Second Helping
Sometimes you feel the urge to do something special. Something helplessly romantic and utterly stupid like buying flowers and placing a pair of turtle doves in front of the window, making them appear out of the blue like in a magic trick.
Writing letters on lavender paper sheets or inviting him to dinner, with a candle burning on the table that brings his eyes to shine. Just him and you in a cosy corner of a fancy restaurant.
Sometimes you wonder what is it about him that makes your rationality and your sharp mind fade into obscurity and vanish into thin air.
It's not that Chase would be planning any seduction, let alone he had the skills or the knowledge of some femme fatale.
He's just there, that's all. Here in your apartment; it's where you want him to be.
Every second without him you consider as being wasted.
It's enough to doubt your common sense and to interfere with your ever so cleverly renowned professionalism. Your logical way of thinking. What you have with him since he's moved into your place (in an obscenely established way so, you recall), you can't measure with numbers and statistics.
It should make you feel uncomfortable, but to your own surprise, it doesn't.
Only about an hour has passed since you woke up beside him, wrapped into the alluring scent of his youth that has merged with your sex after a pretty exhausting but astonishing night.
Right now he's standing there in front of you, doing the dish washing from breakfast like he had nothing else to do.
You relish the sight of his blond, streaky hair that curls in his rosy neck, both still damp and glistening with sweat.
His shoulders are slighter than yours, almost the shoulders of a boy's, though he's far from being scrawny.
You love his shoulders. Pale in the winter time, slightly tanned during the summer, with some cheeky freckles on them. They're just the thing - as is the rest of his appearance.
When he first applied for a job in your department, his attractive features helped to get it. Intelligence was boring.
Beautiful people take the easy road, they say. If it's true, it doesn't fit for Chase. Not entirely.
You can be rough on him, and it's not the first time you want to tell him how much you appreciate his willingness to please you. That sometimes you feel remorse about allegedly hurting him.
He would never ask you to stop, but begging for more instead. And you'd gladly act in response, but at the same time would do the best you can to cause him no unnecessary pain.
And yet sex with him arouses you in a way you'd never thought possible. He's as tight as a backdoor virgin, still. So tight that now and then you're afraid to tear him into pieces, not just metaphorically. As long as he begs – which is an incredible turn-on, that whimpering, panting and the cursing – it's fine with him, you say to yourself to soothe your conscience.
He's young. He can take a lot on both a mental and physical basis. He's used to that. As opposed to you, he knows how to take the good with the bad. If he didn't, chances were he would not even be your employee.
Because for every hardship he has been through in life, he's now your lover. Always adapting, always surviving and trying not to be any trouble for anyone.
Some would say he was sneaky. An opportunist. He can be, without a doubt, but that's beyond your business now. His slyness doesn't affect you anymore. It has never bothered you in the first place, for it's his own technique to make things run smoothly. You've figured him out, and he is nothing but devotion and desire when it comes to being with you.
At least that's what you keep telling yourself.
As if he'd heard your thoughts, he turns his head and casually puts the coffee mugs down into the kitchen sink. His eyes cast you. He's looking questioningly at you, a bit worried even, but he doesn't say a word.
You cling to him, propping up your chin on his shoulder, stroking his throbbing jugular notch and letting your hand trail down to his chest.
"You're okay?"
His voice in that thick Australian accent is soft and warm. Like is his skin. That immaculate, delicate skin. You bow your head to bury your face into his neck and lick off the salty sweat from his skin whilst inhaling his virile scent.
If it was for you, he wouldn't have to take a shower before leaving. Or, for that matter, never leave at all.
"Is it bad?" he inquires, startled all of a sudden. Not a muscle is stirring. Perfect. You should be green with envy by the view and the feeling of that lithe body, but you consider yourself lucky to sometimes become a part of it. "Shall I get you something?"
You shift him into a position that allows (or forces) him to lean against you. At first, he stiffs his back in anxiety to upset your leg, but he relaxes under your touch as soon as you draw him closer, his adorable cute ass pressing against your groin.
"All I need is right here", you say.
He must feel the swelling in your pajamas pants, because he gets on tiptoes and spreads his legs a bit. Just as wide so he can stimulate you between the firm buttocks of his before leading you further down by moving his hips and rubbing his thighs together that are covered with barely visible, fair-haired baby fluff.
It's not as if you have any comparison about what a man feels like when he touches and indulges you (or, on a related note, lets you touch him) and intertwines his limbs with yours in sexual excitement, but Chase, he has the smoothest body hair you have ever laid hands and tongue on.
Did you pay proper attention to the detail that he's naked? What a miss if you didn't.
He's made it a habit to be in the nude around the apartment since you told him that you love to see him without his clothes on. It gets you off to see him strolling from room to room like nature has created him; without any shame, without caring about the postman's tittle-tattle.
That's where you have been wrong all along. People can change. Chase did. And it's you who encouraged him to. It's ironic, but it's also nice and beneficial for the two of you.
He's like the little savage then you find in your bed or on the kitchen table. The couch. Sometimes tellingly moaning on the roaring washing machine in the basement.
Savage, you would accuse him mockingly, only to join the fun not a minute too late.
"So what do you need?"
"Same thing you do", you murmur into his ear, worshipping his body with your hands that gently graze over the outline of his taut abdomen and his waist to keep resting at his hipbones. Your examination and the low tendency of your voice send shivers down his spine; he's starting to tremble, his breath getting shallow.
"Not now", he whispers in protest, wiggling in your grip. "We'll be running late."
"Denial won't do, Princess. Your body's talking to me when your lips are sealed."
He chuckles with delight. As quiet as it is in the beginning, he makes it burst into a deep, lecherous sound. He wraps his arms around you from behind, hands on your ass, stroking downwards to handle your balls. A sudden rush of heat is rising to your stomach and takes possession of your entire body, floating through your veins and nerves.
To hell with your leg. It's not important. Nothing is when you know Chase is about ready to play.
"We just had breakfast."
His amusement doesn't conceal the fact that you're on the right track. However, you pretend to be pouting.
"No second helping? You don't want me to go hungry, do you?"
"It's not common, House", he reminds you reluctantly, and his self-defence is breaking down. He tilts back his head for a short, quick and teasing kiss that you reciprocate with a light bite into his sensual lips. Lips sweeter than a woman's.
"We're not common. How boring would that be? Rituals, on the other hand, they can be pretty challenging."
"Second helping after every meal, then", Chase decides, spinning on his heels to embrace you and to push you wantonly towards the bedroom.
You'd be an idiot to object.