A/N: Not really my genre, but here's a little smut to counteract the epic fail of this fifth season of House, M.D. Coming up next: A companion piece to my story, You Could be Anyone. Enjoy.
Murmurs and quiet laughter and the clink of silverware are background noise to their silence as he regards her from across the formal place settings. The things he said, she said, linger in the air between them like smoke rings.
Impatience and exasperation push at his body, his brain. There was a time he might have shoved the wine glasses and flower vase, candles and cutlery to the floor in a sweeping motion from the sheer force of frustration. A time when his leg was of a piece, when he and she would already have been lovers. A dinner date would have been a normal circumstance, a way to avoid doing the dishes.
As it is, he's a gimp and a coward as each of them stuff their thoughts and awkwardness sets in.
His eyes roam the decor before returning to her, afraid to read her face. She's seen his hand and raised him: that was what had happened when he tried so hard to get her back on the team. He'd wanted her back. Wanted to walk the halls of the hospital knowing that any moment he might round a corner and there she'd be, Cameron, slender as a teenage boy but with a lush tush and small high breasts he knew would be sensitive.
Fuck me, he thinks.
"This isn't working." He rises from the chair just as the Italian waiter appears with steaming plates.
She thanks the server for her food, even though it's the wrong dish.
Typical. Predictable. He rubs the scruff on his chin.
The waiter dismissed, her smile drops away and her eyes travel up to his as she fingers her mother's earring.
His prick stiffens. He clears his throat, imagining the feel of that small tapered hand on his burgeoning erection.
"Marry me," she says, low-voiced and husky, chin cupped in her hand. An enigmatic smile quirks her lips.
His face falters, disarmed with a one-two punch. And yet he grows harder somehow at the thought of virginal Cameron on her wedding night. It's illogical. She's already been a wife, a fact that always throws him. But still. To rip a white dress from her body. To possess.
It's a potent image.
"No?" She laughs. "Okay. So this was a bad idea. I should have known. Shouldn't have asked for this, this date. But let's not waste an evening. We had a great time together at the Monster Trucks thing. Let's play off that. We could hit an arcade. Play darts. I've got X-Box at my place."
He recognizes the determined set of her face.
She pushes back her chair and stands. The black dress loves her body. His eyes move to her throat and collarbone. Her nipples push against the fabric and he gives thanks for air conditioning.
"X-Box is dated."
When she simply smiles and offers a shrug, he walks around the table and places his hand on the small of her back. He began the evening a gentleman, moving close to her, his fingers fumbling with the corsage as he pinned it to her dress. Warmth had risen from her skin and his hand had brushed her sternum.
He will stick to the program.
"Dating is dated," he adds, steering her from the dining room and out into the parking lot.
"Why?" He asks as they drive toward her apartment. The word emerges like a genie someone carelessly let out of a bottle.
"Why what?" Her hands are folded on her lap, lightly touching a tiny clutch. She sits close to him and as the small car hits a pothole, their thighs touch.
"Why ask me how I feel about you when you already know?"
"Wanted to hear it from you." The car takes a curve and physics pushes her body into his.
"Hear what, exactly? That I love you, that you had me at 'Happy Birthday,' that I'd be happy for the rest of my life with a piece of lobby art fused to my side? That you make me whole?"
The quiet laugh again. "It's been a while since I've had someone. I hoped you'd say you want me. Sexually."
Her hand on the seat of the car is so close to his hardened cock, it would only take an inch for her to touch him. His speech faculties shut down at the thought.
One hand is on the steering wheel; with his other hand, he rubs his damaged leg.
Cameron speaks into the silence. "It's okay to want something, House. It's okay for you to get what you want." She places her hand over his, her fingers curling around his palm.
"You know nothing about me," he counters. But she doesn't believe him. He doesn't believe himself.
At her apartment he stands behind her while she fumbles with the locks. His erection pulses and he wants to shove her up against the door as if it was a cop car.
"Has Foreman taught you nothing?" He pushes her aside and works the key until the door swings open.
His eyes sweep over her possessions. The room is as anal as she is, he dismisses. Everything has its place. He thinks of her body, its layout. No map necessary.
"Where's the head?"
She points at a hallway off the tiny kitchen and he limps carefully through carpet to linoleum.
Closing the bathroom door behind him, he opens the medicine cabinet. A lip-gloss. A pink razor. Birth control pills. Condoms. Interesting. He flushes and turns on the faucets, and then retraces his steps.
"Over here," she calls.
Rounding the corner, he sees her and desire stabs his solar plexus: She's on her hands and knees, ass raised as she parts the fibers of the carpet. His prick throbs.
"Most people crawl first, then walk. Then again, you always have to do things your way," he says, watching as her dress flashes legs clad in sheer thigh high stockings.
"I lost an earring. One of mom's."
"I'd help but," he indicates his bum leg.
"No you wouldn't."
"Can't this wait?" The dress is sheer. He sees what lies beneath.
"Got someplace you have to be?" She looks up at him.
And it's the look on her face more than anything that spurs him.
Slowly, gracefully, she stands, facing him.
She obeys, moving to face the bookshelves. He stumbles toward her and yanks her body against his so she can feel from behind just how big he is, how much he wants her.
His hands cup her breasts, and the nipples harden to dusky points of sheer sexuality.
"Lose the dress." But he can't wait for her and pulls it from its hem over her head so she soon stands in lacy black bra and matching panties.
He counts her vertebrae, admiring the dip leading to her buttocks.
"The bra. Unhook it."
The scrap of material drops to the floor.
"Face me. Slowly," he adds as she hesitates, and then pirouettes.
Desire darkens her eyes, he notices, as he steps toward her, unbuttoning his pants. She closes the gap, her fingers tracing the shape of his erection as she meets his eyes.
She says something near his ear, so softly he misses it. Words don't matter. He jerks her against him, cradling her nape and kissing her as she rubs his cock.
When she steps out of her heels and moves towards her room, he follows.
Together they tumble into the bedroom and he learns that the pain of desire is excruciating but he can't do without it and he wants her, wants her on him, under him, any which way. She tugs at his pants, pulling them off his hips and thighs. Her eyes move to the damaged leg.
"How rough can I get? I don't want to hurt you."
"Worry about yourself," he barks.
She pushes him down on the bed and crawls up there with him, unbuttoning his shirt and stroking his stomach. Lightly she runs her hands over his ribcage and her thumbs over his raised nipples as she watches his features alter at her touch.
Through the thin cotton of his boxers she traces the outline of his bulging erection and a groan escapes him at her deliberate touch. She moves her thumb over the head of his penis. It incenses him and he tries to draw her up on top of him, but she slips from his grasp as she removes the briefs.
Her face is dark and wild and sensuous as she leans over him. Flushed and fuckable.
"What do you want?" Her voice is urgent.
Her hands move, one fist on top of the other over his cock, hard and fast and sure.
"This," he gasps. "You."
She stops touching him, sitting back on the bed, naked from the waist up.
He hears her breathing; hears himself breathe.
Her hand is poised just above his full erection.
"Do your thing." Sound like Steve McQueen. Sound like you're in control, he thinks. And then he stops thinking.
The sheets rustle and her hair falls over his stomach. And then she licks the head of his prick.
Her tongue is on him, around him, and he reaches for her, tangling his fingers in her hair.
He says her name. He says it again.
Her hot, wet mouth closes over his cock and pulls it down her throat. She swirls her tongue around the head not once but three times and then goes down on him again, as deep as she can take him.
Inside of her warmth, he expands and pulses as his heart pumps blood where he needs it most.
Heat rushes from the base of him as she sucks on his head with quick shallow pulls. If she keeps it up, that's it for him.
Hiking himself up on the bed he stabs her with his eyes and flips her over on her back, ripping the panties from her and throwing them over the side of the bed.
"Open your legs," he orders. His hands are already pulling her knees apart and his fingertips graze her swollen clit.
"Can't wait," she says, and he pushes his cock up to where she's soft and hot and wet, inching his way in while he watches her face soften, her eyes close. He leans over her, kissing her mouth gently as he fucks her.
She shifts her legs so they wrap around him and he moves so deep she's completely filled with him.
Their eyes meet and beneath him she grows wetter. She touches his face, kisses his neck, her tongue teases his lower lip.
She moans as he slows his movements, clutching at his buttocks. She rises to meet him, urging him faster and harder, but he brushes at her clit with his fingers and slows to where she's sweet and hot.
Their bodies separate and fuse again and again as she softens and spreads for him.
He swells inside her and there is nothing else but heat moving up his shaft and her warmth surrounding his hardness. "House," she breathes and he shoots into her, still thrusting as she opens wider still and, with a cry, contracts around him.
After a moment tangled in each other's arms, he pulls out, rolling onto his back.
He brings her with him.