Cameron was consumed, inflamed. With the heat of him, the heat of what might have happened. With him. It was an emotional fever coursing through her and she could pinpoint the exact moment she'd felt it begin to burn; the moment she had slowly pushed his bedroom door open. It had happened then, in the dark, in the smell, in the electricity she was generating out of thin air, heat had filled her. And that fervored heat was unlike any other experience she had ever had, with love, with him, inside herself.
It was agitation, chaos, confusion, delirium, disorder, turmoil. A driven-to-distraction mental uncertainty. She couldn't focus her eyes, had to keep one eye partially closed while the other stared unseeing, she sipped at coffee gone cold, pushed at the salad limp on her plate, walked vacantly through the corridors, nodding too late to friendly greetings, the hubbub of the hospital a dim sound muffled and far away.
Like a child preoccupied, she brought her fingertips to her mouth and sucked on her nails, licked at her cuticles and when she closed her eyes, she saw him in the dark bedroom, in the bed, beneath the sheets, the masculine shape of his broad shoulders, the sloping long side of him, the scissored legs, and one foot off the end of the bed. She thought of her hand on his arm, the solidness of his flesh beneath her hand, her voice cracking, wake up, wake up, House, wake up. And for the fifty-seven thousandth time, wondered why she had moved out into the hallway with the impatient wave of his hand, pulled the door partially shut behind her, and stood shaking in the dark as she strained to listen, hearing him climb out of bed and struggle into a pair of jeans.
She sat on the bench in the locker room, hands between her thighs, eyes closed and disappeared into a soundproofed room inside her skull, a room in which there were only mirror-lined walls, a wood floor polished to a honey glow, and she, herself, in leotard and bare feet, stretching down the length of her leg on the barre, forehead pressed against her knee and thinking of him with every stretching exhale.
One day, two days, three days and each with a long night spent tossing in her bed, turning beneath the sheets, the weight of the duvet and its down comforter not enough, not heavy enough, not enough. Waking up soaked to the skin, as though she really were infected with some form of disease, the core of her body melting outwards. On the fourth day, watching him move around the conference room, studying his long-fingered hands, looking for but not finding acknowledgement of her slow burn, she decided she would return, to his house, to his room, move into his bed and into his arms. She avoided Chase the rest of the afternoon and at home she showered twice. She went down onto her knees and dry heaved, was she sick? She wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand and stood wobbly.
His street was quiet, save for the roving toms and her pulse pounding in her ears. She walked briskly but without sound, slipped in the front door of his building, stepping across the hall, up on tiptoes to skirt out the key on the frame, key in its lock and the handle turning in her hand, slick against her wet palm. Inside, she closed her eyes, breathed in deeper, deeper, deeper. She pressed her back against the door softly, clicking it shut, pressing it closed.
She was surprised that the floor lamp beside the piano was lit. That had definitely not been on when she was here before; she clearly remembered the moonlit floors, the shadows in the corners and on the ceiling, the body memory of the glissade of her steps through the hallway. The lamp gave her pause. She stood uncertain, behind the sofa, uncommitted. She balled both hands into fists and pounded the sides of her thighs, always uncommitted, always on the edges of things, always too late, too late, too undecided, frozen by choices, paralyzed by consequences. She reached up and undid her ponytail, the dark hair falling loose, around her face, over her shoulders. She moved quickly into the hall.
And then, with her lungs so full of held air that they burned like fire, she was beside the bed. She knelt down and reached out a shaking hand, letting it drop to his shoulder. She could feel the heat of him through the sheet. Her eyes fluttered closed and she slowly breathed out, emptying herself.
"What took you three days?" House said gruffly.
She startled and pulled her hand back as though stung. He turned quickly and grabbed for her in the dark, finding her hand, bringing it to his chest. On his back now, he reached out with his other hand and pulled at her shoulder, leveraging her down on top of him, against him, his arm snaking out around her back, holding her fast.
"House?" Her voice was shaking.
"It isn't Chase. In case you were sleepwalking."
"You're awake?"
"I've been awake ever since you woke me up."
"You mean tonight? Just now?"
"Cameron," he said quietly.
She could feel the heat of his breath in her hair, against her neck. She was still being held fast in his arms, against his chest, her hips half on the bed half off. She pushed against the mattress, against his shoulder, trying to rise above him, over him, and suddenly he had the wide span of his hand on her lower back, the other gripping her shoulder as he flipped her beneath him, his thigh pressing between both of hers, his knee deep in the mattress, raising himself over her, the weight of himself on a forearm, holding her body up and hard against his own body. She gasped, her arms trapped in his embrace, arching her back. He buried his face in her neck, his mouth warm, his lips open.
Slowly he pressed her down, his hand still wide and warm on her back, her hand in his other hand, his fingers entwined with hers. He pulled her arm up and over her head, her knuckles knocking against the wooden headboard of his bed. House's bed. It almost hurt and she squirmed beneath him.
He lifted his head and his face was shadowed pools of dark and sharp angles of light. She knew he was looking down into her face, searching out her eyes. She closed them and breathed in through both nostrils, hard and deep.
"What are you playing at, Cameron?" he asked her but swallowed her answer, her words, her breath. His mouth was on hers, his lips chapped, the stubble of his face rubbing the tender skin of her lips.
With her free hand, she reached for his face, fingertips on the unfamiliar feel of his skin, his beard, the shape of his earlobe, the thinning curls damp on his temple, brushing them back off his broad forehead. Unfamiliar, unfamiliar, unfamiliar. Her hand ran down the sides of his neck, drumming at the thick cording of tendons and jugular.
He broke the kiss, pulled his face away from hers for a long moment in the dark of his bedroom, then with a resigned falling of his head, he laid his forehead on her shoulder.
"House?" she whispered.
Against her shoulder he shook his head no. No. No.
"Why?" she asked. "You don't want me? Why don't you want me?"
He laughed and the sound was shallow and Cameron heard finality in it.
"You think I don't want you?" he asked and pressed the hard length of his erection against her thigh, grinding his hips down into the soft inner v of her thighs.
She waited, biting her lower lip. She willed herself into silence. Her hand playing down the well of his spine, moving up beneath the t-shirt he was wearing, stroking at the heat of his skin. He moved away from this, releasing her from his embrace, out of his arms, fingers set free. He leaned up on one elbow, his head in his hand and reached for her hand with his other.
"I want you. I want you for me." His voice was almost slurred with a quiet softness. "But I don't want me for you."
"I don't understand."
"I know."
"House?"
"Cameron, go home. No, don't go home. Go find Chase."
She stood in the electric illumination of the hallway of his apartment building. His door shut behind her. She crossed her arms over her chest, rubbed at her biceps. She closed her eyes and shook her head. Quickly, she reached over her shoulders and braided her hair, tucking it into her collar. Slowly, she moved towards the front door and let herself out into the night.
She was cold.