A/N: This story has been in my head for years. It's inspired by the unfinished story, "Every First Saturday" by Sarbey, but certain recent canon events prompted me to pull this one out and dust it off and see what I could make of it. The first chapter will seem very similar to Sarbey's, but based on her summary, I'm taking this in a very different direction. This is extremely AU, set in late season one and into season two. I'll be using some canon events in this story, but they won't necessarily be in order or play out exactly as they did on the show. Hence the AU label. Also, I've occasionally snitched some of the actual dialogue from certain episodes; I'll add disclaimers for the chapters in which I did that.
This story is rated M for a reason. If you don't like sex scenes, hit the back button now.
My dear friend sharp2799 is my beta reader for this story. Many thanks, Sharp. *hearts you*
Random chords fill the room as you wait, your fingers moving over the keys of the piano without conscious thought. A melody builds, something soft at first that crescendoes like a storm moving in from a distance. Your eyes close and you let the music dictate to you, as if it has a mind of its own. The piece that flows out of the instrument feels portentous; the notes vibrate through your veins as if they have seeped into your bloodstream.
The phone rings and disrupts the mood. Fingers hovering over the ivories, you turn and stare at it, but don't make a move. After three rings, Wilson's voice comes over the answering machine. "House, why aren't you picking up? You want to get a beer tonight?" There's a pause and then, "Oh... I forgot what day it was. Never mind. I'll talk to you tomorrow."
People say you're unpredictable, a loose canon, and you like it that way. But there is a side of you that craves routine, and keeps to certain habits that balance out your spontaneous side. You keep that part of yourself private, with Wilson as your only confidante.
Every other Saturday night, you indulge, more so than usual. It's not just Vicodin and bourbon, self-recriminations and misery, but also pleasure. A hedonist. That's what your father called you; it's the only thing he's ever said that you took as a compliment.
Your Saturday night special's name is Paula. She is well-versed in what you want, and you tip her well in return. You'd gone through several girls before settling on Paula and making her your regular. Pretty and punctual, she is the only one who keeps strict adherence to your rules. The only one who doesn't touch your stuff, ask annoying personal questions, or try to make small talk about the weather or what you do for a living like you are on a first date instead of engaging in a business transaction.
On this particular Saturday evening, you are ready, bourbon glittering in the dim lamp light of your living room, condoms on the bedside table, Vicodin flowing freely through your bloodstream, old friends with the alcohol. You unplug the phone and return to the piano bench. Your pager is off, and all you need is Paula. When her knock comes, you strike a low G and let the note linger before you rise to let her in. But what you find at your door is a pretty young thing trying very hard to look bold and confident.
"You're not Paula," you say, losing yourself for a moment in the gray-blue-green kaleidoscope of her eyes. She is exquisite, this girl-woman, with thick dark lashes, perfectly arched eyebrows, cheeks like ripe peaches. Her hair is the color of mahogany and hangs past her shoulders in long loose waves, and her lips are luscious and shiny with a coat of red lipstick. But what strikes you the most is how impossibly young and virginal she looks. In a modest red silk blouse, she's showing less cleavage than Cuddy on a normal work day. Her navy skirt falls to just above her knees. Long, slender legs end in red pumps. She's a patriotic pinup girl, you think. God bless America.
Stepping into your apartment without waiting for an invitation, she says, "Paula quit."
You shut the door behind her, checking out her stunning little ass with hardy approval before she turns around to face you. "I guess you'll do," you say. "You're at least legal, right?"
"What do you mean?" she asks, worrying at her bottom lip with her teeth.
"I mean, can you vote? Drink alcohol without getting arrested? Would you be accepted into the military?"
"I'm twenty-seven," she answers, smiling for the first time. "The agency vets the girls thoroughly. They wouldn't hire anyone underaged."
"Oh, I'm sure they're all about legalities," you mock, stepping forward and staring down into those fathomless eyes and noting the little flecks of gold in them that make them look green from a distance, like shafts of sunlight on the surface of the sea. "What's your name?"
"Allison," she answers. She holds your stare for a moment and then looks away, glancing around the room and then clearing her throat and looking back at you. "As I'm sure you know, there are a few rules. One, I don't kiss on the mouth. Two, I don't do bare back. If you want that, I can tell Tara to send someone else. Three, well... you'll know if you break rule number three."
"Fine," you say, eyes narrowing as you study her with her little pearl-like teeth chewing delicately on those cherry red lips. "I've got a few rules of my own. One, you don't talk. Two," you lift your cane to demonstrate and continue, "I've got a bum leg-go easy on it. Three, you leave immediately when we're through."
With a single nod, she communicates her agreement to your rules and waits for you to tell her what you want. Smiling at her immediate compliance, you take her hand and lead her to the bedroom where you sit on the end of the bed and order her to undress. She takes her time with the buttons on her blouse, careful to watch your reactions. Beneath that red silk is more red silk with a bit of lace in the form of a very sexy bra. Her blouse flutters to the floor and she begins to slide the zipper of her skirt down and shimmy out of it, revealing a matching red thong and diaphanous black thigh-high stockings.
You can't deny she's hot. Hell, you're suddenly grateful for whatever made Paula quit as your cock springs to full attention at the sight of her, all moon-kissed skin with a constellation of freckles dotted here and there.
"Nice," you murmur, reaching out and tugging her to you, placing an open-mouthed kiss on the flat of her abdomen, your tongue sneaking out to dip into her naval.
She gasps, but doesn't say a word, and when you look up you see pleasure and surprise on her face. You slide one hand down over the little silk triangle that covers her, your fingers rubbing her through the fabric, pleased to find it damp. Normally you don't take the time or thought to worry over the pleasure of a working girl, but something about her-Allison-getting off on your touch does something to your ego, makes it swell along with your cock. Warmed at the sight of her with her head thrown back and her mouth open in a little O, you keep rubbing, sliding your fingers under her thong and into her slit as she spreads her legs for you.
"Take off your bra," you order, your fingers still working her over.
Reaching behind her, she unclasps her bra, drawing it down her arms and letting it fall to the floor. Her breasts are small with pale pink nipples that stand erect, as if happy to see you. The feeling is mutual. You pull her down to the bed, taking a moment to observe her laid out, a nymph created by the gods and painted with moonlight. She is as close to perfection as a woman can get. Latching on to one breast with your mouth, you roll your tongue over it until she is arching into you and emitting breathy little sighs. You think you might orgasm just from the sounds coming from those sweet red lips, and you wonder if you should rethink your no talking rule.
After paying due attention to her nipples, you kiss your way down the gentle slope where breast meets ribcage and lower, leaving a damp trail from breast to belly to the band of her thong. Nosing the fabric aside, you taste her, taking note of her fists clenching the sheets as you plunge in and out and swipe at her clit with your tongue, her hips raised to meet you. While your mouth works, your brain continues to whirl, filing away in your memory her taste and the feel of her skin and the sounds of pleasure she makes. You're sure you've never had such a responsive hooker. Most of them just fake it, which doesn't bother you in the least because your only concern has always been getting off. But this little thing, with her wide, honest eyes and her frantic pulse, is making you feel crazed with the need to keep pleasing her and be pleased in return. Her reactions are just about to undo you altogether, so you give her one last lick and then roll off and grab for the condom on the bedside table, while she makes herself useful and pushes her thong down her legs and tosses it into the pile where her other clothes lay.
Pulling down your pajama bottoms, she frees you from your boxer briefs, slender fingers stroking the shaft of your cock before releasing it. She takes the condom from you and rolls it on, fingertips brushing against your sack, her breath coming in warm puffs against you as she moves. Laying flat on your back on the bed, you watch with an almost unbearable anticipation as she finally lowers herself onto you, taking you into her tight heat little by little. Your hands run up her thighs, feeling the smooth, barely there layer of satin from her stockings, and up to the nubby lace around the band that holds them up. She begins to move, creating a delicious friction as her pelvis rubs against your own, her thighs clamping around your hipbones. You are barely aware of the moans coming from your own throat as she rolls her hips in a steady rhythm, her breasts thrusting forward with every arch of her back. Reaching up, you palm them and fight to keep your eyes open at the feel of her pebbled nipples against your hands and the suede grip of her body on your cock that takes you quickly and almost violently over the edge.
You can't move. She has screwed you into a heavenly oblivion and now she is moving off you and tiptoeing around the room, gathering her clothes. Lifting your head a bit, you watch as she dresses, quiet as a little mouse, her cheeks flushed and her mouth turned downward. There is something almost tragic about the way she carries herself, the look in her eyes that makes you look away for a moment. Just as she gets to the door of your room, you call out her name.
Turning, she just looks at you expectantly and waits, that not-so-innocent red lipstick still perfectly in place. Next time, you think, you'll let her leave some of it around your cock.
"There's a tip for you on the dresser," you say, nodding toward the chest of drawers. "I'll see you in two weeks. Same time."
Nodding, she takes the bills, tucking them into her bra, her heels clicking softly on the hardwood floors. You hear the door latch as she leaves the apartment, and you manage the willpower to lever yourself off the bed, dispose of the condom, and hobble out to lock it behind her. Back In your room, you collapse on the bed, pulling the sheets up over your sated body, and there her scent lingers, something delicate and feminine, sweet and sinful. You take a deep breath and commit it to memory, already eagerly awaiting her next visit.
A/N: This is going to be a long story; I'm up to about thirty chapters so far. My goal is to post at least once a week. Stay tuned for more. Also, reviews would be very much appreciated, if for no other reason than to let me know if there are still House/Cameron shippers out there reading. Thank you.