Why the fuck not
The Geography of Absolute Possession
The zipper on the back of the vintage emerald silk gown was a precision instrument of psychological torture.
It began at the swell of Izzie Stevens’s tailbone, snaked upward over the arch of her lower back, skimmed past the hollow of her spine, and terminated precisely at the nape of her neck. The silk was liquid, heavy, and dyed the exact shade of deep forest moss after a downpour. It possessed a cowl neckline that draped scandalously low over her décolletage, long sleeves that clung to her toned arms, and a slit on the left side that climbed to the upper curve of her thigh, revealing an expanse of creamy, bare skin framed by four-inch black satin Christian Louboutin stilettos.
Izzie stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling gilded mirror in the master bedroom of the Queen Anne Victorian, fastening an antique art-deco diamond earring into her left lobe. Her golden hair was gathered into a sleek, glamorous chignon with a few soft, face-framing tendrils curled to perfection. Her lips were coated in a deep, glossy berry stain, and her eyes were lined in sharp, smoky bronze.
Beside the jewelry box, reflecting the soft glow of the crystal sconces, sat the five-point-two-carat Harry Winston diamond. She picked it up, slipping the heavy platinum band onto her fourth finger with a quiet, steady reverence that still caused a pleasant, electric shock to zap her solar plexus.
"If you stare at your reflection any longer, Mrs. Sloan, I’m going to develop an inferiority complex," a deep, rumbling baritone sounded from the doorway.
Izzie turned, her silk skirt whispering across the Persian wool rug.
Mark Sloan was leaning against the mahogany jamb, adjusting the silver cufflinks on his crisp, French-cuffed white tuxedo shirt. He wore a midnight-blue Tom Ford dinner jacket with black silk grosgrain lapels, cut so sharply to his frame it bordered on illegal. His trousers were tailored to perfection, his patent-leather dress shoes were buffed to a mirror shine, and his silver-flecked hair was styled with effortless, razor-sharp Manhattan polish.
He didn't just look like an elite surgeon; he looked like old money, raw charisma, and absolute, devastating physical authority.
His hazel eyes drifted from the top of her polished chignon, lingered over the exposed slope of her breasts, raked down the nip of her waist, followed the bare line of her leg through the high slit, and finally stopped at the red-lacquered soles of her shoes.
Mark stopped breathing. For three entire seconds, the only sound in the cavernous bedroom was the muted patter of Seattle rain against the high arched windows.
"Sloan," Izzie prompted, a slow, immensely pleased smirk touching her painted lips. "Close your mouth. You’re catching drafts."
Mark pushed off the doorframe, his strides slow, deliberate, and predatory. He didn't say a word until he was standing directly in her personal space, the heady scent of his sandalwood cologne, expensive bourbon, and cedar soap washing over her in a suffocating wave.
He reached out, his warm, calloused fingers curling around her hip, his thumb grazing the bare skin exposed by the slit.
"Term number four," Mark whispered, his voice dropping into a dark, rough rasp that vibrated against the base of her skull. "Weekly high-end date nights. Izzie in killer dresses."
"Do you approve, Dr. Sloan?" she asked, tilting her chin up, her blue eyes flashing with playful defiance.
"Approve?" Mark let out a low, gravelly groan, his other hand coming up to cup the back of her neck, his fingers tangling into the soft hairs escaping her updo. "I’m contemplating calling the restaurant, canceling the reservation, locking the bedroom door, and having you naked on this rug until Tuesday morning."
"You will do no such thing," Izzie laughed softly, though her breath hitched as his thumb smoothed over her collarbone. "I spent two hours on this hair. I suffered through twenty minutes of contouring. And we have a reservation at Canlis. You promised me oysters, vintage champagne, and a booth with a view of Lake Union."
"I did," Mark murmured, his lips brushing the sensitive skin beneath her ear, making her shudder against him. "Which is why I called a car service instead of driving the Mercedes."
Izzie pulled back slightly, her eyebrows knitting together in amused curiosity. "A car? Mark, you hate other people driving you. You spent forty-five minutes last week lecturing the Chief about the mechanical superiority of German engineering."
"I am not driving tonight, Isobel," Mark said, his eyes darkening with unapologetic, carnal certainty. "Because tonight, I intend to drink half a bottle of Krug, watch every man in that dining room contemplate suicide because you’re sitting with me, and then take you home without having to keep my hands on a steering wheel."
Izzie’s stomach did a violent, intoxicating somersault. She reached up, straightening the black silk bow tie at his throat, letting her manicured nails drag lightly across his starched collar.
"Well," she whispered, her dimples appearing, "in that case, husband... let's go make some enemies."
***
Canlis was the undisputed cathedral of Pacific Northwest fine dining—perched high above the eastern shore of Lake Union, wrapped in mid-century glass and warm cedar, glowing with piano music, flickering candlelight, and the quiet, crushing weight of generational wealth.
When Mark and Izzie walked through the entrance, the atmospheric shift was palpable.
The maitre d’—a man whose entire career was built upon icy, unflappable elegance—blinked twice, his spine straightening instinctively. Several conversations in the sunken dining room faltered. Heads turned. A prominent software mogul nearly dropped his fork into a plate of wagyu beef as Izzie glided past, the emerald silk clinging to the rhythmic sway of her hips, her hand tucked possessively into the crook of Mark’s arm.
Mark was practically humming with smug, lethal satisfaction. He didn't look at the other patrons; he kept his gaze fixed ahead, his chest puffed out, radiating the unmistakable swagger of a man who owned the room, the view, and the breathtaking woman on his arm.
They were seated in a secluded, semi-circular leather booth tucked against the floor-to-ceiling windows. Below them, Lake Union was a dark sheet of obsidian, sliced by the shimmering golden reflections of houseboats and city lights cutting through the mist.
"A bottle of Krug Clos d'Ambonnay," Mark instructed the sommelier without even looking at the leather-bound list. "And two dozen Kumamoto oysters to start. With the blood-orange mignonette."
The sommelier bowed with profound reverence and vanished into the shadows.
Izzie leaned across the crisp white linen tablecloth, resting her chin on her linked fingers, the five-carat diamond catching the amber glow of the small table lamp.
"You didn't ask if I wanted oysters," she pointed out, her eyes dancing with amusement.
"Oysters are an aphrodisiac, Stevens," Mark replied smoothly, leaning back against the leather with lazy elegance, resting one arm along the back of the booth. "I’m planning ahead. Efficiency in all things."
"You are shameless."
"I am an attending surgeon, an East Coast heir, and a deeply dedicated newlywed," he corrected, his hazel eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made the air between them feel suddenly thin. "I have no reason to be modest. Especially not when my wife looks like she was chiseled out of Swedish marble to ruin my life in the best possible way."
Izzie felt an involuntary, hot flush rise from her chest to her cheeks. Even after the on-call rooms, after the pantry, after the tender confessions by the hearth, the sheer force of Mark Sloan’s undivided attention still had the power to make her feel like a schoolgirl on her first date.
"You really don't care, do you?" she murmured softly, taking a sip of the ice water. "What Bailey says? What the hospital thinks? Derek barely looked at you during the surgical morbidity conference yesterday."
Mark scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. "Derek is brooding because his trailer doesn't have central heating and his love life is an unresolved Greek tragedy. Bailey will get over it once I hand her three consecutive reconstructive cases. And as for the rest of them?" He leaned forward, reaching across the linen to capture her left hand, his thumb tracing the platinum band. "I spent my whole life worrying about who was looking at me, Isobel. Wondering if I was good enough, rich enough, handsome enough to make up for being a stray. Right now? Sitting across from you? I have never cared less about the rest of the world."
Izzie’s throat tightened with a sudden, overwhelming surge of affection. She squeezed his fingers, her heart overflowing.
"You're a good husband, Mark," she said, her voice genuine, stripped of all teasing.
"I’m an exceptional husband," he countered, flashing that brilliant, cocky grin. "And I haven't even given you dessert yet."
The champagne arrived in a heavy silver ice bucket, poured into crystal flutes with a hiss of effervescence, followed immediately by a silver platter of Kumamotos nestled on crushed ice with delicate lemon wedges.
For the next hour, the world narrowed down to the taste of cold brine, crisp bubbles, and the effortless, sparkling rhythm of their conversation. They argued over pediatric burn protocols, debated whether their Queen Anne garden had enough sunlight for heirloom tomatoes in the spring, and laughed until Izzie had to dab her eyes with her linen napkin as Mark recounted an absurd story about a Park Avenue socialite who tried to sue him because her facelift made her look "too approachable."
It was perfect. It was the exact romantic, glamorous, domestic fantasy Izzie had dreamed about while scrubbing toilets in a Chehalis trailer park.
And then the perfume arrived.
It was not a subtle scent. It was heavy, French, suffocatingly expensive—jasmine layered over patchouli and amber.
"Mark? Mark Sloan? Good God, it *is* you."
The voice was clipped, aristocratic, and dripped with that specific, lazy drawl that only came from private Swiss boarding schools and trust funds that dated back to the American Revolution.
Mark’s hand, which had been resting casually near Izzie’s champagne flute, went utterly still.
Izzie turned her head.
Standing at the edge of their booth was a woman who looked like she had stepped directly off a yacht in Saint-Tropez. She was tall, rail-thin, and striking, with a sleek, raven-black bob that grazed her sharp jawline. She wore an ivory tuxedo dress that barely covered her backside, a diamond tennis necklace that could have purchased a surgical wing, and carried a crystal tumbler of gin.
Her dark eyes were fixed entirely on Mark, gleaming with heavy, predatory familiarity.
"Victoria," Mark said, his voice entirely devoid of the warmth it had held two seconds prior. He didn't stand up. He didn't smile. His hand slipped off the table and settled firmly onto Izzie’s thigh beneath the linen. "Small world."
"Too small, darling," Victoria purred, stepping closer, completely ignoring Izzie as if she were a piece of restaurant upholstery. "I heard you took a post out here in the wilderness, but I couldn't believe it. Seattle, Mark? Truly? What happened to Manhattan? What happened to the Hamptons?"
"I like the rain," Mark said flatly.
Victoria let out a throaty, theatrical laugh, taking a sip of her drink. "The rain? Since when do you care about the weather? You used to complain if the humidity in Aspen ruined your hair." She tilted her head, her gaze finally sliding over to Izzie with the slow, dissecting appraisal of a woman checking a horse's teeth at an auction. "And who is this sweet little thing? Did you bring a souvenir from the local clinic?"
Izzie felt the blood in her veins drop to absolute zero.
A red-hot, blinding spike of pure, unadulterated territorial adrenaline detonated directly in the center of her chest. Her spine snapped straight, her chin lifting with the terrifying, icy grace of a woman who had fought her way out of poverty with her bare hands and a scalpel.
"I am Dr. Isobel Stevens-Sloan," Izzie said, her voice clear, bell-like, and carrying the lethal authority of an executioner reading a warrant. "I am his wife."
Victoria blinked, momentarily taken aback, before an amused, patronizing smirk curled her dark red lips.
"Wife?" Victoria laughed, looking back at Mark. "Mark Sloan with a wife? Oh, darling, please. You don't marry. You rent. You borrow. You certainly don't buy."
"We are legally wed, Victoria," Mark stated, his voice dropping into that dangerous, granite baritone. "And you’re interrupting our dinner."
"Oh, don't be so dramatic, Mark," Victoria dismissed, waving her manicured hand. She leaned in closer over the booth, her low-cut dress gaping open, her eyes locked onto Mark with brazen, insulting intimacy. "I remember what you're like when you're bored. Remember that weekend in St. Barts? Three days in the villa without either of us putting on a single stitch of clothing? You practically broke the headboard, darling."
Mark’s jaw clenched so hard a cord jumped in his neck. "Victoria, walk away."
Victoria didn't walk away. Instead, she leaned down further, her dark eyes cutting sideways to Izzie with a wicked, dismissive glint.
"She’s very pretty, Mark. Adorable, really. Very wholesome. Very... provincial." Victoria offered Izzie a thin, venomous smile. "Don't look so terrified, sweetheart. I know how Mark works. A man with an appetite like his doesn't survive on home-cooked porridge for long. I'm in town for the contemporary art gala at the convention center until Friday. If you get tired of playing house... or if you need a little help keeping him entertained... I don't mind sharing. A little ménage never hurt anyone, darling. I’m very generous."
The entire dining room of Canlis seemed to vanish into a deafening, ringing silence.
Izzie Stevens did not cry. She did not shrink back into the leather cushions. She did not look to Mark for permission.
The domestic goddess, the girl who baked blueberry muffins and folded hospital corners, completely, violently died. In her place rose the fierce, ruthless survivor who had grown up in a trailer park surrounded by women who settled disputes with broken beer bottles, combined with a surgical resident who cut through human tissue for a living.
Izzie stood up.
The movement was so sudden, so fluid, that the crystal glasses on the table rattled.
Standing at her full height in four-inch Louboutins, with her emerald silk gown hugging every lethal curve of her body and her blonde hair gleaming under the chandelier, Izzie towered over the socialite by a full three inches.
She stepped out of the booth, closing the distance between them until she was inches from Victoria’s face.
The socialite’s patronizing smirk faltered, her dark eyes widening slightly at the sheer, suffocating heat radiating from Izzie’s frame.
"Listen to me, you pathetic, over-botoxed trust-fund leech," Izzie said.
Her voice wasn't a shout. It was a low, terrifying, venomous whisper that scraped across the air like a rusty blade.
"You think because you have a platinum card and an apartment in Manhattan, you can sashay over to my table and talk about my husband like he’s a timeshare in the Caribbean?" Izzie stepped half an inch closer, her blue eyes blazing with a feral, unhinged fury that made Victoria physically take a step back. "Mark Sloan does not belong to your little circle of bored, cocaine-snorting degenerates anymore. He is my husband. He wears my ring. He sleeps in my bed, he eats from my hands, and he unloads his soul into my body every single night."
Victoria’s mouth opened, her face draining of color. "I... I was only—"
"You mention St. Barts again," Izzie hissed, leaning down into the woman’s personal space, her manicured finger tapping hard against Victoria’s diamond necklace, "you look at him with those greedy, vacant eyes again, or you even *think* about breathing the same air as him in this city, and I will not hesitate to take you outside into that parking lot and personally perform a radical, un-anesthetized rhinoplasty on your aristocratic little nose. Do you understand me?"
Victoria clutched her gin glass against her chest, her breathing shallow, completely, thoroughly humiliated and utterly terrified.
"You're... you're psychotic," Victoria stammered.
"I am a surgical resident with anger issues and access to bone saws," Izzie whispered with a dazzling, psychotic smile. "Get the hell away from my table before I decide to use the oyster fork."
Victoria didn't say another word. She spun on her designer heels and practically fled through the dining room, her gin sloshing over the rim of her glass, disappearing toward the coat check like a kicked dog.
The silence around the booth was absolute.
Two tables away, an elderly couple sat frozen, their forks suspended in mid-air.
Izzie stood there for three seconds, her chest heaving beneath the emerald silk, her fists clenched, her knuckles white. The adrenaline was pounding in her ears like a heavy bass drum.
She turned slowly back to the booth.
Mark Sloan was sitting back against the leather cushions.
He was not embarrassed. He was not angry.
He was staring at her with an expression of pure, unadulterated, incandescent worship. His pupils were completely dilated, his hazel eyes burning with a wild, feral heat that looked borderline deranged. His jaw was slack, his chest rising and falling rapidly under his tuxedo jacket.
"Isobel," Mark choked out, his voice hoarse, scraping against his throat like gravel.
"We're leaving," Izzie commanded, her voice shaking with adrenaline.
She reached onto the table, picked up Mark’s full glass of Krug, downed the entire flute in three desperate gulps, and slammed the crystal back down onto the linen.
She pointed a trembling, manicured finger at him. "Get up, Sloan. Right now."
Mark didn't hesitate. He pulled a thick clip of hundred-dollar bills from his pocket, tossed three of them carelessly onto the table without counting, and rose to his feet in one fluid, massive motion.
He didn't bother offering her his arm.
He grabbed her hand, his fingers locking into hers with bruising, desperate strength, and pulled her toward the exit.
***
The rain outside Canlis was coming down in thick, freezing sheets, blurring the city lights into smears of amber and neon.
The valet was scrambling under the awning, but Izzie didn't wait. The moment a standard yellow city cab pulled up to the curb to drop off another couple, Izzie lunged forward, yanked the rear door open, and practically hauled Mark inside by the lapels of his tuxedo jacket.
"Hey, buddy, I gotta—" the cab driver started, turning around from the front seat. He was a middle-aged man wearing a stained Seattle Mariners baseball cap, chewing unenthusiastically on a toothpick.
Mark pulled two more hundred-dollar bills from his pocket and slapped them violently through the plastic partition slot into the front seat.
"Queen Anne Hill," Mark barked, his voice ragged with raw, explosive urgency. "Take the long way. Don't look in the mirror, don't ask questions, and don't stop the damn car."
The driver looked at the two hundred-dollar bills, looked back at Mark’s murderous expression, took the toothpick out of his mouth, and put the car in drive.
The heavy, rattling sedan surged into the wet Seattle traffic, tires hissing against the slick asphalt.
Inside the backseat, the air detonated.
Before the cab had even cleared the restaurant driveway, Izzie launched herself across the worn vinyl seat.
She didn't sit politely. She threw her right leg over Mark’s thighs, straddling his lap, the high slit of her emerald dress tearing another two inches up her hip with a sharp, violent *rip*. The heavy silk pooled around her waist, leaving her bare thighs and black lace panties completely exposed to the dim, flickering streetlights slicing through the rain-streaked windows.
She grabbed Mark by the hair with both hands, yanking his head back, and slammed her mouth down onto his.
It was not a kiss; it was a riot.
It was teeth, tongue, champagne, and pure, suffocating possession. Izzie bit his lower lip until she tasted the faint, metallic tang of blood, groaning into his mouth as his large hands seized her hips, digging his fingers brutally into the soft flesh of her rear, hauling her flush against his groin.
Beneath the tailored fabric of his trousers, Mark was already rock-hard—thick, rigid, and throbbing violently against her heat.
"You're mine," Izzie panted against his lips, breaking the kiss for a fraction of a second, her chest heaving, her eyes wild, dilated, and blazing with jealous fury. "Do you hear me, Sloan? You are *mine*!"
"Yours," Mark growled, his hands moving with frantic, destructive speed. He grabbed the front of her emerald gown, shoving the draped silk aside, exposing her heavy, pale breasts to the cold air of the cab. Her nipples were diamond-hard, peaking against the dim light. "God, Izzie... you were a monster in there. You were magnificent."
"She wanted to share you!" Izzie sobbed in rage, her hands flying down to his tuxedo trousers, popping the brass clasp, ripping the zipper down with ruthless impatience. "She thought she could have you! Nobody touches you! Nobody!"
"Nobody touches me," Mark agreed, his voice a low, guttural roar as he helped her shove his trousers and boxers down, freeing his thick, weeping shaft into the cramped space.
He didn't bother taking off his jacket. He didn't bother taking off his tie.
He reached between their bodies, hooked two fingers into the thin strap of her black lace panties, and violently ripped the fabric apart, tossing the shredded scrap of lace onto the floor mats beside his polished dress shoes.
He grabbed her by the hips, lifting her up off his lap.
Izzie was drenched. Scalding, slick moisture coated her inner thighs, dripping down to the leather of his trousers, completely consumed by the madness in her blood.
"Look at me," Izzie commanded, her hands bracing against his broad, suited shoulders, her nails digging through the wool of his Tom Ford jacket. "Say it, Mark. Say who owns you."
Mark looked up at her. In the flashing neon light of a passing billboard—green, violet, and gold—she looked like an avenging pagan goddess draped in torn silk, riding him into war.
"You own me, Isobel," Mark rasped, his hazel eyes dark, reverent, and completely surrendered. "Body and soul. Every damn inch. Take it."
Izzie dropped her hips.
She impaled herself on him in one single, brutal, devastating stroke.
A sharp, ragged scream tore from her throat, swallowed only by the sound of the cab’s tires splashing through standing water.
Mark’s head slammed back against the vinyl headrest, his hands gripping her bare waist so tightly that his knuckles cracked. He groaned—a deep, agonizing sound of pure, unadulterated ecstasy that rattled through his massive chest.
She was impossibly tight, scalding hot, clamping down around his thick shaft with an immediate, violent spasm that nearly brought him to his knees right there in the moving vehicle.
"Jesus Christ," Mark choked out, his hips jerking upward instinctively, driving deeper into her core. "Izzie—"
"Move," she demanded, her voice a desperate, breathless sob.
She didn't wait for him. She began to ride him with furious, uninhibited power, using the cramped ceiling of the cab to brace one hand while the other tangled into his hair.
Up and down. Relentless. Savage.
*Squeak. Thud. Squeak.*
The old suspension of the cab groaned beneath their violent, rhythmic collision.
The driver in the front seat glanced into the rearview mirror once. He saw the flash of pale, perfect blonde hair, the torn emerald silk bunched around her waist, the broad, muscular shoulders of a man in a tuxedo, and the unmistakable, violent rocking of two people completely lost to the world.
The driver slowly reached out, switched the cab’s radio to a classic rock station, cranked the volume knob to seven, and stared resolutely out the windshield at the rain on Interstate 5.
Neither Mark nor Izzie cared. The world outside the fogged-up, condensation-slick glass didn't exist. There were no attendings, no residents, no socialites, no hospital boards.
There was only the searing, incandescent friction of their bodies slammed together in the dark.
Mark’s hands moved from her waist to her breasts, kneading the soft, heavy flesh, rolling her hardened nipples between his calloused thumbs. Every time she slammed down onto his lap, he drove his hips upward to meet her, bottoming out against her cervix, filling her so completely that Izzie’s vision blurred with white light.
"You're killing me, wife," Mark rasped, his teeth baring in a feral grimace as he caught the cadence, his powerful thighs working beneath her, driving into her with rhythmic, punishing force. "You're taking everything I have."
"I want it all," Izzie cried out, her head tossing back, her chignon finally coming completely undone, sending a cascade of golden curls tumbling over her bare shoulders and Mark’s suited chest. "Don't you hold back! Give it to me, Mark! Give me our baby!"
The biological mandate—the raw, reckless promise they had made on a cocktail napkin—detonated between them like a grenade.
Mark lost every shred of human restraint.
He grabbed her hips, locking her down onto his pelvis, and began to buck up into her with savage, short, piston-like thrusts that lifted her entirely off the seat. The speed was terrifying. The wet, slapping sound of their skin colliding echoed over the muffled guitar solo on the radio.
Izzie was sobbing, clinging to him like a woman caught in a hurricane, her inner walls milking his shaft with violent, rhythmic contractions that signaled the edge of the abyss.
"Mark—Mark, please—right now—I’m breaking—"
"Come on my cock, Isobel," Mark commanded, his voice a ragged, guttural roar in her ear as his thumb slid down between their slamming bodies, finding her swollen, drenched clitoris and grinding hard. "Show me who you belong to!"
The universe shattered.
Izzie screamed into the dark, rain-soaked cab—a loud, piercing, uninhibited cry of pure, devastating release.
Her orgasm ripped through her with such volcanic violence that her entire body locked rigid, her vaginal muscles clamping down around him like an iron vise, pulling him into an agonizing, beautiful paralysis.
The sensation destroyed Mark’s final defenses.
His hazel eyes rolled back, his cords standing out like steel cables in his neck. He let out a low, animal roar that drowned out the car engine, drove upward with one last, monumental thrust that buried him to the very root, and erupted.
He emptied himself completely into her womb.
Wave after scalding, heavy wave of seed shot deep inside her, flooding her with an intensity that made his entire six-foot-two frame shudder violently against the vinyl seat. He held her slammed down against him, refusing to let an ounce of his release escape, his hips trembling, his breath tearing from his lungs in broken, jagged gasps.
The cab took a sharp turn onto Highland Drive, the yellow glow of Queen Anne streetlights washing over their tangled, sweat-slicked bodies.
Izzie collapsed forward, burying her face into the crook of Mark’s neck, her bare breasts pressed flush against the torn fabric of his shirt. Her fingers were still knotted tightly into the lapels of his tuxedo jacket, her breathing ragged, shallow, and trembling.
Mark’s arms wrapped around her back, pulling her down, holding her so tightly against his chest that she could feel the thunderous, frantic slamming of his heart against her ribs.
He didn't pull out. He kept her anchored to him, one large hand smoothing down the chaotic tangle of her blonde hair, pressing soft, lingering, reverent kisses to her temple, her cheek, and the corner of her swollen mouth.
"I’ve got you," Mark whispered, his voice thick, heavy with exhaustion and pure, incandescent adoration. "I’ve got you, baby. I'm right here."
Izzie let out a long, shaky exhale, her body still rippling with small, involuntary aftershocks.
The metallic click of the cab’s turn signal began to blink, ticking rhythmically in the quiet cabin.
The car slowed to a gentle stop beside the curb of the dark slate-blue Victorian. Outside, the hydrangeas swayed in the heavy rain, and the warm yellow lantern on the porch cast a welcoming, golden square of light across the front steps.
In the front seat, the driver clicked off the radio.
He shifted the cab into park, reached over, and slid the meter flag down.
"That'll be thirty-two fifty, folks," the driver said into the quiet air, his voice completely deadpan, not turning his head an inch toward the rearview mirror. "Or, considering the structural stress on my rear axle, you can call it even with the two hundred."
Mark let out a breathless, rumbling chuckle that vibrated right through Izzie’s chest.
He reached down with one hand, pulled his money clip from his pocket, peeled off another crisp hundred-dollar bill, and shoved it through the partition slot onto the front dashboard.
"Keep the change, my friend," Mark said smoothly, his voice still low and gravelly. "And consider having the shocks looked at tomorrow."
"Appreciate it, Doc," the driver muttered, pocketing the cash. "Have a good night."
Izzie lifted her head from Mark’s shoulder, a breathless, delirious laugh bubbling up in her throat. She looked down at herself—the ruined, torn emerald silk bunched at her waist, her bare legs draped over his lap, his tuxedo shirt unbuttoned to the navel, and his hair sticking up in every possible direction.
She looked up into Mark’s handsome, ruined face. His eyes were soft, bright with amusement, and burning with that immovable, unbreakable certainty that had become the foundation of her entire existence.
"Well," Izzie whispered, brushing a damp curl off his forehead with her manicured hand, the five-carat diamond flashing in the porch light. "Rule number three: unrestricted, mind-blowing physical relations."
"Contractually exceeded, Mrs. Sloan," Mark murmured, his hands gently framing her face, his thumbs wiping away the faint smudges of mascara beneath her blue eyes. "You completely lost your mind back there."
"She was going to touch you," Izzie pouted, her chin lifting with that lingering, adorable flicker of possessive pride. "I had to defend my territory."
Mark’s smile widened, breathtaking and devastatingly tender. He leaned up, pressing a deep, lingering kiss to her bruised lips.
"Isobel," he murmured against her mouth, his hand sliding down to rest flat over her stomach, where his warmth was still slowly settling deep inside her. "You don't ever have to defend anything. You’re the only woman who exists."
He shifted, opening the cab door into the cool night air. Without letting her feet touch the wet pavement, Mark gathered her up into his arms, carrying her against his chest as the rain misted over them.
Izzie wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face into his throat, laughing softly into the Seattle rain as her husband carried her up the porch steps and kicked open the front door of their home.