Finally - a long, long, long-overdue update to this story. Sincere apologies for making you wait so long but this has been an utter bear of a chapter to write; in terms of trying to keep the characters "in character" in a somewhat AU situation and also in terms of my first real foray into erotic fiction! As you can see, it has turned into a mammoth chapter in the process!
I've finally wrestled this into submission over the course of an all-night writing session and this is the result. I hope you enjoy.
Please review and give me your thoughts on this - I'm still unsure as to how I feel about this chapter, after struggling so to get it written, so any feedback gratefully received.
WARNING: This chapter deals graphically with a sexual situation. If you don't want to read that kind of stuff then STOP HERE! :)
Dealing – Chapter 3
She feels so warm, her body pressed against his, her tongue tasting him, her hand at the base of his skull pulling him down to her. She feels warm and soft and.. right. No matter how much he tells himself that this is wrong, that he doesn't want this, somehow it all feels right. He can't hold back a groan as she clings to him, caresses him, her hand moving boldly across his chest, her thumb brushing his nipple through the thin cloth of his t-shirt. He feels almost dizzy as the blood rushes in his veins. He can feel himself growing hard, knows she must feel it too, pressed against him as she is. He shudders.
He can't think clearly. He is lost in her, tangled in her, tasting her, feeling her. The heat in his veins has washed away fatigue, uncertainty and higher cognitive function. It's all he can do to process sensation – and she feels amazing.
Her slim body is leaned up against him, her thighs brushing his, her small, firm breasts pressed to his chest, one long slender arm curled around his neck, bending him forward, holding his lips to hers as she tastes him, stealing the very breath from his body. He can feel the solid wood of the door pressed against his spine, the pressure of his fingers wrapped in a death grip around the handle of his cane. Vicodin sings through his nervous system and for a few blessed moments he feels no pain – all he can feel is her; the warmth of her body, the soft touch of her lips against his.
He'd been powerless to resist as she'd reached up and captured his mouth, effectively achieving a long-held desire of many PPTH staff – shutting up Dr Gregory House. His lips had parted instinctively beneath hers, and he can only attribute it to muscle memory, or some kind of bizarre Pavlovian response; this is the third time they've kissed and he can only wonder at how she's managed to so thoroughly bypass his every defence, his body betraying his intellect at her merest touch. She slides her tongue past his lips, bites at his lower lip, and he can only groan. Their kiss is heated, hungry, months of tension and attraction distilled into this one moment.
His hand has moved of its own volition to the small of her back, holding her against him as she plunders his mouth. He drinks in the taste, the smell, the feel of her and a small part of his brain realises that he has wanted this, just this, for the longest time. His hand moves restlessly, caressing her through the soft fabric of her blouse, sliding down her spine and slipping under the hem to trail his fingers lightly across her bare skin. She lets out the smallest of moans, her hot breath passing from her lips to his, and the sound bypasses his brain and travels straight to his groin. He shudders, heat coursing through him, and suddenly it is he who is pushing the pace, not just responding to her kiss, but controlling the embrace, claiming her lips with his, tilting her head back to taste the skin at the side of her neck.
She arches against him, her hips pressing against his as she leans back, his hand splayed against the warm skin of her back, holding her tight to him as he kisses his way down her neck. Her breathing hitches as he nips gently at the base of her throat. Her skin is warm and soft under his lips, he can feel her pulse thundering under the skin. She tastes of rain and warmth and need. His hand slides along the silken skin of her back, his thumb brushing tantalisingly up her spine as he pulls her against him, catching her lower lip between his teeth, sliding his tongue along hers.
His doubts are forgotten, consumed in the fire of arousal, the flood of heat that her touch ignites in him. He wonders if he's ever wanted anything, anyone, this much. Her hands have slipped under his shirt, under his t-shirt, and her fingers are splayed across his shoulders, skin against skin, holding him to her.
It seems like they've been pressed up against the door for an eternity, stealing rapid breaths between long, heated kisses, when she suddenly straightens, her hands on his hips as she pushes her body away from him. Her lips linger on his for a long moment, and then she is gone, slipping from his grasp, leaving him suddenly cold.
It takes him a moment to catch his breath, to kick in his brain into gear. He's off-balance, out of his element, and he can't keep up with her. He starts to get annoyed with himself for letting her be the one in control.
She walks through his apartment as though she owns the place and disappears down the corridor towards his bedroom. By the time he's found his balance enough to catch up to her, she's standing in his room, hands on hips as she surveys her surroundings. He follows her gaze across the piles of books on the bedside cabinet, the clothes thrown haphazardly across a chair, the unmade bed, watching her try to fit the information into the puzzle that is Dr House. He feels like he's being psycho-analysed by virtue of his interior decoration decisions and it bugs him. He leans casually in the doorway, not bothering to hide the sharp note of sarcasm in his voice.
"See anything you like?"
She turns around with a tiny smile on her lips and faces him boldly, her eyes meeting his with that same spark of defiance that started this whole mess. "Maybe," she teases.
He's not used to this Cameron; this bold, flirtatious Cameron. It's something of a shock to him to realise that he'd thought he had her figured out, just like the rest of them - knew how she would react, knew what buttons to press and when – and that he'd gotten it wrong. Somewhere, somehow, he'd missed something… and now he didn't know what to expect from her. He hates feeling out of control and his instinct is to take back that control, to push some more buttons until he has her worked out.
He pushes off from the doorway, takes a step forward to loom over her, leaning heavily on his cane as he watches her face tilt back to look up at him. That little smile is still on her lips.
"So," he says casually, his tone deceptively light, "sleeping with the boss, huh? Interesting career choice. Hope you're not hoping to get a raise out of it or anything like that 'cause I'm not into favouritism.."
Her only response is that damned, irritating smile. If anything, it gets bigger. He's pushing the wrong buttons. He glares down at her in frustration, his heartbeat picking up a pace as he can't help noticing the pale, smooth skin of her neck as she tips her head back. Desire still smoulders under his irritation and the memory of the taste of that neck, the feel of the soft, smooth skin under his lips, shoots heat straight to his groin.
He scowls, annoyed at himself more than her. He tries to remind himself of all the many reasons why this is an incredibly bad idea.
"This is a.."
"A bad idea. So you keep saying," she interrupts him, the expression on her face suddenly serious. Her eyes meet his, as open and honest as ever, and in them he sees no pity, no unwanted sympathy, only desire. "For once in your life, House, just stop trying to analyse everything."
The heat in her gaze shocks him and the knowledge that she wants him just as much as he wants her sends a shiver down his spine and, for once in his life, he does as he's told, ignoring the bitter voice in his head that warns him how this is all going to end and bending his head to claim her lips.
Once House has made up his mind, he can be implacable and in this he is no different. His mouth is hot and demanding, parting her lips to steal her breath, tongues meeting and tasting. She meets him breath for breath, kiss for kiss, the thrumming of the blood in her veins pounding in her ears. She lets her eyes close, losing herself in sensation; the warm, firm touch of his lips on hers, the taste of him on her tongue, the faint rasp of stubble against her cheek. She's vaguely aware that his hand is twisting loosely in her hair, holding her to him as he tastes her. She realises belatedly that she's won the battle; House has reached a decision, his course of action decided. A thrill runs through her at the thought of what that means, desire pooling hot and low in her belly.
He leans into her, his weight resting unevenly between his cane and his good leg. She hangs on to his shoulders for balance, feeling her world tilting beneath her feet, and is aware of the shifting of muscles under his skin as he shifts his weight more onto the cane and takes a step forward, nudging her into a matching, instinctive step backwards. He is in control now and she the one off-balance as he nudges her back again. Step. And another lurching step. All the while his lips on hers, tasting and sucking and stealing the breath from her. Another step. She thinks she feels him grin against her lips as he takes one more step and suddenly her legs bump up against the edge of the mattress. He reaches around her, never breaking their kiss, to casually toss the cane onto the bed.
She lets him control the pace, her breath hitching against his lips as his hands slide up under her blouse, his fingertips brushing against her skin as he pushes the thin fabric up, baring her midriff to the cool air of the room. He breaks away from their kisses as he lifts the blouse up and over her head; operating on pure instinct, she lifts her arms wordlessly. He tosses the garment aside carelessly and his hands are roaming across the bare skin of her back as he pulls her to him, rejoining their lips hungrily. He is surprisingly gentle. There is heat and passion in his kisses, in the slow drag of his thumb across her sensitive skin, but there is also tenderness, a delicacy to his touch.
She lets her hands roam across his back, feeling the tension in muscles accustomed to the strain of supporting his bodyweight every day. She runs her hands down his spine, swallowing his hum of approval, and slips them under his t-shirt, feeling warm skin over taut muscles. He tastes of whiskey and Vicodin and everything that is forbidden and dangerous. It's intoxicating. She moans against his lips as his hand brushes gently against her breast, teasing her with a feather-like touch before returning to gently cup her in his palm, and leans into him as he drags a thumb across her nipple, pressing the delicate lace against her sensitised skin.
Her own hands roam across his chest, lifting the fabric of his t-shirt as she runs her fingers across muscle and skin. He tips his head back, breathing out a shaky sigh, as she slides her palm slowly across his nipple. She presses her mouth to the long column of his neck, tasting the warmth of his skin, feeling his pulse flutter beneath her lips. He pulls back from her and, in a single, impatient move, he pulls both t-shirt and shirt over his head, dropping them to the floor as he reaches for her.
He is glorious; slim but muscular, his jeans riding low on his hips. She clings to him as he captures her mouth once more, her hands roaming his back and chest even as he wraps his arms around her, trailing teasing fingers up and down her spine. His tongue slides against hers, tasting her, tormenting her. She is breathless when they finally pull apart. His eyes are hot, gleaming with desire as he takes in the sight of her and she wonders how she must look to him, her hair all mussed, lips swollen from his kisses, her small breasts, nipples tight with anticipation, yearning for his touch. There is something dangerous about the smile that curves his lips but she knows him too well and she can also see the tightness around his eyes, the signs of pain. Standing without the cane puts added strain on his leg, on the muscles in his back and pelvis. She takes the decision for him and gives him a wicked smile as she leans backwards, pulling him with her. She pulls him off-balance, forcing him to let go or fall with her and, at the last minute, he releases her, letting her fall backwards onto the bed, her hair splaying out around her face as she grins up at him. She picks up the cane and casually tosses it away, hearing it clatter noisily across the polished wooden floor.
He stands beside the bed and looks at her for a long, silent moment and she almost starts to feel self-conscious, sprawled on his bed in pants and a lacy bra, wanton and wicked. He tilts his head in that considering way of his and then he surprises her by turning away. She sits up, a frown creasing her face, but before she can speak he has limped to the light-switch beside the bed and the room is plunged into darkness. She feels the mattress dip slightly as he joins her on the bed, a two-stage movement and she can envision him using his hands to swing his damaged leg up onto the mattress. She is suddenly glad of the cover of darkness, grateful for the discretion it affords him. She couldn't care less about his leg, about his disability, but she knows equally that House will never believe that and she is willing to go along with whatever makes him more comfortable. She will take whatever he is willing to give her. She climbs to her knees and crawls across the bed to meet him, finding him by touch, by some unerring instinct that leads her straight to him.
Her eyes begin to adjust to the dark, the faintest hint of moonlight filtering into the room to shine on bare skin. He is sitting up on the bed, long legs stretched out in front of him and she notes vaguely that he has toed off his sneakers and socks, leaving his feet bare. She leans toward, kneeling on all fours beside him, to press her lips to his. He opens to her immediately and she slides her tongue along his, sucking his lower lip into her mouth, tasting him, teasing him. His hands come up to stroke along her flanks and she shivers at his touch.
With a hand on his shoulder she pushes him down onto the mattress and is mildly astonished when he simply complies, his lips never leaving hers as he pulls her down with him. He skims his hands up and down her sides as she leans over him, her hair brushing across his face as they kiss deeply, hotly. His fingers are nimble, gentle, as they slide up her back and deftly unfasten her bra. She pulls away from him, sitting back as she slides the straps from her arms and throws the discarded garment over her shoulder. His eyes are huge in the moonlight, his face serious as his gaze takes all of her in, lingering on the high, pert breasts exposed to his view. She leans into him slowly, watching his face, his reaction, as she offers herself to him. His first touch is almost hesitant, with anyone else she would have said shy, as he cups her breasts gently. She moans as his thumbs drag across her proud nipples and she can't help arching her back, pushing her flesh more firmly into his grip.
His arm slips around her back and he pulls her down to him, pressing her bare skin against his, the sparse hair on his chest brushing her nipples. His lips move as he claims her mouth for a kiss and she could have sworn her murmured her name. Their touches are urgent now, hands roaming across flesh and fabric, and she boldly runs her hand up his left leg, feeling the strength of muscles through denim, and across, cupping him in her palm. He bulges against the fabric of his jeans, hot and pulsing under her touch. She pulls a groan from him as she drags her palm across the evidence of his desire.
They're wearing far too many clothes.
She fumbles with the zipper on his jeans. He lets her, breathing heavily, waits until she's got it undone and then suddenly he rolls, taking her with him, and she finds herself on her back, he looming over her in the moonlit darkness. No words are spoken, none are needed, as he lowers his head to her neck, kissing his way down her throat, her breath catching in her throat as he gently bites at the juncture of neck and collarbone. His breath is warm against her skin, his stubble rasping as he lays kisses down along her collarbone and lower, lower. She squirms as he teases her, breathing hotly on her nipple, hovering just over the tight flesh but not touching. She lifts her head to see him watching her, a sly smile on his face, and then he lashes his tongue across her hot flesh and she is lost, throwing her head back as he kisses and sucks, pulling at her aching nipple, before moving on, laying a trail of wet kisses across her chest to claim its companion, branding it with his hot breath, his oh, so clever mouth.
He runs his tongue down her midriff and lays a kiss on her belly-button and she feels his fingers deftly unfasten her pants. At his urging, she lifts her hips and he slides the fabric down over her legs; she kicks out with her feet to shake the pants free and they sail into the air. She has no idea where they land and she really doesn't care. He moves back up the bed now, laying carefully down beside her. She pulls him to her for a hot, desperate kiss, shivers running through her as his hand smooths over her skin, slipping low across her belly, running a teasing finger under the waistband of her panties.
She never would have guessed that House would be such a tease. He ekes out the torment, trailing feather-light touches across her belly, along the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, forever circling but never touching the burning heat of her. She is whimpering by the time he carefully slides her panties down, laying a trail of soft kisses along her leg as he discards the wisp of lace. He slides his tongue into her mouth just as his dips his finger into her wet, hot core, swallowing her moan of pleasure, matching it with a groan that speaks of his own growing need. Somehow she had always known it would be like this, that his long, clever fingers would bring a gasp to her lips, leave her trembling on the very edge of release. She wants it so badly, so, so badly.. but not like this. She wants all of him; wants to feel him inside her when she comes.
"No," she gasps out the word, stilling those devilish fingers with her own hand.
He is breathing heavily too, a muttered curse escaping him as she presses a hand against the evidence of his need for her.
"I want you," she tells him boldly.
Much as she wants to touch him, to undress him as he did her, she holds back, gives him room to make his own decision. If she could only make him understand, she doesn't care about the damn leg, about the scar, about any of that. She admits to herself a certain curiosity, a desire to see just what it is that he feels so self-conscious about, but what he cannot understand or accept is that she would be attracted to him, would be with him, whether his thigh were smooth or scarred, damaged or whole. If she thought he would let her, she would prove it to him, would rain down upon that scarred flesh the same kisses and caresses she has lavished on his lips, his chest, his throat. But she knows he would back away if she even tried; this is all too new, too fragile, and she knows full well it will shatter if she pushes too hard.
So she lies in the darkness and lets him remove his jeans himself; she keeps her eyes on his face, her hands on his chest as he lays back down beside her, skin to skin.
His breath is hot against her lips as they kiss deeply, her hands running over his warm skin, bringing a groan to his lips as she wraps a hand around him. He is steel sheathed in silk, hot and pulsing under her fingers. She slides her hand up and down the length of him and he cries out.
"This is gonna be over real quick if you keep doing that.." His voice is hoarse, his ever-present dry humour bringing a smile to her lips.
"Can't have that," she murmurs, smiling wickedly as she gives him one last long stroke before relinquishing him, thrilling to the sound of his gasp for breath.
She moves over him carefully, making sure not to touch his damaged thigh, settling herself astride him, his hips between her legs, her arms braced beside his head. Her long hair swings loosely, brushing his chest as he runs his hands up her thighs, along her flanks to cup her firm breasts. She arches into his touch, brushing herself teasingly across the tip of his straining cock.
His voice is tight with need as his hands tighten on her hips, stilling her movements. "Top drawer," he grinds out and she nods, leaning across him, feeling his hands smoothing over her hips to slide around and cup her cheeks as she pulls open the dresser drawer and rummages blindly. He sucks in a shaky breath as she slowly, teasingly slides the thin latex over his hard length, unable to resist the temptation to play with her power over him. His eyes on hers tells her he knows exactly what she is doing and she is not surprised to find him grinning as much as she. She leans forward to press a kiss to his lips, bearing her weight on her arms as she positions herself over him.
The brief smile is gone from his face when she leans back, his face a frown of concentration as she slowly slides her slick heat along the length of him, sighing at the feel of him pressing against that sensitive spot. Her name is a groan on his lips, "Allison…"
She reaches a hand down to guide him to her hot, wet entrance, holding him in place as she slowly lowers herself. She hears his breath catch as she slides him carefully, slowly into her, a low moan of pleasure as he sheathes himself in her tight heat. She takes all of him in, biting her lip as she settles down onto him, his hot length filling her completely. For a moment they are still, breathing heavily as they process sensation, struggle for control. She begins to move slowly, sliding herself along his length, rubbing herself against him, feeling the pressure beginning to build. He is moving in tandem with her, his hips matching her rhythm, rocking with her as she moves astride him. His hands grip her hips, tensing in pleasure and anticipation, holding her firmly to him.
The tempo increases quickly, sensation sweeping them up and carrying them along and she takes a moment to gasp out, "I'm not going to last long!" The feeling is intense; he is hard inside her, filling her, pulsing against her inner walls. Her breath comes in short gasps, sweat trickling between her breasts as she moves desperately over him.
His head is pushed back against the pillow, his eyes fixed on her as she rides him furiously, her hair loose and tangled, her face tight with anticipation. She is glorious, wild and abandoned – everything he swore he didn't want, didn't need. He has forgotten his leg, forgotten work, forgotten his misgivings and fears. All that matters is this moment, right now. He fights for control but she feels so amazing, so hot and tight around him, squeezing him as she rocks back and forth and he can't hold on, can't do this..
He moves a hand up to her breast, his fingers playing with her nipple as his other hand moves lower, stroking across her belly, sliding between their sweat-slicked bodies to slip between her wet folds, to brush across that delicate, sensitive nub.
"Oh god." Her voice is high and breathy and the mere sound of it nearly makes him lose his control. He grits his teeth and slides that one finger in and out, rubbing gently across her slick button even as she slides along the length of him. Her breathing quickens, panting with need and he knows she is near. She cries out, rubbing herself at once against his hand and his cock, and he has never wanted anything so much as he wants to see her come.
A moment later and he has his wish as she stiffens atop him, her muscles tensing and trembling as she shudders with her climax, his name on her lips. Her muscles clench and squeeze around his length, ripping away the last vestiges of his control and with three short strokes he is coming, flooding into her, his back arching as he buries himself in her so deep he never wants to let go.
There is no pain, no fear, only sensation. The very absence of pain is, in itself, a sweet pleasure.
She is careful even in the moment of her climax, bearing her weight on shaky arms as she slowly lowers herself onto him, making sure not to jar his leg as she collapses across his heaving chest, her small breasts pressed against him, her breathing uneven. She kisses him softly, a smile on her lips, and instinctively, absurdly, he finds himself smiling in return. For a moment they lie still, just breathing, just feeling. She disentangles from him gently, carefully, and for a moment he can't decide whether to appreciate her consideration or to be annoyed at her treating him as though he were fragile. When she lays down beside him and wraps herself around his lethargic body, he decides that this is a question better left for tomorrow.
There will be a lot of questions tomorrow, a lot of decisions to be made, and a part of him quails at the thought of change, of the necessity of dealing with the repercussions of their actions. But right now, at this very moment, he cannot bring himself to care too much about repercussions. She is warm and soft against the length of his body, her hair spilling across his chest, her breathing slowly evening out as she runs a drowsy thumb across his collarbone.
He lies still in the darkness, revelling in the warmth of the afterglow, in the brief freedom from pain and tension, and decides that tomorrow can wait.