi, it's Izzie... No, I'm not in the pit. I... I have a severe personal emergency... No, nobody died! It’s just... family. East Coast family stuff. Very urgent. I’m taking my accumulated vacation days... I know the schedule is tight, but I have the hours banked... Yes, ma'am. Thank you. I’m sorry. Goodbye!"
She slammed the flip phone shut and leaned against the counter, panting. "I'm going to hell. She's going to make me debride burn wounds until I’m seventy."
"She won't touch you," Mark said, taking her hand. His leather-clad fingers curled firmly around her lace gloves. "You’re off the clock. And you belong to plastics now."
"I am general surgery, Sloan. Don't push your luck."
"We'll see about that. Come on, wife. We have an appointment with King County."
***
The King County Courthouse was predictably gray, smelling of industrial floor wax and wet umbrellas, but Mark Sloan walked through the security metal detectors as though he held the deed to the building.
Before they had even reached the clerk's office, he had pulled a black velvet box from his suit pocket and stopped Izzie right in the middle of the vaulted marble corridor.
"Wait," he murmured. "Rule number one."
Izzie’s breath caught in her throat.
Mark opened the box. Resting on the black velvet was a diamond so shockingly enormous that it seemed almost comical. It was an exquisite, emerald-cut stone flanked by two tapered baguettes, mounted in heavy, gleaming platinum. It didn't just catch the fluorescent courthouse lights; it fractured them into blinding, prismatic daggers.
"Mark," Izzie gasped, her gloved fingers flying to her lips. Her eyes were wide, round saucers of pure shock. "That is... that is not a ring. That is an heirloom chandelier."
"Five point two carats," Mark said, a smug, self-satisfied grin curling his mouth. "Harry Winston courier arrived at the hotel while you were fighting with your eyelashes. You said you wanted everyone to know you were claimed. Nobody within fifty yards will have any doubt."
"I... I can't wear this! I’ll get mugged! Alex will try to pry the stone out to pay his medical school loans!"
"Karev comes near that hand, I’ll amputate his thumbs," Mark said evenly. He peeled back the lace glove on her left hand, exposing her pale, delicate fingers, and slid the cold, heavy platinum ring over her knuckle.
It fit like it had been carved specifically for her.
Izzie stared at it, her chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow bursts. The weight was substantial, grounding her suddenly in the sheer, terrifying reality of what was happening. She looked up into Mark’s hazel eyes. The smug arrogance was still there, but beneath it, burning with a strange, fierce heat, was an intense gravity that made her knees feel utterly hollow.
"Right," she squeaked, clearing her throat to keep her voice from trembling. "Well. You followed instructions. Good boy."
"I always follow surgical protocols, Blondie. Now, let’s go make this a felony."
The actual ceremony took six minutes.
The clerk, a woman named Janice who had clearly seen everything from shotgun weddings to divorce arbitrations, chewed spearmint gum with hypnotic rhythm as she recited the boilerplate Washington State civil marriage vows.
"Do you, Mark Everett Sloan, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
Mark looked at Izzie. The fluorescent light hit her blonde hair, illuminating the soft curve of her cheek and the nervous, defiant glint in her blue eyes. He didn't hesitate. "I do."
"And do you, Isobel Katherine Stevens, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
Izzie swallowed. She thought of the trailer park. She thought of Denny. She thought of Alex’s cowardly back as he walked away from her. She looked at Mark Sloan—this impossibly vain, brilliant, ridiculous man who had bought her a small planet and flown a private jet to Maui just because she said she wanted to feel adored.
"I do," she said, her voice clear and bell-like in the drab room.
"By the power vested in me by the State of Washington, I pronounce you husband and wife," Janice droned, stamping their paperwork with a heavy wooden thud. "You may kiss the bride."
Izzie barely had time to blink before Mark’s large, warm hands framed her jaw. He pulled her forward, tilting her face up, and brought his mouth down onto hers.
It wasn't a tentative, polite courthouse peck.
It was deep, possessive, and electric. His lips were firm, hot, and slightly parted, tasting of peppermint and dark coffee. His tongue brushed against hers with practiced, lazy confidence, sending a shockwave directly down Izzie’s spine that pooled between her thighs with shocking, liquid urgency. She gasped against his mouth, her lace-gloved fingers clutching his lapels to keep herself upright.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes were smoky and dilated.
"Rule five," Mark whispered against her lips, his breath warm and uneven. "The Sloan override is officially in effect."
Izzie blinked, dazed, her lips tingling. "We... we have a flight to catch."
"Good thing my car is waiting outside," he growled playfully, taking the stamped marriage certificate from the desk, grabbing her hand, and pulling her toward the exit.
***
Twenty-four hours later, the rain, the gray concrete of Seattle, and the suffocating pressure of Seattle Grace Hospital were six thousand miles behind them.
The private villa at the resort in Kapalua was suspended directly over the turquoise waters of the Pacific Ocean. The floor-to-ceiling glass doors were thrown wide open, allowing the warm, balmy Hawaiian breeze to billow through sheer linen curtains, carrying the scent of plumeria, salt water, and blooming hibiscus into the vaulted, teak-wood bedroom.
Izzie stepped out onto the private lanai, leaning her forearms against the railing.
She had shed the retro white mini dress hours ago. Now, she was wearing a silk ivory slip that clung to every curve of her waist and hips, ending just beneath her rear. The afternoon sun was warm against her bare shoulders, and the gentle, rhythmic lapping of the waves against the stilts below felt like an intoxicating sedative.
A glass of vintage champagne was gently pressed into her hand.
She turned to see Mark standing beside her, wearing nothing but a pair of unbuttoned linen trousers. His tanned chest was broad, cut with sharp abdominal lines, and dusted with dark hair that trailed down beneath the waistband. In the bright Hawaiian light, with the ocean reflecting in his eyes, he was an absolute, undeniable masterwork of male biology.
"Penny for them," Mark murmured, clinking his glass against hers.
"I’m waiting for the alarm to go off," Izzie admitted softly, taking a sip of the crisp, cold champagne. "I’m waiting for Meredith to bang on my bedroom door and tell me that we have forty minutes to get to pre-rounds, and that I fell asleep reading *Bailey & Love's Surgery*."
"No alarms, Mrs. Sloan," Mark said, the title rolling off his tongue with heavy, decadent pleasure. He stepped closer, crowding her against the railing. "No pagers. No attendings yelling about arterial lines. Just us."
"Mrs. Sloan," Izzie echoed, a small, breathless laugh escaping her. "It sounds ridiculous."
"It sounds expensive," Mark corrected, setting his glass down on the teak table. His hands reached out, resting on her hips, his fingers digging lightly into the silk of her slip. "And it looks spectacular on you."
Izzie’s breath hitched. The banter, the playful armor they had maintained through the courthouse, the airport, and the five-hour flight, suddenly melted away under the sheer gravity of his proximity.
"We signed a contract, Mark," she whispered, her heart beginning to thud against her ribs.
"We did," he agreed, stepping between her thighs, backing her until the backs of her legs met the edge of the large outdoor daybed. "Six terms for me. Five for you. Which one do you want to start with?"
Izzie looked up at him, her blue eyes flashing with that fierce, stubborn fire that made her so uniquely herself. "Active baby-making protocol. Term two."
A low, guttural sound rumbled in Mark’s throat.
He didn't wait. He caught her behind the neck, his fingers tangling in her golden hair, and pulled her into a kiss that shattered whatever remained of her composure. It was ravenous, desperate, and heavy with heat. His mouth moved over hers with devastating precision, parting her lips and claiming her with a hunger that made her whimpering surrender instantaneous.
Izzie’s hands found his shoulders, feeling the corded muscle and smooth, sun-warmed skin. She dug her manicured nails into his back, pulling him closer, arching her body into his hard frame.
Mark groaned against her lips, lifting her off her feet effortlessly and laying her back onto the white linen cushions of the daybed.
The silk slip didn't survive long. With smooth, impatient efficiency, Mark gathered the fabric in his hands and dragged it up over her head, tossing it aside like useless wrapping paper.
For a fraction of a second, he paused, braced over her on his forearms, looking down at her bare body bathed in the golden tropical sunlight. Her breasts were full, the pink peaks hardened from the breeze, her waist narrow, her skin pale, creamy, and flawless.
"Perfection," Mark growled, his voice thick with raw awe. "Absolute, undeniable perfection."
"Show me, Sloan," Izzie challenged, her voice trembling with need, her thighs parting naturally to welcome his weight. "You bragged at the bar. Prove you're not all talk."
"I don't talk in bed, Isobel," he whispered against her jaw. "I deliver."
And he did.
He kissed his way down the line of her throat, lingering over her collarbone, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin until she was writhing beneath him. When his mouth captured her nipple, sucking it into the hot cavern of his mouth while his thumb rolled the other, Izzie arched off the mattress with a sharp, ragged cry.
"Mark—"
"I’ve got you," he muttered, his hand tracing the curve of her ribs, down the flat plane of her belly, slipping between her thighs to find the drenched, pulsing heat waiting for him.
Izzie gasped, her hips jerking upward into his palm.
He was relentless. His long, surgical fingers were maddeningly skilled, finding her clitoris with unerring accuracy, stroking with a rhythm that had her toes curling and her hands clutching at the sheets. He slid two fingers deep inside her, testing her tightness, groaning at how slick and hot she was.
"You are so wet for me," Mark rasped against her stomach, his breath scalding her skin. "Look at me, Izzie."
Izzie forced her heavy, glazed eyes open to look at him.
He pushed his fingers deeper, his thumb circling her swollen core, and watched her face splinter into pure, unadulterated ecstasy. She cried out, her head tossing back against the pillows, her climax tearing through her with the force of a tidal wave. Her inner walls clamped down violently around his hand, milking him, pulling him in as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her nervous system.
Before she could even catch her breath, Mark was stripping out of his linen trousers.
He rose above her, thick, rigid, and impossibly heavy, his hazel eyes completely consumed by dark, predatory desire. He grabbed her thighs, hauling her hips to the very edge of the bed, spreading her wide to the ocean breeze and the afternoon sun.
"No barriers," he reminded her, his voice gravelly, vibrating through her very bones. "Just like you promised."
"No barriers," Izzie breathed, reaching down, her fingers wrapping around his hot, velvety hardness, guiding him to her entrance. "Do it, Mark."
With a single, slow, devastating thrust, Mark drove himself completely into her.
Izzie cried out, her nails sinking into the meat of his biceps. The sensation was overwhelming—stretching her, filling her to absolute capacity with a searing, intimate fullness she had never experienced before.
Mark went completely still, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles jumped beneath the skin. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, letting out a ragged, trembling curse.
"God, you’re tight," he groaned, his hips trembling as he fought for control. "Izzie... you feel like home."
The raw vulnerability in his voice pierced straight through her. She wrapped her long, bare legs around his waist, locking her ankles behind his back, pulling him deeper into her core.
"Move, Mark," she pleaded, kissing his neck, tasting the salt on his skin. "Please. Move."
He began to move.
It was not gentle, and it was not timid. It was a rhythmic, powerful, intoxicating cadence that set the daybed creaking against the wooden deck. Every stroke was deep, hitting a spot so profound that Izzie could only gasp, her cries carrying out over the open ocean.
He lifted her hips higher, angling his thrusts with ruthless, clinical accuracy that targeted every single nerve ending in her body. The friction was unbearable, glorious, and blinding.
"You're mine," Mark growled into her mouth, catching her lips in another bruising kiss. "You signed the paper, Stevens. You’re my wife."
"Yours," she sobbed into his mouth, lost completely in the storm. "I’m yours—"
The sensation coiled again, tighter and more ferocious than the first time. Izzie tightened her legs around him, matching his furious pace, arching her back until her chest was pressed flush against his. She felt the sudden, frantic shift in his rhythm—the way his breath became jagged, the way his hands gripped her hips like iron vises, bruising the skin.
"Come with me," Mark commanded, driving into her with three brutal, shallow thrusts. "Izzie, now!"
The dam broke.
Izzie screamed into the open Hawaiian air as another violent, shattering orgasm ripped through her, her body convulsing around his cock. The feeling of her tight, spasming walls was the final trigger; Mark threw his head back, let out a deep, animalistic roar, and emptied himself completely into her.
He drove in to the hilt, burying himself as deeply as humanly possible, his hips trembling with the force of his release as he flooded her womb, keeping the promise they had drunkenly scrawled on a paper napkin in Seattle.
They collapsed together onto the pillows, chests heaving, slick with sweat and the fine spray of ocean mist.
Mark didn't pull out. He rolled slightly onto his side, bringing her with him, tucking her head under his chin. One of his large hands rested possessively over her flat stomach, right over where his seed was currently pooling.
Izzie closed her eyes, exhausted, sated, and humming with an electric warmth that reached the tips of her toes.
"Well," Izzie whispered, her voice hoarse, her lips curving against his chest hair. "Term three: unrestricted, mind-blowing physical relations. I give it... an acceptable pass."
Mark let out a breathless, rumbling chuckle, kissing the top of her damp head. "Acceptable? Stevens, you screamed so loud the sea turtles filed a noise complaint."
"I was merely vocalizing my clinical evaluation."
"Shut up and let me hold you, wife," Mark murmured, his arm tightening around her. "We have ninety days of this. Pace yourself."
***
By the third afternoon of the honeymoon, Mark Sloan had developed a severe, chronic condition: lethal, territorial pride.
They were lounging by the resort's infinity pool, which overlooked a pristine crescent of white sand beach. The sun was brilliant, the water was a glittering sapphire, and Izzie Stevens was single-handedly causing multiple cases of cervical spine strain among the resort’s male clientele.
She was wearing a tiny, vintage-inspired gingham bikini in cherry red and white, oversized cat-eye sunglasses, and a wide-brimmed straw hat. Her skin had taken on a radiant, golden-honey glow, and her hair was tied back in a messy, playful knot. She was lying on a chaise lounge, one leg bent, sipping a frozen passionfruit margarita through a straw while reading a thick plastic surgery textbook Mark had brought in his carry-on.
Every single man who walked past—from the twenty-something surf instructors to the silver-haired venture capitalists—slowed down, their eyes glued to her endless legs, her toned stomach, and the heavy emerald-cut diamond flashing on her finger.
Mark, lounging on the adjacent chair in navy swim trunks and dark aviators, was thoroughly enjoying himself.
"Stop glaring at the pool boy," Izzie murmured without looking up from the chapter on flap reconstruction. "You’re going to give him an aneurysm, and then you’ll have to perform emergency neurosurgery with a cocktail stirrer."
"He’s been refilling our towels every fifteen minutes, Isobel," Mark said, his voice flat with warning. "We have eight towels. We don't need eight towels. He’s lingering."
"He’s being attentive. It’s a five-star resort."
"He’s looking at your ass," Mark retorted, reaching over and casually, possessively laying his large hand flat against the curve of her hip, his thumb stroking the bare skin just above the bikini string. "Which is my legal property for the next eighty-seven days."
Izzie lowered her sunglasses, peering over the tortoiseshell frames at him with an amused smirk. "Your property? Sloan, you are regressing into a caveman."
"I am an investor protecting a high-value asset," he corrected smoothly, taking a long sip of his dark rum punch. "Besides, you like it."
"I like the margarita," she teased, though her smile widened, revealing her deep dimples. "The caveman routine is pending review."
"Speaking of reviews," Mark said, setting his drink down on the small table between them. He reached into his canvas beach bag and pulled out a leather-bound notebook and a pen. "We need to address the data collection phase."
Izzie blinked. "The what?"
"One hundred questions," Mark announced, tapping the pen against the paper. "We are married. We are legally entangled, sharing a bed, and trying to create a zygote. Yet, I know shockingly little about your psychological profile beyond the fact that you bake when you’re manic and you have terrible taste in men."
Izzie scoffed, sitting up and crossing her legs. "Excuse me! My taste in men brought me directly to a billionaire plastic surgeon in Maui, so clearly my instincts are evolving."
"Flattery will get you everywhere," Mark said, flashing that devastating, white-toothed grin that made her stomach do flips. "Question number one: What is your absolute, non-negotiable favorite food? And don't say hospital cafeteria pudding."
"Artisanal sourdough bread with salted French butter," Izzie answered instantly, her eyes shining with dreamy enthusiasm. "Warm out of the oven. If I were on death row, that would be my last meal. Just a giant loaf of bread and butter."
Mark chuckled, jotting it down. "Noted. Cheap date, despite the Harry Winston."
"Hey! Good butter is expensive!" She snatched the pen from him. "My turn. Question two: Why plastic surgery? And don't give me the PR answer you give the board of directors. Why not trauma? Why not neuro?"
Mark’s playful demeanor shifted slightly. He took off his aviators, looking at the ocean waves crashing against the reef.
"Trauma is damage control," he said quietly, his voice dropping into that serious, brilliant register she rarely saw outside the OR. "You patch the bleeding, you pack the wound, you pass them off to ICU. In plastics... people come to me broken. Disfigured. Burned. War veterans, cancer survivors, kids born with cleft palates who can't smile without someone staring at them. I take tissue, skin, bone, and I rebuild them. I give them their dignity back. I make them look in the mirror and recognize themselves again. It’s not vanity, Stevens. It’s restoration."
Izzie stared at him, her heart softening with a sudden, overwhelming warmth that made her throat ache.
Underneath the womanizing rogue, underneath the tailored suits and trust-fund swagger, Mark Sloan possessed an artist’s soul and a healer’s heart.
"That was... surprisingly beautiful, Mark," she murmured softly.
"I have depth, Blondie. I told you, I’m a premium catch." He winked, breaking the gravity before it got too heavy. "Question three: What’s your biggest, most embarrassing irrational fear?"
Izzie groaned, covering her face with her hands. "No. I am not telling you. You’ll use it against me in the OR."
"Doctor-patient confidentiality. Husband-wife privilege. Spill."
"Elevators," she mumbled through her fingers.
Mark paused. "Elevators? You work in a six-story hospital!"
"I hate them!" Izzie cried, dropping her hands, her cheeks flushed pink. "Every time the doors close, I’m convinced the cables are going to snap, or that I’m going to be trapped inside with Alex Karev while he eats tuna fish from a can! It’s my literal nightmare!"
Mark threw his head back and laughed, a loud, booming sound that made several sunbathers turn to look at them. "You cut a left ventricular assist device wire with a pair of surgical scissors, but you’re terrified of an Otis elevator?"
"It’s different! An LVAD is a predictable machine! Elevators are floating metal death boxes!" She kicked his shin playfully with her bare foot. "Question four! Worst date you’ve ever been on."
"Easy," Mark said without missing a beat. "Heiress to a pharmaceutical fortune in Manhattan. Took her to Le Bernardin. Halfway through the tasting menu, she informed me that she communicated telepathically with her three Persian cats, and that 'Mr. Whiskers' did not approve of my aura."
Izzie doubled over, laughing so hard her margarita nearly spilled onto the sand. "No! Did you leave?"
"I faked a surgical emergency, paid the bill, climbed out the bathroom window into an alley behind West 51st Street, and ripped a four-thousand-dollar Brioni suit on a dumpster."
"You did not!"
"I swear on the Chief’s beard," Mark said solemnly, holding up his right hand.
Izzie wiped a tear of laughter from the corner of her eye, her chest aching from the joy of it.
They sat there for hours, the tropical sun slowly descending into a blaze of fiery orange and magenta over the ocean. They traded questions like poker chips—favorite childhood memories, worst surgical mistakes, the music they secretly listened to when no one was around (Izzie confessed to Shania Twain; Mark reluctantly admitted to 80s hair metal), and what they actually wanted their lives to look like in ten years.
With every question, with every shared laugh and clink of their glasses, the absurd, drunken foundation of their marriage began to calcify into something startlingly solid.
"Question ninety-nine," Mark said softly as the sky turned a deep, bruised indigo, the tiki torches along the beach flickering to life with small, dancing flames.
Izzie turned to him, her chin resting on her drawn-up knees. The ocean breeze was cool now, ruffling the hem of the sheer white sundress she had pulled over her bikini. "Lay it on me, Sloan."
Mark reached out, his warm, calloused fingers gently tucking a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear. His touch lingered, his thumb brushing over the soft curve of her jawline.
"Why did you say yes?" Mark asked, his hazel eyes dark, searching, completely stripped of arrogance. "At the bar. When I wrote it on the napkin. You could have walked away. You could have laughed in my face. Why did you sign your name?"
Izzie swallowed. The humor of the afternoon faded, replaced by the profound, quiet truth that had been haunting her since the moment she woke up in his bed.
"Because I was tired of being an option, Mark," she said, her voice barely louder than the rolling tide. "I was tired of waiting for people to decide if I was worth keeping. Alex, Denny... it always felt like I had to fight to prove that I was good enough, that I was worthy of being loved without being treated like a burden or a tragedy. And you... even when you were completely drunk and utterly absurd... you looked at me and said, 'Let's play for keeps.' You didn't hesitate. You didn't make me beg."
She looked down at the massive diamond on her finger, sparkling in the firelight of the tiki torches, then looked back up into his handsome, rugged face.
"I wanted someone who wasn't afraid to jump off the cliff with me," she whispered. "And you jumped."
Mark stared at her, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. For a long, silent moment, the world narrowed down to the sound of the Pacific and the steady, resonant beat of their shared breathing.
Slowly, deliberately, Mark leaned in.
He didn't take her with the wild, desperate hunger of the afternoon. He cupped her face in both hands, treating her with a reverent, breathtaking tenderness that made Izzie’s eyes sting with unexpected tears. His lips brushed hers—soft, lingering, sweet, and solemn.
"Question one hundred," Mark murmured against her lips, his breath mingling with hers in the warm island night.
"What is it?" she breathed, her hands resting over his wrists.
"Are you ready to go back to the bungalow and let me worship you until tomorrow morning?"
Izzie let out a soft, breathless laugh, her heart overflowing, wild and untamed and completely, gloriously unapologetic.
"Doctor's orders, Sloan," she smiled, pulling him down into another kiss. "Lead the way."