My first foray into the House MD. I've been a fan for years, have written stuff in the past but they are still lurking in my computer, maybe to be worked on and posted in the future. This is something I came up with on a night/morning I had terrible insomnia.
Special thanks to innerurge1 and cjgwilliams so both offered their support and beta-ing skill for this one-shot.
Hope you enjoy it, drop me a review to let me know either way.
Angel
No-one in their right mind would want to visit him, so the sound of knocking at his front door took him by surprise.
He'd warned the only viable candidates for visitations for miles on end about visiting him unless invited and hardly thought they would try again. He briefly wondered if it was Paula, his usual girl from the agency he ordered his hookers.
Maybe it was Paula, though he couldn't remember calling for her services. Who knew what he'd do with her the state he'd put himself in?
When the knocking came again, this time a little more insistent, he cursed. Wilson or Cuddy wouldn't try again so soon, him having made his feelings known at their last visits.
He debated ignoring his would-be visitor, but the pounding was beginning to mess with his head, so he moved with as much haste a cripple, a drunken cripple at that, could.
He was a tall man, so when the useless little rug in the entryway tangled with his feet, the crash to the wood floor sounded like the impact of an ax-felled oak.
Rolling over and sitting up, curses blistered his tongue, the savage Greg House once again fully in evidence.
"My, my. How the mighty have fallen," she said from above him.
He glanced up in shock that someone had actually entered his apartment without him inviting them in, his blurry-eyed gaze encountering long legs and curving hips. Nope, this was definitely not Paula. His eyes lingered in a lap he'd definitely like to spend the next twenty-four hours in without pause. He grinned.
There was a good reason he'd warned away Paula and any other call-girl who might grace his door. In his drunken state, his usual tight control on his baser nature had evaporated. It was precisely why he'd made a vow long ago not to drink to excess around women.
No real woman existed like the one in front of him. House was left with the intoxicated conclusion that a sex angel had been dropped on his doorstep and God had packaged her in a tight tank top and even tighter jeans. If there was a deity looking out for him–something House seriously doubted considering he was sin personified, and he didn't believe in a higher being–said omniscient being would know how he loved nothing more than a woman in jeans that hugged every tight curve.
He unglued his eyes from the tempting junction of shapely thighs and looked up, turning to sit on his ass; grinning like the town idiot when he saw a glorious spill of brown and gold-streaked hair and small, perky breasts pressing snugly against white cotton.
"Well, well, well… What have we here?" he mumbled thickly as his hands reached up and over the back of the woman's thighs. His cock lurched when they encountered her tightly encased ass.
Finally, drunk enough to hallucinate; he was getting good at this wasted business.
"House, what are you…"
She abruptly stopped talking when he kneaded her two round ass cheeks in his palms. His face hovered next to paradise. It was amazing what a guy, who had no future and who daily tried to forget his past, might consider heaven, but there you had it. He closed his eyes and inhaled, catching the scent of cotton mixing with the subtle spices of woman.
No, it wasn't just his whiskey-soaked brain. It wasn't just the fact that he hadn't inhaled the scent of pussy in his nose in a godawful long time. Drunken hallucination or not, his angel was sweet.
He kissed her with an open mouth at the bottom of her zipper.
She gasped.
"And that doctor was preaching at me about rehab," he mumbled with derision. "You're just what the doctor ordered. This doctor of course, not the one with a rod up her ass who claims to be looking out for me. Come 'ere."
He spread his hands on her hips, liking the way he encompassed all those tight curves in his grip, and pulled. She fell onto his lap and thighs with a cock-tugging thud. He buried his face in fragrant hair and nuzzled. Inhaling her scent was like breathing in a potent opiate. He could get lost in this unexplained territory.
"House…what the hell are you doing?"
Did angels stun, because that was exactly how his sounded? He moved his head, leaning down a little to wedge his face in the valley of delicious breasts. "I'm enjoying my hallucination to its fullest," he mumbled as his hands came up to cradle those firm breasts. He held her against his face and twisted his nose in a fleshy nirvana.
His angel snorted. "You're not hallucinating. You're hammered. There's a difference."
She sounded derisive, but he'd heard the telling tremble in her voice when he pressed his lips against a nipple.
"One and the same if you can get drunk enough," he muttered.
He cupped one ass cheek and rode her jean-covered pussy against the ridge of his cock. She inhaled sharply and froze.
He knew why.
A powerful jolt of lust had torn through him as well. He'd thought his cock had been tamed with a combination of whiskey, Vicodin, and his own hand, but he'd thought wrong.
It had awakened, and not with a whimper but with a bang. In a matter of seconds, he'd been transformed by the power of volatile need. His thumb stroked the peak of a breast. He grunted, appreciating when he felt her nipple tighten; wasn't surprised she wore such a flimsy bra under the smooth fabric of her top. She was supposed to be his fantasy, after all, and Lord knew he preferred women wearing very little, if anything, over their breasts.
At least in the privacy of his mind that was his preference. In real life, he'd prefer they cover up and kept the beast in him from rearing its head.
Drunken delirium or not, tonight he was going to love every minute of letting the beast out of its cage. Tomorrow would come soon enough, and he'd be plunged into the abyss once again. But that moment wasn't now, thanks to his hallucinatory, blessed angel. He moved his head and slipped a fabric-covered, pointy nipple between his grinning lips.
"You're stiff as a bullet," he muttered a moment later. He wanted that flesh served up raw on his tongue. Nevertheless, he forced himself to still, his nose pressed against her still covered breast. "Do you want me to do this more?"
"What?"
"Do you want me to stop, or do you want me to see to the other one?" he clarified in a tight voice.
"I don't want you to stop." Her breathy whisper felt like a caress along his cock.
He moved hastily.
"House!" she cried out when he suddenly shoved her tank top up her body. She spluttered against cloth as he jerked the garment off her. He whisked aside the flimsy white satin of one cup of her bra, unveiling beautiful, pale flesh, capped by a small, hardening nipple. He paused, recognizing true beauty even with the feeble tool of his whiskey-pickled brain.
"Aw, baby," he whispered with a lecherous grin. His cock throbbed hard enough to make him wince when saw how his whiskey breath made her nipple peak even harder beneath it. "You're stunning."
Something between a whimper and a moan leaked out of her throat when he wrapped his lips around her nipple. His tongue moved like the fingertips of a blind man reading Braille. He learned every tiny bump with fascination. He coaxed the center nubbin until it pressed like a hard little dart against his loving tongue.
When he drew on her, it was as if he had also drawn that sexy, surprised cry from her lungs. Power and lust stabbed at him, heat rushed to his dick, and he once again rocked her against his straining erection. Her ass cheeks filled his palms and he was inundated with the scents of sex and flowers and the sensation of ripe, soft flesh. Heat penetrated her clothing and his own, resonating from her pussy to his cock.
He ground her down on him and rotated his hips, grunting when she gyrated against him in return.
Arousal reared up, a beast about to pounce. The feeling was so powerful, it sobered him for a very brief moment. He'd long ago schooled himself against the charms of nubile flesh and inviting smiles. Lord knew he'd been offered more than his fair share, more than a normal man.
But House wasn't a normal man. He'd made a point of that.
He blinked and a dark pink nipple came into focus. It was a rose-tipped delicacy, glistening wetly atop soft curves of mouthwatering supple, fragrant flesh. A snarl shaped his lips. A need to mate, hard and fast, swelled dangerously in his blood. He leaned down and latched onto the nipple again. Distantly, he recalled her other sweet breast, and he couldn't resist the temptation.
Her fingers clawed into his hair when he shoved aside the fabric covering her other breast and sucked on that nipple, a large hand moving to cup the one he'd abandoned.
"I hope I'm not hurting your leg," he heard her say through his haze of greedy lust.
He continued to feast on firm, responsive flesh. Did she know him? He doubted it. As a doctor, a world-renown doctor at that, he'd come into to contact with plenty of people who claimed to know him.
Besides, if he'd ever come face-to-face with a woman like this, he would have remembered. She was too sweet to be real, concerned about his level of pain, while his teeth drew on her nipple. She melted on his tongue and he drowned in her scent and flavor. His balls pinched tight and he reluctantly withdrew his mouth from her breast.
The necessity for haste jolted through him like an electrical shock. He jerked up his hips and she fell off him, long hair spilling over her face.
"I'm sorry, angel," he mumbled as he rolled on his hip and came up on his hands and knees. When he got there, he paused for a few seconds, willing his world to stop spinning.
"House… are you all right?"
"I'm good," he mumbled as he slowly, carefully, stood, putting his hands out for balance as though on he were on a lurching ship. "I may be as shit-faced as a sailor on payday, I'm in fine fucking form."
"Charming," he heard her say dryly when he grabbed his cock through his jeans and grimaced. He could tell by the tone of her voice that his angel thought he was being crude, but in reality, he'd been trying to alleviate the stab of lust that went through it when he noticed her shapely legs encased in tight denim and supple, calf-length leather boots.
His vision blurred as he held out his hand to her. She got up on her own, however, which indicated he'd hallucinated some brains along with all that firm, ripe beauty. Most likely, he would have stumbled and brought both of them down on the hard wood floor again. She stood, her hair falling in a riot of waves and curls around her shoulders–a fucking glorious display-the tendrils almost reaching her waist. He stretched his hand farther, longing to touch the burnished strands.
"Come on," she said, grabbing his hand firmly in her own. "I'm taking you to bed."
"Now you're talking," he agreed with drunken earnestness. He staggered after her down the hallway to his bedroom, almost hopping in his haste with his cumbersome bum leg, his eyes glued to the gentle, beguiling curve that led from her waist to her hips. He couldn't wait to peel those jeans off and expose the rest of that alabaster, juicy flesh.
In his drunken state, time seemed to flex and bend. One second, he'd been in the hallway leching over his angel's stunning ass, and the next, he was in the bedroom pulling her back into his arms and nibbling at her neck, the fragrance of her hair and skin deepening his intoxication of her. He bent and pressed her ass against his erection, a wide grin spreading when she squirmed against him.
"Greg House, behave."
Instead of stopping, his mouth grew hungrier on her neck and he felt the vibrations of her soft, helpless moan against his lips.
"You don't want me to behave," he growled against her ear before he pressed his mouth to her neck again. She shivered in his arms and he could feel her pulse, throbbing quick and strong beneath his lips. "Your heart is racing."
"That's because I'm trying to throw a six-foot-two drunken ass off me," she said acerbically, the sound playing at the corners of some memory. Where had he heard that tone before? Holy fuck! It sent a tsunami of need rushing through him. Almost like hearing it stirred a memory of long-standing desire within him, making his cock twitch and ache to be buried deep in the owner of that sweet voice.
But he definitely did hear the tremor in her voice, and that overrode any niggling memory. He knew what that tremor meant. And, no–it wasn't drunken wishful thinking, either. She had molded against him, like she couldn't stop herself from feeling his shape.
He opened his hand at her lower belly, his third and fourth fingers spreading easily down to her pubic bone. He liked how much of her compact, lithe body he could encompass with his hand. His actions didn't strike him as forward or inappropriate, only right and natural–soft woman against hard man. He pulled her closer, holding her captive.
She went completely still in his arms.
"I may be drunk and high, but I'm not an idiot. Don't tell me you don't feel that," he said gruffly, referring to the palpable heat that emanated from both of their groins, daring her to deny the obvious. His voice had gone hoarse with acute desire. Something about her scent and the feeling of her satiny, warm skin beneath his hand was turning him on, more than he'd ever been in a long time. Her body was a fine piece of equipment, stunning in every sense of the word. It wasn't her soft skin and delicate curves that were making him crazy. Or, at least it wasn't just that. There something about this angel that called to his soul, something about her scent that danced on the fringes of a memory…
"I don't think…" his angel started.
"Stop thinking. Just feel," he entreated in a whisper to her ear. "That's what I'm doing. Giving into something I've denied myself for too long. Have pity, beautiful."
If he didn't feel her wet, sleek flesh surrounding his cock very soon, he suddenly doubted his sanity would survive. Not that doubting his sanity wasn't a daily occurrence these days, but on this occasion, the possibility of losing his mind felt frighteningly close.
He placed one hand on her chin and pushed it gently, urging her to twist her face toward him. He plucked at her lips. Even though she didn't kiss him back immediately, she didn't turn away either. He closed his eyes and nibbled at her. It was like trying to coax a flower to open for him.
He reined in his lust willing her to respond as he shaped their mouths together tenderly, then with increasing fervor as the sensation of her invaded his awareness. His brain may have been taking a bath in alcohol, but he recognized her premium flavor nonetheless.
Something swooped up from his chest to his neck; it tightened like a clawed hand on his throat. It took him a second to recognize the sensation as blinding need.
"Open up, angel," he growled. "I've waited for this for so damn long."
When her lips parted, he swept down on her, drinking in her nectar thirstily, letting her taste coarse through his blood and flesh, allowing it to drown out his memories by a means exponentially more effective than whiskey.
She made a sound in her throat that he couldn't completely identify when he began to unfasten her jeans with fingers that had grown fleet from an onrush of distilled lust. Had it been surprise he'd heard in her voice? Arousal? Or uncertainty?
He didn't know, and he didn't care.
He groaned gutturally as he kissed her–well, ravaged her mouth in truth–and shoved down her jeans. One hand rose to caress the smooth skin of her hip and ass. Lust raged in him at the evidence of all that sweet, female flesh.
It'd been so long waiting for this, denying this.
The flickering thought galvanized him. He shoved her panties down next to her clinging jeans and then, regrettably, interrupted their kiss. She wasn't so hesitant in her response now; she'd been kissing him back with enthusiasm and heat that nearly equaled his own, tangling her tongue with his, twisting her face farther over her shoulder to get a better angle on his penetration. He ducked his knees and dragged her jeans and panties down to her shins.
She cried out in surprise–or possibly distress–at his clumsy seduction. He was back to reassure her in seconds, biting gently at her lips and penetrating the warm, wet well of her mouth again, a hand moving back up her body to roughly cup a breast in his palm. He wanted to kiss her forever.
He knew fucking her would prevent him from doing that, yet needed to do both.
When he heard her moan, deep and aroused, as she pressed her bare ass against a cock that was fit to pop, House found he couldn't take anymore. If he didn't get inside this tempting creature, he was going to take a trip to the asylum sooner rather than later.
He continued to kiss her, his hunger mounting uncontrollably, as he tore at his button fly. He impatiently shoved his jeans and then his boxer briefs down over his thighs, ignorant of his scar in that moment, fisted his cock and broke their greedy kiss with hissing sound.
"I'm gonna come right in my hand. I can't take any more of this."
He had a fleeting image of her delicate profile through tendrils of curling hair; her lips, parted in surprise, placing pictures in his head of them surrounding his cock, glistening with the gloss of her lipstick. He placed one hand on her hip, rubbing her in a soothing motion. Despite what he'd said–despite the need for overwhelming haste–he remained unmoving for a moment, his gaze glued to the sight of a compact, round, white ass with just a hint of a peach-tinted glow. He tested that flesh with one hand. Her giving skin was as soft as a flower petal, the flesh firm and succulent.
"Don't make me wait," he whispered, leaning over and nipping at an earlobe. "I want you so bad I think it's cutting at me from inside out."
He felt her hesitate, and for a split second, he knew true misery.
But then she brushed her ass against his erection again in a beckoning gesture and she bent at the waist.
"That's right. You're my angel. Put your hands on the bed, little angel," he said thickly as he moved behind her.
…
Allison Cameron grumbled to herself for the umpteenth time since she'd left the hospital. Why she had to be the one was anyone's guess. Why not Wilson, or Dr. Cuddy? No. House hadn't turned up to work for the fifth day running and she'd been the one the others had decided would be best to check up on him.
The first day without House had been quiet and productive for the team: Charts finalized, hours in clinic fulfilled, and research completed on improving diagnostic procedures.
The second day he'd been out, Wilson had ventured over after work following several unanswered phone calls from him and team. His thanks had been House's usual vicious tongue, his words cutting Wilson to the core, and the oncologist had left his friend alone with his whiskey, cigars, and Vicodin.
Dr. Cuddy was his visitor the fourth afternoon, well, she would have been if she'd made it through the door. Cuddy had told Wilson and the team House had simply slammed to wood back into place when she'd, politely, asked if he intended on working anytime that week.
So today, the guys and her boss, plus Wilson, had decided it was her turn to try and find out what was causing the brilliant doctor to ditch his work this time.
She had knocked hard on the green door, unsure if she was agitated that they had thought she could get him back to work, or flattered that they thought she had some form of influence over him. Of course, she knew that to be absurd. No one had influence over Gregory House, least of all her.
When she heard the thud of a large body crashing to the wood floor, instincts took over, her caring nature overriding whatever thoughts were rushing through her head.
She reached up, stretching her arm and rising to her tip-toes, to grope for the key she knew was hiding atop the door jamb. The brass object clattered to the floor when her fingers brushed against it and she bent to retrieve it quickly.
She slid it into the lock and turned, pulling it back as she twisted the knob to push the door open, a voice in her mind telling her to just get out of there; to leave House to the misery he so much enjoyed. But she ignored that soft voice and moved into House's domain.
Twenty minutes later, as she leaned over House's mussed bed and stared blindly at the wall while his cock slowly carved into her flesh like a hot knife through melting butter, Allison distantly realized she should have listened to that voice in her head. In fact, she should have refused to check up on her boss.
I've been waiting for this for so damn long.
Allison still had the capacity to refuse House until he'd murmured those words. Forget that what he'd said was probably forgotten in his whiskey-addled brain the second after he said it. Never mind that she was nothing more to him in those seconds than a willing female who would ease his pain, if only for a few short moments.
He'd spoken her wish as if it were his own.
It wasn't his wish, of course. If an angel had, indeed, dropped on his doorstep and offered him one wish, Allison knew what he'd wish for, and it wasn't her. His dick had just been doing the talking for him.
She shook with excitement as she leaned over that bed. House may not know her from a fantasy conjured in his drunk mind, but Allison was stone-cold sober. She gave her desire to him in the same way she'd offer him a bandage if he'd come to her bleeding.
She stood with her rear end in the air, her hands on House's mattress as the thick head of his cock probed her entry. The scent of him rushed into her nose: a hint of spicy soap, the lingering salt of his sweat … and the musk of his come.
It should have turned her off, to know that the man of her fantasies hadn't washed his sheets in weeks… maybe longer. She was typically fastidious about her boyfriend's hygiene. What if House'd had sex with a parade of faceless females in his bed before that moment, most of them hookers no doubt?
But it was House. And instead of allowing the thought to dissuade her, she spread her thighs an inch wider and sent her tailbone higher.
She bit her lower lip to suppress a cry when his cock sank several inches into her pussy. It was like harboring the Titanic in a narrow, burbling creek. When he made a sound, a mixture of a choke and a grunt, she exhaled shakily. The cry she'd trapped in her throat leaked out against her will.
"Shhh," he soothed. "Your pussy is as tight as the rest of you."
She clamped her eyelids closed at the sound of his lewd words. It was surreal to hear his familiar voice saying something so intimate… so illicit. Not that she wasn't used to inappropriate comments for him, that had been the norm for the past two years, but somehow, in this moment, the crudeness of his words was something she felt deep within her core. Almost like a spear of lust shooting to her pleasure center.
Emotion and a pounding sensation overwhelmed her as he stroked her hip and ass soothingly with one hand in a comforting gesture so unlike House. The fact that he held her other hip firm and steady while he worked his cock into her struck her as both bizarre and wildly arousing.
He began to pump, gentle but insistent.
"God must save pussies like this for dying men."
She jerked up, stopping only when he grunted and prevented her from moving farther with both hands at her hips.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" she demanded over her shoulder, narrowing her eyes with her indignation at his chosen words. Was he referring to the fact she'd married a dying man, or of House's recent scam of pretending he had cancer?
He thrust and his cock drove into her body, Allison gasped. Her hands dropping once again to the bed, bracing herself instinctively for the coming storm.
"Just being over dramatic, as usual," he said in a choked voice. He withdrew and plunged into her to the hilt.
"Oh God," Allison moaned, hanging her head. His cock was harbored deep, deep inside her. Did drunk men get this hard? He was hot, too. Was he feverish? her doctor's brain thought. She swore she could feel his heartbeat throbbing at the very core of her.
"All right?" he asked her. She blinked. His voice sounded very House-like all of a sudden.
She didn't have the ability to speak because his cock was lodged so deep within her, so she just nodded.
He began to fuck her and her vocal cords froze. He stroked her hip with one hand as though in reassurance, but the rest of his possession was purely primal.
"Aw, you've got a cunt so tight you're gonna squeeze the life out of me, every…last…drop," he mumbled, pumping his hips to emphasize each of his words. Allison's mouth gaped open as sensations overwhelmed her. House was as lustily loud in the midst of his pleasure as she was silent. The deep, throaty sounds of his groans, as he thrust in and out of her filled her ears; he grunted in satisfaction each time his balls slapped against her engorged flesh. A hot white jolt of pleasure shooting through her with every hit to her clit.
Allison would have loved to show Greg House that she was an experienced, sexy woman. But she couldn't do much of anything at that moment but allow pleasure to slam into her, each successive wave more powerful than the last. She'd never been filled in the way House filled her. He ducked his hips slightly when he pumped into her, straightening when he withdrew, creating an extra jab of stimulation that caused her clit to sizzle.
A flicker of concern coursed through her when she thought about their position and what impact it would have on him. Obviously the whiskey he had drunk, and whatever drugs he had taken, had dulled the pain in his thigh considerably for him to be able to thrust so forcibly into her in this position, but how would he feel in the morning when the pain would be intense and… a particularly forceful thrust pushed her concerns out of her mind.
Previously, Allison had jadedly believed that the G-spot was an urban legend perpetuated by Cosmopolitan magazine.
House taught her differently.
He spoke to her while he fucked her, and what he said had Allison rolling her eyes back in her head in mounting arousal.
He held her hips tighter and lifted. Allison squealed when her boots came slightly off the floor. Her hands faltered on the mattress, but she caught her weight on her elbows. Both of them shouted when he plunged his cock into her at this new angle.
"Oh," Allison yelped, all concerns regarding his pain fleeing.
"Aw, yeah, that's good," House growled as he withdrew until just the head of his cock was lodged in her heat. Allison gritted her teeth, knowing what was coming. He held her hips captive in his hands and pounded his cock into her from head to balls. She squealed at the impact of him massaging that magical spot deep inside her. Her orgasm loomed and she panted with her need. He held her lower body at his mercy and slammed into her with rapid, shallow thrusts.
Allison pressed her cheek to the mattress, her muscles trembling, signaling her release was imminent, and then she shuddered violently as her orgasm erupted. Through her haze of swamping pleasure, she distantly heard House.
"You're so fucking hot," he gasped, pausing with his cock fully sheathed. He grunted in pleasure, and Allison knew he felt her orgasmic convulsions. His low growl sounded a little dangerous.
She shrieked when he resumed fucking her, fast and furious. Within seconds, she felt his cock swell, the sensation sending a powerful shiver of ecstasy rippling through her flesh. He thrust into her one last time, the strike of their perspiration-damp skin sounding like the sharp pop of a firecracker.
Allison opened her eyes wide when House placed her feet back on the floor. She felt his body going rigid as his orgasm blasted through him. His strangled grunt morphed into a shout pf pleasure. His penis jerked inside her and she grimaced, her vagina instinctively clamping around as he came. His muscles tightened and loosened again and again as unloaded his seed deep within her.
When his convulsions lessened, he leaned over, his jagged pants blending with her moaning breath.
"Sweet Jesus," he groaned almost incoherently.
"He's got nothing to do with it," Allison mumbled and she felt him scoff gently at her remark. When he'd spoken, she'd felt the warm vapor of his breath on the back of her shoulder. She glanced back when he began to move his mouth as he panted, caressing her with his lips. Her core tightened around him again and he groaned against her shoulder blade. The sensation of his cock lurching deep inside her – and the resulting surge of heat in her pussy – brought reality crashing in on Allison.
"House?"
"Yeah?" he mumbled as he shifted her hips slightly, stroking her insides with his sated penis.
"That's enough."
"Who says?" he slurred against her shoulder.
"I did," she emphasized. The beginning of panic began to flutter in her belly. She pushed up off the bed and House grunted when she attempted to push his weight off her. He straightened and his still-formidable cock slid out of her body.
"Spoilsport," he accused. Allison stood and nearly fell on her face as she tried to turn. She cursed and bent to reach for the panties and jeans binding her shins. She straightened a moment later, pulling her clothing up to loosely cover her nakedness, spiting her long hair out of her face as she pulled the material back over her still exposed breasts, and paused, the feeling of wetness between her legs both alarming and incredibly erotic.
House had already fallen into the bed. He lay on his back, his head on the pillows, torso twisted, and his feet hanging off the mattress. His eyes were closed, but Allison noticed how pale he looked beneath the shadow of his whiskers and she wondered if it was as a result of the pain she was sure would be coursing through his leg, or from the swill of alcohol in his body.
"House… are you going to be sick?"
"Course not. What'd ya think I am? An amateur?"
Her mind flashed back to just moments ago when pleasure had splintered through her flesh. One thing was for certain; Greg House was no amateur when it came to sex. Even in his drunken state, he'd been utterly in control…. masterful. Allison steeled herself against the powerful vision she was sure they had made.
"I think you're gonna be sick, that's what I think."
His arm dropped from where it'd been resting on the pillow, his muscles relaxing.
"Always the doubter, eh, Cameron?" he mumbled before nestling his cheek into the pillow and passing out.
She went incredibly still at the sound of her name on this tongue. It had been the first time he'd acknowledged her all afternoon. Had he known her all along? she thought, incredulously. She instantly vetoed that idea. It was just the casualness of their conversation there at the end, her typical refusing to accept his first version of events that made him think of her–Cameron–before he passed out.
Before that, she'd just been a warm, willing body–a role Greg House would never give to Dr. Cameron, his underling and student.
For a few seconds she just stood there, undecided about what to do next. She was paralyzed by her disbelief of what she'd just done.
She'd just had sex with her boss.
It didn't matter that it was something she'd fantasied about for the past two years or so; she'd conditioned herself to believing it would never happen. Even after their shared kiss, she'd been resolved that nothing would happen between the two of them, no matter how hard and intense he'd kissed back. She'd been on a sort of mission to, at least, have some form of friendship with him, and within a matter of serval minutes, her entire world had changed. If she got in her car and drove away, chances were he'd never remember she'd been there. The idea tempted her.
She bit her lower lip, her gaze roaming over House's body and lingering on his groin. His cock was moist and softening, but still firm and beautifully shaped. Her core tightened with desire and her cheeks heated.
Good God, she was staring at a man who was dead drunk and she was getting turned on.
Had it really happened? Had Greg House really just been deep inside her?
The drying moisture on his cock brought her attention back to the wetness seeping into her panties, the feeling of thick fluid high on her inner thigh giving her a start.
And why the hell had she allowed him to come inside her?
House had an excuse, of sorts, for his impulsive idiocy. Not a good excuse maybe, but a comprehensible one. He'd been drunk.
Allison had no excuse, or at least not the sort of excuse a grown woman should claim when she knew better.
At least there was no chance of her getting pregnant. The timing was completely off, and she was covered with birth control. It was little consolation, everything considered, but Allison would cling to that threadbare comfort for now. It was the thought of any sexual transmitted infections that made her mind whirl.
What had House said once. It's the ones we trust that pass on the diseases. She knew she was clean but she had no clue about him, though she knew he was a sticker for using condoms, as she was. Until they hadn't.
She moved softly through the space of his bedroom and through into the bathroom, swatting a light on and hoping it didn't wake the now gently snoring House. She hastily unzipped her boots, pulling them impatiently from her feet before she pushed down her jeans again, this time stepping out of the denim completely.
She haphazardly opened drawers before her gaze landed on shelving on the opposite wall. She pawed through thinning towels, sighing when her thin fingers found a wash cloth tucked toward the back of the shelf. She ran it under some warm water, lathering it with soap from a small dish she found by the sink.
She glanced back into the bedroom, to reassure herself he was still asleep, before she pulled her ruined panties from her body. She balled the soft fabric in her fist, her hand hovering slightly, at a loss of what to do with them. Spotting a waste basket, she smirked as she tossed them in. Let him find them and forever wonder who had left them there, she thought.
She washed herself gently, her flesh still engorged and tender after House's intense fucking, her lips curling up uncontrollably at that thought. Once she was clean, she debated what to do with the cloth. If she left it on the side, she couldn't be sure he wouldn't just use it, and she wrinkled her nose at the grossness of the thought. She hadn't seen a clothes hamper anywhere, so she couldn't drop it into a pile of laundry. In the end, she tossed it into the waste basket along with her panties.
She dried her thighs quickly, using a towel from the shelf not the one hanging from the rail, folding it neatly on the corner of the vanity when she'd finished.
She redressed quickly, sans panties, wriggling her bottom into the tight denim and pulling her boots back on.
When she returned to his bedroom, she saw he hadn't moved an inch while she cleaned up. She gave a fleeting thought to cleaning him, her eyes again focusing on his glorious penis. She shook that thought away, not completely trusting herself to only complete that task.
He looked incredibly uncomfortable, his body twisted in the bed, and she gave a thought to the pain he would no doubt be in come morning, or when he woke.
She stepped forward with determination. He shifted in his sleep and mumbled something when she gingerly lifted his feet off the floor. Allison froze when her name tumbled from his lips again, the content unintelligible but it was there nonetheless. When he once again began to breathe rhythmically, she swung his long legs fully onto the bed.
Luckily, his feet were bare, so she had only minimal trouble jerking his lowered jeans and underwear off his legs and feet. There was no way she could get his shirt off without risking waking him. She compromised by tossing the blanket over him. He probably would assume he'd started to undress for bed and fallen on the bed in his drunken state halfway through.
She walked quietly out of his bedroom and back down the hallway to the living room. She found her tank top he tugged from her body after some minimal searching and pulled it back on, freeing her hair caught in the back of the material as she turned to take in the room.
If she didn't know any better she would have suspected he'd been robbed, given the disarray of his belongings.
She sighed as she moved briskly through his personal space, collecting beer bottles, an ash-stacked ashtray, and an empty whiskey bottle as she went. She carried them into the kitchen, setting the bottles on a countertop already cluttered with several empties and opened a cabinet under the sink to dump the ash in the trash can she found there.
She returned to the living room and straightened couch cushions and scatter pillows that lay haphazardly. She wondered if she should crack a window to help rid the space of the stale stench of cigar and the lingering scent of alcohol but nixed that idea quickly. House wouldn't thank her if he really did get robbed while he was passed out in bed, not that he would remember who to blame in the first place.
Her gaze landed on the small yellow vial of Vicodin set on top of the black baby grand and, knowing the pain he would be in once he woke, she snatched it up. Collecting a bottle of water from the kitchen, she moved back into his bedroom and crossed to the bedside cabinet on the right side of the bed. She set the objects down, noting the mesh waste basket to the side of the furniture and moved it next to the bed, just in case.
With one last look to the man snoring softly in the bed, her lips twisted into a gentle smile. It didn't matter if he remembered or not, she would never forget.
She picked up her purse, long forgotten by the front door, and left.