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Therapy is going great, if your idea of great is your husband slumping in the chair next to you, lying about how it's all over with her and he's fine with it, sneaking looks at your legs almost as frequently as he sighs with the dismay of a poor, put-upon man. At least he's looking, right, so you uncross them and cross them again, swinging one long leg back and forth, admiring your shoe, while he blithers on about whatever wrong you did to make him commit his one great sin.
Asshole. He thinks what he did wrong was fuck an intern, the magical, mystical Meredith "oh, won't she be as fine a doctor as her mother" Grey. Whatever. As far as you're concerned, Grey doesn't have it. She doesn't have it and she doesn't have him, not even after she crawled on the ground and begged. Pick me, choose me, love me. Yeah, he told you, or, rather, he told your therapist in front of you while you choked back your smirk because, really, laughing at her patheticness might have sent him over the edge.
No, that wasn't his transgression. What he did wrong was make it public. You were more than willing to stand your ground as "That bitch, Addison, who screwed around on McDreamy" because, hey, there's some dignity in that. You did it wrong and you owned it, held your head up, and looked everyone right in the eye, dared them to come out and say anything. But him, he did it out of spite, not need, and he had the fucking nerve to fall in love. That you won't tolerate. So, here you are, sitting ramrod straight in your chair, trying to think about anything but how angry you are with him. You love him and that pisses you off, because even after he came back, you're not sure he loves you. At least not as much as he loves her.
You heard about it, of course, how he mooned after her, how her little intern friends led her by the arms away from him while she looked wistfully over her shoulder, a little girl staring at the puppy in the window, how Bailey warned him away from her. You heard about some of it from her and the memory of that makes you chuckle.
"Are you okay?"
They're both staring at you, your husband and your counselor, and you nod. "I'm fine. Just a tickle," you say, waving your fingers toward your throat. "Excuse me."
That satisfies them, and you cough gently, raising your hand to your mouth to cover your grin. Smirking, as you've already noted, is taboo. Yes, you were told about some of it by Meredith Grey herself while she was kissing you, but your husband is never going to know that, at least not until it becomes the sort of thing you have to tell him, like, say, if he drifts back in her direction or, maybe worse, starts thinking about other interns. Right now, it's enough that you have this, a secret to keep to yourself, knowledge of the flaw in perfect Meredith's armor.
* * *
It wasn't revenge. You didn't intend for it to happen. You're not a stone bitch, just a bitch, and, hell, sometimes a girl needs girl-talk, and who better to understand the man who done you wrong than the other girl he done wrong? Her knowledge would be intimate, one might say. And now, so is yours.
You didn't do anything cheap like get her drunk and take advantage of her, that's not your style. All you did was say to her, casually, in the hallway, "This is getting tired."
Those wide doe eyes made you want to slap her, but, when she blinked them at you, you could understand why men lapped it up.
"The staring, I mean," you said. "They stare at me, they stare at you, and how they whisper, but have you seen or heard anyone giving him shit?"
"N- no?"
N-no. She was like milk, this girl, wholesome, smooth and cold, but you've always been marble, harder and colder, and you left wholesome behind a long time ago. "He's not innocent here, not at all."
That got her. Her eyes flashed and you could tell she wanted to accuse you, call you a whore or worse, but, more than likely, words like that didn't pass her lips.
"Oh, I'm not innocent," you said, as you opened the clunky stairwell door and guided her through. "But neither is he, and nobody around here seems to realize that."
"It's like I'm wearing a scarlet letter!" she burst out.
"You are. Right... here." You moved your finger from the base of her throat to where her v-necked scrubs dipped low over the cotton t-shirt she wore underneath. "A for Adulteress."
"I'm not the one who was married!"
"No," you agreed. "That would be me."
Little Miss Meredith was breathing heavily and all of a sudden it occured to you that you were making her nervous. You traced out the A--breast to throat to breast, then the slash connecting both--and were surprised to see her nipples harden, poking through her shirt. When you looked up, she was flushed. That was the problem with those milk-girls, things made them blush. Bitches made of marble, like you, ditched blushing at the same time as wholesome.
"Did you ever think," you began to ask, hitching your finger in her neckline, "that maybe you'd feel better if you could get him back somehow? Because I would."
"Yeah," she said, her voice steadying as she spoke. "Yeah. I really would."
Meredith didn't flinch when you ran your fingernail across her breast and circled her nipple. She sucked in her breath, then leaned forward, pushing her breast into your hand. You cupped it, lifted it slightly, felt the curve of her on your fingers. She surprised you when she took hold of the hem of your shirt and tugged you into the corner, backing herself against the wall, pulling you along with her. Her breath smelled like mints and chocolate so you tasted her first, ran your tongue over her bottom lip, before you kissed her.
You pulled back and watched her as you slid your hands beneath both her shirts and circled her waist. She was skinny, not the carefully calculated and ultimately healthy slenderness you've always cultivated, but the skinniness of an intern who didn't have time to eat, never mind eat well. You stroked your fingers up and down her sides, grazing the bottoms of her breasts, then pulling away. Soon she was moaning into your mouth, making these soft, kitten-whispery sounds, mewling and whimpering for... more?
"More, Dr. Grey?"
"Oh my god, shut up."
You doubted she ever spoke to him like that, because if she had, he wouldn't have enjoyed it nearly as much as you did. "I'll take that as permission to go on."
She took her shirts off herself, and what the hell was that about, slid first the tunic, then the thin t-shirt over her head. Her bra was white cotton, very plain, and you found yourself looking for the tiny pink rosette at the front. Well, if you wanted sexy underwear you would have gone for the model, wouldn't you, and, anyway, the model hadn't fucked your husband. You countered with your salmon pink top, and raised with your Victoria's Secret, front-clasp, underwire, not even the tiniest bit padded, satin bra. Salmon, of course, to match your scrubs and complement your hair. Your panties had roses appliqued on them, but, as you liked a smooth line under your shirts, your bra did not. Meredith was probably wearing white cotton schoolgirl panties.
It was a little undressed for a stairway that you couldn't count on being deserted for too long, but, what the hell, if you were caught then people would have a reason to stare at him for a change, and that would be swell. Time, however, was of the essence, because getting caught by Bailey would be entirely different than being caught by Dr. Cocky Perv, and if your husband decided to take these stairs, well, he'd probably ask to join in and making him happy was not the goal here. He had been happy enough.
"What... what are you waiting for? Are we...?"
"We are."
Meredith tasted like lotion and rubbing alcohol, and it surprised you that she wasn't bitter across your tongue because you'd thought she would be. Her name was. You licked from her ear down her neck, felt the rough strap of her bra scrape under your tongue, then pushed it aside, over and off her shoulder. The other strap slid off as easily and when you tugged sharply down her breasts spilled into your hands. She shivered, delicate flower that Dr. Meredith Grey was, trembled when you scraped your nails over her nipples. You'd always wondered why he chose her and maybe now you knew, because this fragile damsel thing, with those occasional flashes of temper, was really working for you.
The need to know what sorts of sounds she would make if you licked her, dragged your tongue down her neck and chest, circled her nipples again and again, lapping like a cat at her milky skin, was too much, so you gave in and did just that. The sounds were different than her kissing noises, softer, sharper, and were cut off quickly. You chanced a look at her face and her eyes were half-closed, heavy-lidded and sleepy. She wasn't smiling, but she wasn't frowning either. You sucked her into your mouth, as much as you could, then slowly pulled back until you could tighten your teeth around her nipple. She hissed when you bit down, pumped her body up from the wall when you kept biting and tugging.
Her scrubs hung loosely around her bony hips and you slid your hand down the side of them, toying with her hip, wondering how long you had to delay this, and how much seduction she'd need, when she mumbled something and jerked her body sideways so your hand glided across her hip to the front. Bikini panties, low on her hips and cotton, thin elastic waistband and, yes, there was that rosette her bra was missing. You twisted it in your fingers, backs of your knuckles brushing over a tuft of soft hair. You'd thought she'd be well-groomed, but then you remember your own internship and how the time for waxings and manicures had fallen by the wayside. You have that time now, but she obviously didn't.
Her hips were still pumping when you stroked your hand down inside her panties, fingers searching for the top of her slit, then dipping inside. She was wet, which didn't surprise you, and she was saying, "yes," which did. You pulled back, slightly, avoided her clit, and continued down until you could push just the tip of your finger inside her. She squeaked--squeaked, how dainty and virginal--and that was enough for you. You slid your finger upward until you reached her clit again, and pushed gently against it. Squeak again.
Somewhere above you there were voices, male, loud, and laughing. A door closed and you both froze, unsure if it was safe to go on or even if it was too late and you were already caught. You have never believed in half measures, and you've been caught before, so you ignored it all and rubbed up and down her clit, one side, the other, the center, testing to see which she liked best and wishing, for some odd reason, that you had the time to watch her do this herself so you'd know for sure. It became a formula to you, up, down, left, right, center, lower, dip inside, back up and around.
You could have sworn you heard footsteps, and apparently so could she because her eyes went wide. Time, as they say, was a-wasting, and just as she parted her lips, maybe to ask you to stop, maybe to say a name that might have been yours, might have been his, you pinched her clit between two fingers and watched her come. While she stilled, you rested your hand on her lower belly, fingers toying with the ribbon rosette.
When her flush faded you could tell she wanted to say something, probably some sort of apology or "oh, god, I can't believe we did that" sorority girl bullshit, and, frankly, you didn't care to hear it. You grabbed the rosette and pulled it free from her panties, cupped it in the palm of your hand as you removed it from her scrubs. Meredith pulled on her shirts without a word and you nodded at her before she scampered up the stairs, probably to wash you off her as soon as she could.
* * *
"Are you sure you're okay?"
You cross your legs and nod at them both, your husband and your counselor, and it pleases you that they think you do things like this for them, to entice and excite them, when, really, you're rubbing your thighs together just as you're rubbing your fingers around that pink ribbon rosette in your pocket.
"Oh, I'm fine. Just fine. Go on, I'm listening."