A/N: Thanks to my beta, Sharp 2799, for all of her help. Thanks as well to AthousandSmiles for catching typos and for reading an early draft and helping to shape it. Finally, thanks to Jesmel for looking it over.
Comments are appreciated. Blue button, bottom of page.
In the wee hours House nods off, slumped in the armchair by her bedside. The arch of his bare foot rests against the warm skin of her naked thigh.
The high-pitched wail of a siren in the distance wakes him at twilight, that and the bum leg. Pain takes him to the edge of sleep and meets him at first light. It penetrates the landscapes of his dreams.
He rises, clutching at his stiff leg, and stumbles to the window to parts the blinds. Outside as the earth tilts and the sun edges upward, an indigo light falls upon the snow, the tree-lined street, and the brownstones across from his townhouse.
What do the French call it, this pocket of time that hovers between day and night? The blue hour, he thinks. L'heure bleue.
He often wakes at this time of night – this time of day. The hour is blue indeed, he knows. Doubt creeps in with consciousness.
Time to hide the razorblades.
If he has a case, he's all right. If he has to work through the night, even better. Diagnostics keeps his mind whirring like the blades of a helicopter, scythe-like. Morbid reflection will kill him long before his liver wizens.
A seizure of pain grips his leg so that his first thoughts are not of Cameron, naked and lissome in his bed, but of Vicodin.
He slowly swivels, memorizing the sight of her as she sleeps, her slenderness exposed, her shoulder blades wings, her ass so perfect and round he wants to sink his teeth into it.
With an eye roll, he turns from the tableau, gripping his cane until his knuckles turn white.
Last night he kissed her back.
For as long as he could, he stood still while she pressed her body against his and palmed his erection and kissed along his jaw until she reached his lips. If he hadn't been half in the bag from the bourbon, he would have sent her away. She could have found someone in a second, someone to fuck her into a stupor. There were plenty of men who wouldn't think twice about taking advantage of a high and horny widow. If he had banished her back out into the night, someone like … Chase, he thought, finally, would have been her second choice, and his Machiavellian intensivist was imminently persuadable. Butpicturing her with another man made him strangely uncomfortable.
The swell of her breast is just visible as she lies on her stomach on the bed. Last night she was high, vulnerable. This morning, if she still wants him – and that thought alone makes his prick start to throb – well, why the hell not? He's out of excuses.
He limps heavily into the living room, and eyes the box he keeps hidden on a top shelf, arms folded against his chest. Morphine, the gold standard of opiates, like a priceless perfume, is kept in tiny vials in that treasure trove. His goodies. Except there's nothing good about the constant need for a moment's peace from pain.
Propping his cane against the piano, he hobbles around the living room clutching the offending limb to get the blood flowing. Is this what he gets for spending the night hunkered in an armchair watching a naked woman sleep and not doing a thing about it? Justice comes in many forms.
To distract his mind from the necrosis, he does anagrams, screws with the letters of her name.
When you can't do any better than "care, Mon" for 'Cameron,' as if you were a Bob Marley beatnik working for UNICEF, you know the pain's bad, he thinks with a grimace.
He scrambles letters like eggs in a pan. His head hurts. His eyes burn. Good fucking morning, Greg. Words form from her name and his. It's an idiotic exercise for a man like him, a man who regards sentiment as a cheap, easy substitute for rational thought, and thus, unacceptable … except for when your heart leaves you no choice.
'Cameron' romance. Talk about poetic justice. What a bunch of crap.
If he pairs her name with his – Allison House – he gets "his soul alone." If he combines both their last names, he gets "ache enormous."
Yeah. That fits.
It's Vicodin time.
Tipping pills, plural, into his hand, he heads to the kitchen for a glass of water to wash them down. No need to go all Steve McQueen and dry swallow 'em when there's no one around to appreciate the tough guy act.
Frozen cubes clink against each other as he holds a tumbler under the ice dispenser. Light from the fridge yellows his face as he pulls out a chilled Perrier and pours it into the glass. For a moment, he leans against the sink holding the cold tumbler against his forehead, and then he downs it as if he were a Russian and the clear liquid was vodka.
He refills his glass.
Leaving it on the counter, he goes to the bathroom, emptying a bladder full of bourbon. Washing his hands, he views his reflection in the mirror, philosophically. The pattern of the chair's upholstery is pressed into his face and his eyes are bloodshot. He swipes a hand over his hair and fluffs it where it has thinned. It's a habit leftover from Stacy. A vestige of vanity.
Still in his pajama bottoms and white tee, he retrieves the glass of ice water and returns to his bedroom, sinking back into the chair.
He looks at her.
Is this the woman who appeared at his door, speed-addled and horny as an African bullfrog? Did she really grope him shamelessly and indulge in a talking jag that would rival Robin Williams after a cocaine binge?
On the floor he sees her clothes strewn: The faded jeans, the green sweater, a pair of lace panties that he can all too well picture accentuating her taut buttocks and barely covering her sex. Only one garment is neatly folded and carefully laid on his dresser: Stacy's t-shirt. Of course she wouldn't wear it.
He scratches at the new scruff covering his jaw. Why isn't he in the bed with her, wrapped around her slight form, finding rest in her physical proximity? What, after all, does he have to lose?
In sleep, her face is innocent and relaxed. The only evidence of her night of excess and wantonness is smudged makeup around her eyes. Her lashes are dark against her pallor and a tiny blue vein pulses near the line of her jaw. Her mouth is an invitation, and hair splays out on the pillow.
She turns onto her side and tucks her arms into her chest so her chin rests on her fists. The curve running from hip to the warm ridge of her ribs reminds him of the sinuous shape of desert sand formations. Her hip is thrust out at a jaunty angle and one leg is positioned in a classic runner's pose.
In his mind, her legs are slightly spread. In his mind his tongue circles the bud of her clit, her pelvis rising to meet him, as he tastes her.
After a moment, he pulls the sheet up to her shoulders.
A part of him wants to let her sleep. And then there's the part of him that's pissed off at her peace.
All things must pass.
Behind closed lids, her eyes scan back and forth like a speed-reader's, signaling a REM cycle. Her brows crease and her face tenses. Her mouth moves, mumbling something he can't discern. House listens for sleep talk, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees until his shoulders hunch and his face is close to hers.
If anyone were to walk in and see them, they'd observe this scene: Him, unshaven and serious, watching her – asleep and nude like something out of Picasso's blue period. They'd see her turn and toss, grabbing a handful of the sheets as she dreamed. They'd see him extend his arm, hesitate, then reach out and lay his hand on her head, smoothing her hair, before lowering it back to rest on his knee.
Her mouth moves again, and this time he can make out a few words.
"Not yet," she murmurs. "Wait. Three more breaths."
More will be revealed, it is said, and so he holds vigil until dawn breaks and light leaks through the blinds, crisscrossing over her shape.
House waits for her to give something away.
He waits, too, for the Vicodin to kick in, but his thigh feels as if it's pressed in a waffle iron.
When he's sure that nothing more is forthcoming, he pushes back the chair and lurches to the bed, driven by pain to do something, anything: To act.
Dipping his fingers in the glass, he flicks ice water at her face. Droplets slip off her skin like tears.
"No. Not like this. Not yet," she moans, still stuck in a dream, and clearly distressed.
He does the thing with the water again, and when she still doesn't wake, he does what he does best: He acts like an ass.
"Arise, take up your bed, and follow me," he hollers, paraphrasing Christ for the hell of it. If you're going to play the martyr card, you better be up for some heavy-duty ridicule, he reasons.
The lids of her eyes slowly open to just past half-mast. It's a rude awakening. Did she expect anything less – anything more from House?
He stands beside the bed dressed in striped pajama bottoms and a rumpled white t-shirt, close enough so she can feel the heat of his thigh near her hand.
A hand on her aching head, she starts to sit up, and then realizes she's naked except for the thin cotton sheet.
Whatever soothed her in sleep dissipates as the previous night floods her consciousness. Colors and sounds reverberate in her skull and she grips her head as pain moves behind her eyes. Never knew that meth could make sex seem as necessary as a pulse. As for wanting House? That has been her constant since she took the fellowship.
Last night his eyes fastened onto hers and even as she touched him, pushed him up against the back of the leather couch and traced his hardness with her fingertips, he resisted. Eventually he pulled her against him, and she felt his left knee grind between her legs. His mouth explored hers with ever deepening kisses that left her no doubt as to how much he wanted to be inside of her. When his tongue traced hers, flirted with her tongue, she felt like he was making her make room for him, and when he thrust it deep, she sucked the end of it so he knew how much she wanted all of him between her thighs.
Even now the thought of his hard cock in her hand, in her mouth, poised at her entrance, sent blood rushing to her face, aroused the pulse between her legs until she ached. It's more than that. She wants to feel his naked chest under her hands. She wants to kiss the soft flesh of his lower abdomen, to twirl her tongue in his naval, to lick lower. She longs to nip at his neck, to kiss along his collarbone, to hold his face between her hands and kiss him from every angle. She wants his eyes on her, everywhere, and then, his hands.
Last night, he wanted to know – he kept asking her why she was there. Why she really came over. She had admitted her fear of contracting HIV, but that was only a part of it.
Oh, Kalvin. Mr. Party and Play. Mr. Drugs and Sex. Mr. Spit Blood in my face. But she can't think straight, not really, not yet. House won't leave her in peace.
Cold water hits her face for a third time.
"My alarm clock has better manners than you do," she groans, her voice husky with sleep.
He takes a step back at the sound of her voice.
"If you were expecting a fairy tale kiss as a wake-up call then you slept in the wrong bed."
She tries for a smile. "Comparing me to Sleeping Beauty? Must make you the beast."
"Nope. Makes me a frog. One with no aspirations to be a prince. You don't know your fairy tales. Unhappy childhood?"
"Let's just say happy endings have never worked for me," she allows.
He slams the water glass down next to the Vicodin on his nightstand. The vial tips and pills spill. He pops a few more for good measure.
Grasping his cane, he pokes her with it methodically.
"You're pale. Those circles under your eyes could rival Joe Namath's on game day." Casting an unreadable look at the way the sheet clings to her curves, he adds, "You're naked." Licking his finger, he runs it over her shoulder and tastes it. "Sweatier than a Suma wrestler in a sauna. Pupils? Dilated. Diagnosis? Foreman would dismiss you as a junkie. Chase … would say your feelings for me are causing physical symptoms." House rubs the scruff of his chin, letting his words sink in. "They're both wrong. You secretly love Anthrax. The band, not the poison. Anyone ever tell you that speed metal has side effects? Like taking speed?"
She stops the end of his cane from ramming into her shoulder, grabbing it and pulling him closer, just to watch that you better watch it look cross his face.
It's always a turn on.
"You'd think you were a world renown diagnostician, the way you talk," she says with a smile, hiking herself up on her elbows to survey him in a quid pro quo. "My turn."
She tilts her head at the chair that doubled as House's bed, the chair drawn up to the bed where she spent the night.
"Cushion's got an indentation in the shape of your … ass. You were there most of the night. Means you're not as immune to me as you'd like. Means on some level you care." Looking at his weary face, she continues. Tiny red veins crisscross the whites of his eyes like roads on a map. "Your eyes are bloodshot. You barely slept, and when you did, your face was pressed into the upholstery. I can see the pattern there." She narrows her eyes in exaggerated thought. "You … watched me sleep, naked."
He hears a trace of smugness in her voice.
"I hired you because you look good in a lobby. You look even better in my bed. But, hey. To you this stuff is old hat. You're the expert on bedside vigils."
He winces, closing his eyes for a fraction of a second as pain wrenches the remnants of his quadriceps.
The look she gives him falls short of pity but conveys caring.
For a long moment, she looks at him, at the empty chair. She fingers the cotton sheet. It covers her breasts, but reveals her sternum, clavicle, and shoulders.
She has beautiful bones.
He looks tired.
If I could catch you at an unguarded moment, I'd stay right there beside you.
She sees what's in House's eyes, assesses his needs, and finds him wanting.
Wanting … her.
Wanting an intermission from the games.
Wanting the games to stop for a while.
She moves over on the big bed and pats the side she vacated.
Instead, he sits back down in the chair, cane between his legs. When he lowers his head and give her his patent stare, she stares back, and then smiles the tentative smile she gave him when she wished him a happy birthday the first year of her fellowship.
Those were the things about her that disarmed him.
Weariness washes over him and he remembers her soft skin beneath his hand as he trailed his fingers down her back during the night, the perfect roundness of her firm ass beneath his palm.
It would be so easy to join her on the bed.
"I … shouldn't have come here last night," she says, "but I did. Get in. I don't bite, House."
"Too bad. I was counting on it."
He hesitates. His head buzzes and a sharp high-pitched sound penetrates his eardrum. How much bourbon, exactly, did he down last night?
"House." She reaches out and touches his hip. "You're in pain."
"Oh! Is that what's made the last half hour of consciousness a living hell? Thanks … for the news flash."
Unshaven, his scruff is dark and heading towards beard status, deepening the blue of his eyes. They're cloudy today, overcast.
She sighs. "What do you need to know about me? You want to know if once upon a time I was heavy? You want to know why I have a hard time telling parents that their newborn son didn't make it? You want to know about Tom?"
"Dead husband? Already know. He died. With you by his side. Last thing he saw was your face. Probably thought you could save him. You couldn't … save him. No one could."
He stands, relying on the arms of the chair to get to his feet. Resting his weight on his left leg, he looks down on her in the bed.
Two doors down, a rat terrier weighs in on the newspaper delivery cyclist with a series of raucous barks.
"When Tom died, I lost … the chance to have his baby. We tried to get pregnant. It's hard to have sex when you're sick from chemo and each time you thrust you have a coughing fit," she says, clearing her throat. "You think I married him because he was damaged, and that I needed … to be needed. Never factored in the kind of guy Tom was. You had to know Tom to know that while he was terrified of death, he had a sense of humor. He made me promise that I'd play the song 'American Pie' for him on his last day of life. Told me that for years he'd sung along with the line, 'This'll be the day that I die,' and he wanted to sing it on the day of his death. He thought it would be funny. That was Tom. My marriage? You'll never get to the bottom of it. But I promise you. Tom's cancer wasn't why I was with him. He was an original."
She's small in the king-sized bed. He can tell she's cold by her stiffened nipples, the Goosebumps on her arms, and the way she shivers. Her face is naked but composed, after the story about her husband.
"I already have," she replies, motioning at the side of the bed she vacated.
She slips across the sheets until a chasm spreads between her and him as he carefully lowers his weight onto the edge of the mattress. Hoisting the bum leg up on the bed, he swings the good one next to it until his long frame stretches out beside Cameron.
The pain has finally dulled to an ache enormous.
"You were never fat," he declares, sticking an arm behind his head on the pillow. "Saw you naked. No unsightly stretch marks. No loose rolls of skin."
He looks over at her. She lies on her side, gazing at him in the dim room.
"Why," she asks, her smile fading, "are you so determined to deny yourself pleasure?"
Despite the distance between them, she feels like the bed is a waterslide and she's poised at the top of it, about to slip down and into the warm embrace of the water. There, she's sure, she'll drown.
"Chicken mole ala Wilson. Riding my Repsol as if it were Angelina Jolie in a naughty negligee. Nailing a diagnosis before a patient kicks the big bucket in the sky. Being almost always eventually right. My pleasures are many. However it has been my experience that pleasure turns to pain, given enough time." He takes a breath. Exhales. "It would. With you."
"Because Stacy left you?"
She hears the creaking of the mattress as he shifts his weight. You don't need a measuring stick to know how far you are from the man you love – or how close. She remembers how their shoulders touched seated together at the Monster Trucks rally, leather on leather. She remembers his smell as he leaned toward her to point out the decals on Grave Digger, and the way he touched her elbow as they walked outside into the cool night air, munching at the wispy cotton candy.
"Because … your feelings for me make you do dangerous things. Of all the drugs you could take, you picked the one that's … toxic to humans. Heart failure. Brain damage. Stroke. Got a death wish?"
His leg itches, but he's afraid that if he moves, he'll bump her, and if his hand touches her bare skin again, it'll be a slippery slope. The distance between them is palpable, another presence in the bed. If it's disturbed, well, there's just no telling.
"Says the man who pops Vicodin the way Barry Bonds take steroids. Your bike? They don't call 'em donor cycles because they increase your life expectancy."
"You could have HIV. You need to get tested."
His own voice in the dark sounds clinical and matter of fact. He banishes thoughts of sick, emaciated Cameron and excises any evidence of caring from his intonation.
"It can wait."
"It can't. Not if you're going to keep showing up at my doorstep doing research for the Penthouse Forum."
Christ, he thinks. She's hot in a lab coat and reading glasses with her medical nametag, but on his stoop in faded jeans with that soft look of need in her eyes? Can't face it again.
"Can you honestly say that this surprised you? Me … getting high, showing up at your place? You think you had nothing to do with it? That it's all me, this … whatever's between us?" She lowers her voice to nearly a whisper as her fists clench beneath the sheets. It's how she keeps her hands off him.
His body heat spans the space between the two of them, warming her bare skin.
Does he know the way his eyes linger on hers, the nakedness revealed in them? Does he know the way those looks telegraph want and need? He does a full body scan on her, performs exploratory surgery and then sews her up.
She expects him to stare at the ceiling or close his eyes or make a face or leave when he hears her questions. Instead, he turns in the bed, and props his head on his elbow, searching her eyes as if within them were a keepsake that once upon a time he'd misplaced.
Seconds pass, measured by the clunking hands of the mahogany clock. She feels the presence of his eyes on her face, reading it as if he traced its contours with his fingers.
"A five-part question. A good reporter would have covered the 'when,' 'where,' and 'what' as well as the 'how' and 'why.' When my parents came for dinner, you wanted to meet them. Probably wanted to meet them as much as you wanted solve the case. But you … turned down my mother's invitation to join us when you saw the look on my face."
"You already thanked me for that. So what's your point?"
"Wilson's right. You've rubbed off on me," he muttered. "My point is that you accuse me of going to any lengths to figure people out, but you want to know what makes people tick just as much as I do. You need to know … about me. Annoys the hell out of me, but I … like that about you," he says gruffly.
"So … what you're saying is you like me, and that annoys you. Liking me is not one of the Seven Deadly Sins," she protests.
"It should be."
She is silent, waiting for the question he will inevitably ask. It's not long before he speaks.
"Why did you come here last night, come to me?"
Sighing, she folds her slender arms beneath her head and stares at the ceiling.
"I know the odds, House, of my contracting the virus. But, let's say I'm infected with HIV. That happens, legal will try to dig up dirt on me. They'll look for evidence that I'm a junkie or a whore…"
"You turned tricks to pay for med school! I knew it," he can't help interjecting.
"… But they'd come up with … nothing." Her voice sounds small.
"Okay … so you're no Courtney Love. That so bad?"
"I can't remember the last time I had fun."
"You seemed to enjoy the Monster Trucks rally. At one point, if memory serves, you laughed so hard you spit cotton candy at me." His voice is warm.
She smiled to herself. Well, there was that.
"That was fun. But, I've taken no risks. I've never been sky diving, never had sex without a condom, never had a one night stand with a stranger …"
"You married terminal guy. That's … something."
"… And then I remembered something you said to me. 'If you really want to do something, you do it.' You want to know why I took street drugs and showed up at your door? It's simple. I said it last night. I'll say it once more. But after that, I'm done. So listen close."
She turns in the bed and rolls close to House, bridging the distance until her face nearly touches his. He can feel her breath on his cheek. Her body is a touch away, but they aren't touching. If either of them moves, they'll be on each other in an instant. As they stay like that, a millimeter away from contact, he feels his cock swell and grow hard. His heart knocks against his chest and he can't quite catch his breath. His mind is devoid of everything but her smell and the places where he knows he'll fit, especially between her legs where he wants to push aside the flesh and inch within. The space between their bodies is magnetic, electric. And still she doesn't speak. Is this a Zen metaphor, he wonders?
I want to feel you. I need to know you. I have to have you. What do you want … to do?
He's not sure if she said it or if it's simply what's between them, that which has always passed from her eyes to his, from his to hers.
He wants to fuck her, to spread her legs and go down on her until she screams. He wants to hold her until she stops shivering, to make room for him inside her. He knows she'll be small, but that makes him want her even more. He wants to crush her, to keep her from harm, to hammer into her, to slowly enter her, to tease her clit and take her from behind. He wants the full use of his leg, without pain. He wants to fuck her with his tongue and his hands and his stiffened, aching cock.
"Cameron," he says, his voice gravelly. Her name is a warning, but whether it's for her or for him, he's not sure. Her name is primal. It bubbles out of the depth of him and hangs in the air like a threat or a promise.
Warmth spreads through her limbs, flushing her face and finding the pulse between her legs. Her name on his lips is better than oysters on the half shell. Between her legs, she feels herself soften and grow damp with the thought of where they're headed.
Her face moves a fraction and she presses her mouth against his, so light it's barely a kiss, and pulls back to see his reaction.
His eyes darken with desire but he gently cups the back of her head and draws her mouth back to his, lazily exploring without tongue as the chemistry between them thrums. Her hands sneak beneath the hem of his tee and she runs them over his stomach and up his ribs until fingertips whisper across his nipples. They harden under her touch.
His kiss deepens and his tongue flirts with hers. She tugs the tip of his tongue, sucking it between her lips and he groans, imagining his prick sliding inside her mouth, her tongue flicking at the sensitive spot right beneath his head.
His hands find her ass under the sheet and he pulls her up against his warm, hard body, and when that's not enough, he pulls her on top of him.
The cotton of his tee, the cotton of his pajama bottoms incite her bare skin, but not as much as the hardness and heft of his erection pressing against her.
She peels his t-shirt over his head and tosses it to the floor, and he feels the hardened peaks of her small breasts against the bare skin of his chest.
Despite the thin material of his pajamas, his erection spans out under her nakedness.
He's big, she knows, from touching him last night, long and thick with a beautifully shaped head.
Her skin is silk under his palms and he kneads her buttocks, thumbs moving close to her clit but not quite touching it directly. He presses into her ass until she feels her vulva start to hum and rubs her clit against his leg in a desperate response.
She pulls him over so they lie facing each other and she fumbles with his pajama bottoms, tugging as he raises his pelvis up so she can free him. The garment is kicked to the foot of the bed and her hand slowly reaches out to touch him. Enough light filters into the room so he can see her hand hovering just above his massive erection. He knows that she knows that he can see how close she is to contact. Finally, she places a single fingertip on the head of his cock.
He holds his breath, closes his eyes.
With the ball of her thumb, she circles the swollen flesh, sticks her hand down between her legs, and the next thing he feels is her lubricated hand pulling down tight over his shaft. He imagines it's her mouth, although a part of him wants to explore the hot core of her and save the rest for later, after they sleep a little. Her hand is deft and she speeds up her motion, concentrating on the head and the first three or four inches of his cock.
"Wait." He grabs her wrist and pulls it away, opening his eyes and seeing her smiling down on him, a smile that manages to be hot and heartbreaking simultaneously. There's something of a wanton nun about her that inflames him.
He grasps her hips and pulls her up so she sits on his stomach, her legs falling open so he can see her sex through the dark, sexy curls. With his knuckles, he lightly nudges her clit, teasing her, and then he draws her closer and hikes himself up to kiss her mouth again. This time their kisses are knowing, carnal.
She says his name. Never Greg, nor does he want that. His name is a question mark.
As gracefully as his damaged thigh allows him, he flips her onto her back, and shoves her knees apart with his own knee, finding her softness with the tip of his prick. He wants to say things to her:
Open up for me. Fuck, fuck, fucking. This is as hard as I'll ever be. Wider, now. Wider.
But he lets his body say what he needs to keep inside.
I'll be careful with you …
He spreads her legs further and nudges up against her opening.
"Condom," she gasps.
"Top drawer. Nightstand," is all he can manage.
She tears off the wrapper in frenzy and pushes the device over his largeness.
His eyes ask her if she's ready.
As an answer, she grasps him and pushes him against her. He takes it slow, although he feels like he's about to explode, rubbing her clit as he needles his way inside of her until he feels her hot muscles close around the length and heft of him. Once he's all the way in, he looks her in the eye, tracing her lower lip with a finger, and then covering her mouth with his. He thrusts, slowly and sweetly; every inch of her hot wetness surrounds him. He keeps kissing her, reluctant to break away except to look at her face and make sure it really is Cameron rising to meet his movements, Cameron so slight and slender underneath him, Cameron moaning as he pulls almost all the way out of her, rotates around her g-spot, then shoves himself all the way back inside.
Now his weight is on her, now all of him is finally all the way in her. Tears drop from her eyes as she clings to him, legs circling up around his buttocks. He pulls her legs further up his back as he thrusts deeper, moving around inside her as heat floods through her whole body. He can't seem to stop kissing her, to remind her that they connect above and below. The kisses are as potent as the sex. As intimate a coupling.
She grips his back and urges him faster, deeper and he complies, as he feels her open up even more for him. She loosens her legs from around him and slides them down. The change in positioning and her hands on his ass, squeezing, make him gasp as heat flows from the base of his cock all the way up.
"You are going to come," she says as the sweet sensation of completely giving in to another and letting go spread over her clit and her muscles contract around him.
Inside her, his cock alters, quivers and then she feels the power of his climax rock both of them.
Together their limbs tangle on the bed. He eases himself onto his good side and takes her with him, holding her in his arms as they try to breath again.
"Ever see the virus under the gels? It's … ominous in its beauty," he says once he can speak. "You get tested tomorrow or you're fired."
"And you?" She looks at his penis as he rolls off her. Even flaccid it's beautiful.
"I'll go with you. Get tested, too. We keep doing this, it might be good to come clean."
She puts her hand on his scruff, leans in, and kisses a path along his jaw to his mouth.
"I'm almost always eventually an ass," he cautions her lightly as his lips move against hers.
"Works for me."