Summary: Cameron is drunk. House is… undecided.
Disclaimer: not mine
A/N: Apologies to my fellow MSTies for slipping into Ham – hope you can forgive me ;-) Also, I'm looking for a thoughtful beta. I am (hopefully) pretty good at grammar and typos, but I generally write op-ed/features and would really appreciate some guidance with writing fic.
He stroked her thigh languidly, each time closer, but never close enough. His hands looked rough but felt smooth, running up and down the skin of her leg. Cameron’s mind whirled; she wished she could just quiet it and lose herself to the soft scrape of House’s fingertips, now trailing up from her knee – almost… then right back down, pausing to grip her ankle and pull it a little more toward were he sat, his back pressing against the arm of his couch.
She tried desperately to focus her eyes on his face, the same few days of stubble, the same deep cleft above his lip; but she just couldn’t do it. House’s hand is on my thigh. Cameron just kept cycling endlessly back and back to two hours ago.
Such a – day. Their patient was dead and she just couldn’t go straight back home and infect her apartment with the hurt and self-flagellation. So, tequila shooters it was. Cameron hated tequila, that burning trail down the back of her throat; no subtlety, just alcohol; but that was what she wanted tonight.
Three shots down and she still felt completely, painfully sober. Over to her left was some guy – very expensive jeans, well-cut shirt with a restrained stripe. So much better dressed than Chase, was the thought that came unbidden into her head, and she snorted wryly to herself as she looked at him. He took it as encouragement and sloped over to her.
“You look like you’re in advertising.” Cameron said brusquely. Evidently, the tequila was beginning to bite. Every time she forgot that lag that first lulled you and then bit you in the ass.
He chuckled affectedly and cocked an eyebrow at her. “Buy you another?” He gestured at the empty shot glass in front of her.
“Sure.” She tilted her head and smiled.
He didn’t say anything more until he had ordered their drinks, then knocked his back and smacked his glass down on the counter. One side of his mouth curled up and he looked at Cameron as if he thought he’d achieved something. A boozy haze had descended on her and she was having trouble disguising her contempt.
“Let me guess,” he said through a grin and ran an appraising eye over her. “You’re… hmm, you look like a professional girl. An architect?”
She gave up trying to hide her lack of interest. It was all she could do not to out and out wince. House never makes lousy, jumped-up guesses. She felt the thought physically, as if someone had just kicked her in the gut. It hurt, and it felt good.
Cameron looked him square in the eye: “Next round’s on me.”
They slammed back their tequilas and, though they’d hardly exchanged two sentences, he looked supremely confident.
“You’re so…” Her mind stopped abruptly, mid-sentence. It seemed to have room for only one thought.
“So…?” That bloody smile just wouldn’t leave his face.
“You know, I just have to–” She leaned in toward him. His eyes widened expectantly. “Leave.” Cameron stood up quickly, and staggered slightly to the left. Then she walked straight out of the bar, not even bothering to look behind her.
“Where to?” The cab driver was laughing faintly at her. Now she was drunk.
“As far as I know there’s nothing in my job description that says I have to deal with liquored-up employees.” He actually made to close the door on her, but she was far gone enough that she stuck the toe of her high heels against the door jam to stop him. Why the hell did she wear these painful shoes for the long hospital days? But she knew perfectly well why. They got her a little closer.
She said nothing, just wound her hands around his neck and pulled herself up toward him. If she expected him to be surprised she still didn’t know him well enough. He backed up and set her down on the couch.
“I’d offer you some of my Scotch, but it’s expensive. It’d be a complete waste in your current state.” House lent back in his chair and looked her over.
Bastard and gentleman in one. No way he was going to take advantage of an inebriated woman half his age.
“I’m 27 years old. You think I’m just a kid.” He couldn’t help himself; Cameron’s self-satisfied smile went straight to his cock. Damn it.
“Come here.” She tilted her head to indicate he should join her on the couch. “I won’t bite… hard.”
She couldn’t help smiling – watching the conflict play out so obviously on his face. He hated to lose control. He hovered, on the edge. Cameron arched her back and her shirt rode up. That glimpse of her stomach above the waistband of her fitted pants was too much. He pushed up and lent his weight on his cane – just two steps and he sank down onto the couch, as far from her as possible. The smile faded from her face and her eyelids fluttered closed. That was even worse. House tried to drag his eyes away, but failed.
“I not a kid.” Her eyes flicked open and locked onto his. No kidding.
His hand reached out. There was no thought involved. His hand was on her calf. Fuck. He wrested back power the only way possible; his hand moved as slowly as he could manage.
Absolutely no point pretending any more. House was more than happy with the idea of avoidance, but nothing if not a realist when it came to what was already done. She had him. Now the question was how he could have her. House’s hand ran up Cameron’s inner thigh.
Gambit one: “So, she’s dead. Who knew naphthalene was such a downer?”
Cameron couldn’t conceal her slight flinch, but she took a deep breath and eased back into the soft leather. “Yeah, well, some things shouldn’t be mothballed.” Still on message. Damn – unexpected. He didn’t retract his hand.
Cameron placed the ball of her index finer against the single button of her pants. That one button – he was transfixed. She stretched the moment out deliberately, then slipped the button through and slipped the zip down. If she’d taken a long time over unfastening her pants, she didn’t take much time in getting them down her legs and kicking them clear. They arced across the room and fell over the end of House’s baby grand.
Gambit two: He hesitated. Oh, for god’s sake.
For a moment she thought he was going to stop, but it was really only seconds before his fingers were back tracing up and down her thigh. Eventually, he slipped his hand up and fingered the edging on her panties. House rubbed his finger back and forth against it – back and forth. She simultaneously loved and hated the frustration. Cameron curled two fingers under the fabric and lifted it slightly, but enough. He gave up too.
House pushed one long finger into her.
Cameron had already started unbuttoning her shirt – she sped up. The bottom button was undone; she pulled the two halves of the shirt apart. House ran his gaze up her body. She unfastened the buttons rapidly, bottom to top. His mind seized and broke apart on her breasts, on her hard pink–brown nipples pushing up through her balconette bra. Enough. He wasn’t going to throw her out now and he’d had more than enough Scotch to stop thinking and just do this.
There were times when he’d worried that he was drinking too much. Now he thanked the gods for his proclivity for drinking alone. Just a little less and they would both already be asleep, and alone.
She was no idiot, but he knew he was sharper than her. He always had the upper hand, except that now she was lying in front of him in just her underwear and she’d know since she forced her way in the door that she was in charge. Beauty. A strange thing. She desperately desired him, but she was still more beautiful; she was still in charge.
Far too much consideration. House grabbed her wrist and pulled her to his bedroom as fast as he could move.
“You are so beautiful.” That tequila just kept on coming.
House just snorted in return, but that was enough for her. He had her backed up against the headboard, but she pushed up and ran the tip of her tongue down his neck. This time she got a low-pitched moan in return for her effort. Cameron worked the flat of her tongue over House’s jugular, then bit down hard.
“Ah, fuck!” He started.
She laughed lightly. “I lied. I am going to bite – hard.”
She ran her teeth down his left pec and nipped the tip of his nipple. He bucked back, but a smile was playing over his face.
There was a second where neither of them moved. Cameron lay back, motionless against his pillows; House hovered, suspended over her. Then he ducked down and pulled gently at her bottom lip with his teeth. She hadn’t known she was holding back at all until that moment, but as soon as she felt his lips and she closed her eyes, the room was spinning and there was a prickling pain in her chest. Open your eyes, Allison. You’re drunk. Except that that was bullshit. She was drunk, true, but the pain wasn’t just from alcohol.
She kissed him back and the pain eased up.
They kissed, alternately softly and desperately for three slow minutes, until it wasn’t enough. Forget tongues, forget fingers. His cock was rock hard and there was nothing else but to push up into Cameron. What started as a whimper on the first thrust, turned into a moan each subsequent time. House himself began silently, but, as he gripped under Cameron’s arms, hands hooked over her shoulders, he couldn’t help crying out. It felt ridiculously good for both of them.
There’d been no-one but hookers since Stacy. Sex with them was purely perfunctory, and half-baked reunion fucking was… unsatisfactory. As a widow Cameron had had nothing except for a bad drunken one-night stand and sex with Chase that she’d been too high to remember clearly.
But this, this was – life.