Author's Note: Because I am sad to have no plans for the holiday myself, and because shipperfey's birthday and St. Patrick's Day in one shot was to cool to pass up. Happy Birthday!!!
No Discussion
It's a tradition now. Sometimes Wilson comes, but not tonight. He was there last Friday for dinner at Alchemist & Barrister. Tonight they meet at the Ferry House, because it's b.y.o.b. They've brought green beer. None of them is Irish, but what the hell. It's a holiday.
House arrives last, as usual. He has his choice to slide into the booth next to Dr. Foreman or Dr. Cameron. Not really a choice at all.
Foreman will be the first to talk; House will be the first to order. Everything about it is customary, which lends an air of comfort. Nevertheless, most of them are on their best behavior; there's an undercurrent of tension.
Foreman makes a conscious effort to keep the conversation moving: he fears an awkward silence.
Chase will talk the most. Of everyone here, he is the most comfortable because he's the one getting the girl. Every other night and twice on Sundays.
(Not tonight.)
Cameron is quiet, mostly speaking only when directly asked a question, only enough so that her silence will go unnoted by call me Robert Chase. She can't initiate a topic because she needs her full concentration to keep her mouth from pressing against House's again.
Warm, soft lips, and even his stubble is soft if you touch it on a down-stroke, and he tastes like a cherry lollipop. He tastes so innocent it can't be wrong.
(But it is, right?)
House will talk the least, for a number of reasons. If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything it all, and he can't really watch her while he's talking.
(Ah, yeah. He knows about Chase.)
Tonight green beer has made Chase cocksure and he puts his hand on her left thigh. She swats him away, hoping it's before House notices.
(No such luck.)
A discrete twelve minutes later, Chase is regaling Foreman with the story of his first c-section and House's hand is on her right thigh. She doesn't move, if anything she'll give it away by being too frozen. His fingers slide: inner thigh. She turns her head toward Chase and appears interested in his story. When he gently squeezes her leg she squeezes her pelvic muscles and wonders if he can tell.
(He can.)
Her finger tips brush his wrist, just a moment but it is clearly 'Yes but not now.' He smiles and withdraws his hand.
Foreman can walk from here, and Chase figures he has a designated driver: they get fucked up. Cameron is still sipping from her first, only half-empty green bottle.
(House isn't as drunk as he looks, boys and girls.)
Traditionally House leaves first, dropping "good night guys" and too much cash on the table. Things are not traditional tonight, and Cameron worries what will happen. If he does that, she thinks she would like to get rid of Chase and follow him to his condo. Which she will not do, because she's not a fucking idiot.
(Neither is he.)
House waits, casually having the waiter carry away nearly-full bottle after nearly-full bottle. When the beer is gone, the party is over.
They all end up in Cameron's car.
Foreman is dropped off first; the closest.
Chase is too out of it to notice he's second until Cameron says, "Goodnight Chase," parked outside his door. He stumbles out of the car, and somehow remembers to not attempt a kiss. They watch him until he's inside the front door, then she drives on in silence.
At his door: her seatbelt is unbuckled, her keys are in her hand—she opens her door the same moment he does. No discussion because there is no doubt about what's going to happen.
He holds the front door and follows her in. Cameron walks straight toward the bedroom, pulling her top over her head and tossing it aside as she walks. He thinks there could be nothing sexier than seeing it fall to the floor, until he sees her almost naked back. His mouth goes dry. Every muscle is delineated, smooth creamy skin between her black bra and dark-wash jeans. He shivers.
She steps into the room, and he watches as she reaches back to unclasp her bra. From behind he wraps his arms around her and slides his hands up her taught tummy to cup her breasts as he brushes her hair aside with his chin, then kisses her neck, making her gasp. His right hand slips into her jeans, and for a moment she's sure she'll fall. Instead she opens her jeans, giving him more access. When his middle finger slips between her lips and brushes her clit, she doubles over and lets out a breathy "oh."
She feels him pressing into her back; he's hard. Her pelvis rocks forward and backward, rubbing her clit against his finger and her ass against his erection. He groans and adds a second finger, pressing circles, lubricating his fingers inside her and then returning to her clit.
Now every breath she takes is a loud "ah." She has no idea what to do with her hands. She makes fists, slides her hands up her body and holds her breasts, slides them up to her face and presses her palms against her eyes as she moans, "Ohgod," and comes all over his fingers. He suddenly stops moving; just presses and feels her throb against the pads of his fingers.
After a moment, she curls her hand around his wrist and brings his fingers to her mouth; he groans again. She wants more of him in her mouth, so she turns and pulls his shirt over his head.
He is as gorgeous as she remembers, from the shower room.
She opens his pants; slides them to his knees. He springs free, and she wants him. Her hands on his shoulders gently lower him to sit on the edge of his bed. He points at the nearest drawer, and she puts the contents to use. She kneels, grips him, and presses the head against her closed lips, taking him into her mouth so slowly. Her tongue swirls around the head, then she takes him in until the head touches the back of her throat on each stroke.
Her mouth, her hands—the thought 'where did she learn that' is pushed aside by 'fuck yes, right there.' He grips her shoulders when he comes, and the look on her face is the new sexiest-thing-he's-ever-seen.
He bends his left knee and kicks against the bed to slide back till he's lying with his head on the pillows, then kicks free of his pants and shoes. He watches Cameron step out of her jeans and panties, then lay down on the bed a bit away from him. He pulls her close, so that her head rests on his chest and her legs wrap around his left one. His fingers tangle in her hair and massage her scalp, and she sighs heavily.
"Cameron, I love you." It's the first thing he's said to her all evening. She is silent while he pauses briefly, then adds, "There'll be no more…"
"Of course not."
He sighs. With that promise from her his stress drops away, and he wraps his arm around her; holds her tight to his side. He feels the warm dampness of her tears on his chest, then he tips her chin up to look into her eyes. His eyebrows rise.
"I'm sorry," she whispers.
He kisses her forehead and wipes her face. "I'm sorry too."
She rubs her cheek against his chest and sighs. "I've wanted you since the minute I saw you."
He smiles. "Me too."
"And I love you."
"Yes," he sighs.
She slides her hand down his body, he is almost hard again. She rolls over for a second condom, and deftly slips it on. She raises her knee and kicks it over him, straddling him.
"I want to fuck you all night long."
"Christ, Cameron," he says as she slowly slides him inside.
"Finally," she sighs when he's as deep as possible. She squeezes him, then begins to rock above him.
It is perfect—moisture, pressure, pleasure. It is all he can do to remember to breathe. Watching her above him—nude and damp—is more erotic than anything he's seen. On one stroke she squeezes him particularly hard and he groans aloud. He loses control and instinct takes over.
His hands grip her waist and he rolls her onto her back. Now her raven tresses frame her face on the pillow and she looks like a painting, or a goddess. He thrusts into her wildly, fast and deep. He manages to brush her lips with a kiss, and she breathes "House" into his mouth. He thinks he would give anything and everything to feel her come around him, and she does. Her brow furrows and her mouth opens as she breathes in gasp after gasp.
"Breathtaking," he grunts without stopping.
He would like to come. Now. But he would rather see, "Cameron. Come again."
"Again?"
"Now."
"Oh my god," she sighs.
Her hand moves between them to rub her clit, which drives him mad. "I'm gonna…oh, oh," he groans. She is spasming around him, coming with him. When he feels her hand stop moving, he pauses too; enjoying the last moments of being inside her.
Tomorrow at work: she will hand him a small plastic bag of his things—she will break things off with Chase. No discussion because he should have seen this coming.