My hands have washed too many dishes. That's probably why. They've spent five too many years crumpled around a cane, that's why he shivers and tightens when they run unevenly down his sides. His shirt is still on, the ordinary pale blue one that hides his thickening frame, and his suede jacket is lying on the hood of the car. I reached into the coat a while ago and peeled it off. His waist is solid and smooth beneath the fabric.
Or maybe he's just cold; the chill in the parking garage is kind of pervasive, and the whole place smells like fermenting leaves. His posture tells me that he's uncomfortable, itching to get into the warm car, and yet there's a permanency in his gaze, in the way that he blinks at me, that urges me not to stop just yet.
Then I feel adventurous and decide to yank the shirt out of his dress slacks, and that's when he grips my wrists and pulls away, flustered.
"Ho--kay, what is this? Are we flamenco dancing? I don't remember agreeing to any lessons at the advanced level- because I think that's where they start gripping each other tightly. "
"I was only trying to feel your skin, Jimmy."
"I don't have eczema, or psoriasis. I'm fairly sure that if there were any big bruises, there would be a ridiculous story behind them and I would have told you about it and we would have laughed."
He's talking really fast, trying to make up for the last thirty seconds in which he completely submitted to my touch. This is his turnaround. I haven't ever tried to touch his hip skin before, especially not in the hospital parking garage, but I just know that he's scrambling to find a hundred reasons why I shouldn't.
"I just- well, kind of want to touch it anyways." I mutter.
For fifteen years, I have rolled my eyes over several loud, voluntary admissions of "I had such great sex last night" over lunch in his office. I have heard from a bitchy Bonnie, in supposed confidence, that he is actually quite a skilled monkey in bed, and so his need to update me every Monday morning isn't necessary. Bits of me are already unwillingly imagining it.
He also drops out blaring hints about Cuddy, brotherly advice to "just get over yourself and sleep with her." I'm aware that Cuddy is a reasonably attractive woman, but in a very obvious way, like the 50-year old 'biker chick' who circles around the hospital with peroxide-blonde hair and a pink Moped with 'Cougar' blazing across the engine. Cuddy's cleavage, her crayon-red suits, they all yell, "LOVE ME!" Yes, she's intelligent, but her snarky comments seem almost programmed. They seem to direct my attention back to her, eventually, hit upon some way that I'm affecting her life. She's all laid out for me, like a picnic basket lined with a tablecloth, the sandwich crusts cut off just the way I like it.
Wilson doesn't compute, throws out small fishing lines to me and rolls them back in before I have a chance to even bite. He doesn't tell me directly that he wants any part of me. But I guess I've never told him anything either. So I don't know where this sudden surge of affection is coming from; maybe it's just compressed frustration – or me curious to find out how he'll react.
"Er, um, okay. You go right ahead. I'm just going to call House to see what he thinks."
I frown. "I'm not molesting you. Unless this fits the plot of one of those late-night crime shows you watch. 'Cane-wielding cripple sexually assaults kindly male doctor in hospital parking garage, man ends up with cane up his ass,'" I announce in a haunting voice.
"You're bizarre." A tiny smile creeps onto his face, but he's still looks anxious. "That isn't what you're planning to do, is it? If so, I want to go back up there and fill out some more death reports."
"Not right away, anyways." I respond by putting my hands right where they were before, but I slip them under his shirt and rest them on his growing 'love handles.' He squeals and jumps, but doesn't clutch my wrists this time, and more importantly, doesn't refuse. I rub my palms over the hot skin, relishing the feeling of someone else's body, Wilson's body, responding to my touch in a manner that isn't clinical. He shuts his eyes forcefully, and his whole frame relaxes as my hands create friction against his waist. He's moving slightly in response to my pressure, and his own hands, weighted by his large silver watch, hang heavily at his sides.
No noise escapes his lips, which are pushed together in a thin line. He's determined not to verbally confirm that he's enjoying it, until my middle finger sneaks up and brushes his nipple. He lets out a quick puff of air, and I smirk up at him triumphantly, but it doesn't matter, because he doesn't see me. We're standing close enough to the car that the back of his knee is brushing the little metal grating on the front, and I have no place to put my neck, standing here, awkwardly mapping out Wilson's chest, which is spattered with coarse hair under my fingers. Like a first-aid attendant performing the Heimlich manoeuvre, I stick my left leg between the two of his for leverage and grip his waist, pushing him back against the car's hood.
When he snaps open his eyes, I'm leaning over him, my hands still up his shirt. I'd always imagined him on the bottom, the passive, submissive one, but the obvious fact that it's me leering over him and not a lanky blonde seems to jolt him, makes him sceptical.
"This is the perfect position for you to pull out your switchblade."
"Are you saying that you don't trust me? That just because I'm an older, unpredictable drug user, that I'LL take advantage of YOU in some horrific way? I thought you were the one who took control during sex."
"How do you know?"
"Bonnie told me," I say.
He nods almost imperceptibly and leans up; using his hands to support his weight, and thrusts his lips at mine. He misses by half an inch, but the hot, wet feel of his open mouth, even on the crux of my chin, sends a marching band of tremors into my groin. He continues to dart all over the lower half of my face, soft, puckering kisses and slips of tongue. Man, he definitely has something to prove.
His arms are shaking and his face is red from the effort of holding himself up. In one swift motion, he pushes himself off of the car hood and launches his palms onto my shoulders, snatching my lower lip in his mouth and leaving me scrambling to balance.
"She didn't lie," I mumble into his face.
He chuckles and locks his arms around my neck, pads of his fingers weaving through the soft hair there. We're close enough that I can feel his nascent erection, something that he will be ashamed to admit tomorrow.
The hardness in my pants is bumbling to meet his, and the marching band has moved to a full-scale orchestra, with lumbering tubas and bright, colourful trumpets. I feel a strong need to grab his dick, if only to stop the friction because I'm going to explode. But he's faster, loosening one of his hands from around my neck to wander up the inside of my thigh. He has to do something wrong soon, I've decided.
"Which level of lessons are we at now?" I mumble into his ear.
He only sways his hips as he rests his palm between my legs.
"I don't even think I registered for the class." What a smooth operator. I wish I could do that. But his hand is moving now, so there's no time to wish.