Disclaimer: I do not own House.
Their rendezvous on the train yesterday is the only thing that's been on his mind
Their rendezvous on the train yesterday is the only thing that's been on his mind. The morning sun strokes his face as he lays awake, and he thinks of her, "the evil lying bitch," as he pet-named her. The itch in his throat, a disturbance he can't rid himself of.
He rests one hand behind his head and reaches his other hand to the hardness in his pajama pants. Closing his weary eyes he sees her in front of him, standing in the abandoned train.
Even in his fantasy, her eyes look cold; her face appearing hateful, like that smirk she gave him when she told him she doesn't remember. Still, she steps toward him and kneels and with that same smile she unzips his trousers and looks up to meet his glare.
It's not sex that draws him to her. He could always pick up the phone and call an agency, get a woman far prettier and far more obedient. It's not love either; he knows too damn well not to make that mistake, and she is still just a stranger.
It's curiosity, game of the devil, she is hiding, running away. And the more she runs the more vengeful his feelings become.
He comes…grunting, with the image of her lips around his cock.
House barges into Wilson's office, being greeted by that same semi-frustrated, semi-annoyed expression. There is a silly look on House's face. He limps through the room quietly and then rests himself on the comfortable sofa, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling thoughtfully.
Wilson anticipates some endearing remark to come through, but instead there is nothing. He simply lies there, resting and pretending to think.
House was always big on pretending, just the way he pretends to have forgiven Wilson. The only reason he haven't sank his fist down his face is because he has his vicodin. They try so hard to part him away from his favorite candy, yet they have no clue what a big of a favor he is doing to them by using it.
Wilson is the one to cave in first and opens his mouth to speak.
"I trust that you never heard of knocking..."
He widens his eyes in fake bafflement while stretching his legs on the handles of the sofa, "Why would I do that? What if you're banging Cuddy on the desk?"
Wilson rolls his eyes and then places the memo he's been reading neatly on the desk. "What do you want, House?"
He sighs deeply and stares at the blank air contemplatively. The woman from rehab comes to mind, "I met a girl…"
Wilson furrows his brow with confusion, disbelieving the words coming out of his friend's mouth, "You mean one that you didn't hire for an hour?"
House scoffs briefly and then retrieves his glare to Wilson, smiling faintly.
Wilson's face becomes even more bewildered. "You know being off the vicodin makes you really… peculiar."
House suddenly begins to cough and then makes a silly face "Yeah regarding the vicodin… I never really quit."
"What?!" Wilson exclaims shocked, looking almost too panicked "What do you mean by that?"
"I think I just told you…" House answers, shrugging and making another silly expression.
Wilson passes his hand on his forehead, rubbing his face with frustration. His best friend, Greg House, the person who one day will bring him to the point of a nervous breakdown. "This whole time? You pretended? Does Cuddy know? Does Tritter know??" He asks urgently.
"Keep your voice down", House demands "You think I'd be crazy enough to tell Cuddy? She'll chew my head off."
"And… and… the drug tests? How do you get away with it?" Wilson asks, his voice starting to slightly stammer, a sign for him beginning to lose his control. Sometimes being bets friends with House is like a scary theme park ride, he never knows what to expect.
House smirks again, all full and proud of himself. "It's a good thing I'm a head of the diagnostic department, I get access to those neat things called "labs"."
Wilson shakes his head with disbelief and frustration. After all they went through, the fight, the betrayal, nothing really changed. He was a fool to think there is a way to save House. One way or another he'd find a way to self-destruct.
"So who is this girl?" Wilson asks curiously.
That's a tough question; even House doesn't know who this girl is. All he knows is that she'd rather die before admitting they shared a night together.
"She's a 20 something sex addict I met at the rehab. Well, at least I think she's 20 something, I never asked." He speaks.
"Wait, wait, wait!" Wilson calls "She's a sex addict?"
"Don't worry, she's clean." House smirks playfully "I double checked."
Wilson makes a disgusted face and then shakes his head with disbelief.
"She was at their support group, you should have been there; you won't believe the stories…"
"So you went to rehab to get a girlfriend?" He cuts in.
House's smile begins to vanish and his face remains cold and distant, "She is not my girlfriend…I hardly even know her name, we just had sex."
"So why is she significant?" Wilson asks.
Why is she really so significant? Why can't he forget about her? Why does she struggle to hide behind a mask of lies? She is nothing special, not by looks, not by intelligence or any other talents that she may posses. He imagines that he would have lost her in the crowed if he never met her.
But he can't now, not anymore.
"She's not…" He replies and then rises slowly from the sofa, leaning on his wooden cane for support. Wilson raises his brow, staring bewildered. He hates it when he leaves in the middle of the conversion.
"I just wanted to make you jealous, because I have a sex life." House slips in the finale snide remark, just before leaving the office.
Over the last few days, she's been toying with the idea of searching for him; her dark grumpy looking doctor. He's been on her head more than anything else, snaking his way into even in her sleep. She closes her eyes and sees him, waiting for her in the empty train station. Coat - long and black, eyes - piercing blue.
It was lust, pure and twisted, more than what she is used for. He is so strong, mentally, physically, despite his disability he had her in his demand, he still does.
There is simply no escape from him.
While sitting in front of her computer at home, she shuts her eyes for a minute, remembering how his hand went everywhere and his fingers slipped inside. A deep moan rolls out of her mouth, as if she could feel his touch.
Why him? Out of every handsome man she slept with, why is he the only one she longs to see again, to be pressed down by his heavy weight, stroked, licked, fucked, and properly used. Just for a sweet one more time.
"Why did you ever follow me?" she asks, snapping back to reality and then reaching to light a cigarette. He doesn't seem like the type to fall in love, nor does she expect him to. He was the one who left her there alone in bed after all, and now he is back, haunting her in any possible way.
He picked his open wound, and she follows. So addict to her own insanity, she tortures herself with the thought of him.
His name an address appears on her screen, and a small smile greets the following information as if it was some pleasant gift.
His fingers stroke the keys slightly, producing a tender melody as he sits and plays his piano. He stares at nothing, playing thoughtlessly, mind numb after one glass of scotch, while his thigh is screaming with pain.
A soft knock on the door interrupts. He turns his head with a shallow grunt, staring at the wooden door confused. He doesn't have many visitors these days. People attempt to get closer, thinking there is something more to him, and he successfully alienate them, showing them there is no reason to bother. He is empty, drained.
Unwillingly he reaches for his cane and begins to limp toward the door.
Peering at the hole he is dumbfound and irritated at once, what sort of wicked game should this be? For a moment there he considers stepping back and ignoring her until she'll go away, but then it will seem stupid seeing she tormented his mind for too long.
He sighs; feeling like a fool caught in a web of circumstances and then finally opens the door for her, greeting her with a suspicious stare.
Uncertain if to speak, if to smile or simply take her feet and run away as far as she can, she stands there looking teenager like. Her fists are clenched, and her lips half parted. For some reason he frightens her, and she is uncertain why. Maybe it's because he seem like such a powerful man, and maybe because the frown he gives her chills her to the very core. Confusingly, she likes the shiver he gives her. This is fun, like a twisted little game.
He remains unmoved, waiting for her to explain, to speak, to stop looking like a lost young lady. She seems nothing like the sex crazed woman he met that same night. He even considers her to be somewhat boring at the moment. Impatient as he is, he decides to be the first to speak, maybe that way they'll end this tiring dance and he could go to bed and get some rest. God knows he's been needing rest.
"I don't think we've met before." He speaks, attempting to get back at her for the last time they met.
She scoffs silently, finally showing any sort of life signs. "I guess I deserve that." She answers. The smile remains of her face for a few seconds and then slowly fades when she sees he is not as amused.
His glare is anything but friendly, she violated his serenity long ago, made a fool out of him and now she is invading his territory as well. Did she honestly think he'd be thrilled to see her again?
"How did you find me?" He asks her suspiciously while carefully, examining the long black dress she is wearing and her high heels. She looks as if she is going to an evening dinner, and if he didn't know better he'd imagine she came there to seduce him.
She shrugs plainly and then leans one hand against the doorframe, feeling her confident slowly growing back. "Phonebook, internet, it's not that hard these days. I remembered your name and let's say it's not a common one."
He smiles sarcastically and shakes his head with disbelief, feeling hatred growing in the pit of his stomach. This girl, whoever she may be, is more wicked than she looks. She knows his name, where he lives and possibly where he looks, and all he knows about her is that she is probably unstable.
"Remind me to write an angry letter to those in charge of the internet," he replies dryly.
She allows herself to smile in retort, finding it safe to be entertained and amused by his cynical, bitter nature, which then seems to be a great mistake. He never softens to her; he simply remains cold and untrusting.
"Why are you here?" he asks in an aggressive tone, "I thought you wanted nothing to do with me."
Her smile and confidence fades within seconds and she pulls herself to stand straight, removing her hand from his door frame. It's a difficult question to answer. She is asking herself the same thing ever since she arrived.
"Aren't you going to invite me inside?" she asks, avoiding his question with elegance. Her eyes peer above his shoulder for a split second, observing the scenery inside. She is curious, dead curious to see what kind of a man is standing in front of her. She might know his name and his residence but he is a hard man to read and an intriguing one as well.
He looks at her tired, and then without even bothering to shake his head he simply answers "No."
Yet she is stubborn little thing, perhaps even more stubborn than him. She shows no signs of defeat and simply stands there, holding her arms crossed around her chest and her glare demanding. After a short battle of glares he finally sighs and paces back, allowing her to walk inside.
Stepping into his apartment she feels this is a trait not many people have won. He is a private man, and there is only so much one can learn from seeing someone else's house. She observes her surrounding slowly, picking whatever information she can.
He is a man of knowledge, and culture. His living room surrounded by books, music albums and expensive pieces of art. She also learns that he is a music man, noticing a small collection of different guitars and the large piano that he owns.
She turns to look at him with an impressed grin, while he closes the door. "Was it you playing the piano?"
"What do you want?" he answers immediately, ignoring her question. "There is nothing I want or can give you, so we better just stop playing games."
She sighs, knowing she can't avoid answering him forever. He will not give up, not again. Collecting whatever piece of bravery inside her, she breathes in deeply, and begins to slowly pace toward him.
He observes her carefully, examining her body movement, and the features of her body. Sometimes he hates being a man, there he is, wanting nothing to do with her and yet she successfully arouses him, it makes him feel like a complete fool.
"I'm sorry I lied." She apologizes, walking slow like a cat. "I really don't like you, I hardly ever wanted to see you again, so please don't interrupt this as something it's not."
He scoffs and turns his gaze away from her as she comes to stand closer. Her scent plays with his nose. She wears so much perfume that it's simply impossible not to smell it. Now he remembers how dangerous she is, and he curses himself for letting her into his house.
She grins as she stares up at his face, knowing just how vulnerable he is at the moment. Women have at least one power over men, and she knows how to use her power well. He may be tall and strongly built, but a small gal like her can make him just as insecure.
"What is it that you want then?" he asks her, retrieving his glare to look at her again, surprised to see that same woman he met 4 months ago. There she is, seductive, playful. If he didn't know better he would have guessed she has a sever case of split personality.
"What did I want from you at first place?" she asks, smiling cunningly.
He frowns at her, unable to understand why a girl like her would pick on someone like him. Even now they couldn't be any more impossible when she stands in a fancy dress and he is in a worn pajama pants and some old t-shirt.
"If you're looking for a boyfriend you can forget it." He protests. She chuckles immediately, exposing two dimples near the sides of her lips.
"I am not looking for a boyfriend."
"You're all looking for a boyfriend and a husband to be," he taunts her. "It's in your nature."
"Right," she comments sarcastically "I'm here because I want you to father my children with your cripple seed"
He rolls his eyes with annoyance, again avoiding looking at her. She has some nerves as he already noticed before.
She inches closer, placing a hand on his chest and stroking gently. She doesn't remember being attracted to someone the way she is attracted to him. He is everything a woman should run away from, and there she is, running toward him.
"I'm at least ten years older than you." He warns her, looking down at her big exploring eyes. Trying to give both of them excuses why not, then he moves away from her touch, ignoring it as if it is nothing and limping toward his couch.
She turns after him, smiling with joy because she knows very well he is avoiding her for the fact that she made him uncomfortable.
He sits himself down, holding the cane next to his knee and stares at her from where he sits while she slowly steps to him. He could send her home, he should, but she is young, she is not too harmful to look at and he doesn't remember the last time he was in this situation with anyone.
She walks closer, until she stands between his knees and her face are looking down at him with content. The room is silent. All they can hear is the sound of electricity going through the walls in his apartment. House looks up to meet her eyes, trying to understand why is she doing this but her eyes doesn't answer, they seem to be hazy at the moment, desire dances within them.
"I don't want anything from you." She explains and then slowly lowers herself to kneel. Their eyes don't break contact for a moment, as if either one of them is afraid something will happen once they'll drop their guards off.
"What's your name?" He asks her, trying to remain unmoved until the moment her hand reaches to the buckle of his belt and he almost groans with surprise when he feels the weight of her wrist on his testicles. He wants to tell her to stop knowing this will lead to no good, but his mind seem to be weak at the moment.
"No names," she explains to him, unbuckling his belt slowly and tugging the leather strap as if she is un-wrapping a gift. "This is nothing more than the obvious."
He begins to breathe heavily, his eyes going from his hardening bulge to her face repeatedly. "And the obvious being?"
She slides her hand into his pants, feeling his warm organ hard as bone in her slander palm. His eyes roll and he groans deeply, amazed by the sensation of her hand on his dick.
"It's all meaningless." She says, stroking him in a slow torturous rhythm. "Just two fools having casual sex." She explains and then releases his cock from the cage of his pajama pants, holding him firm in her hand. She licks her lips, massaging the ridge of him with her thumb, "just sex."
He pants, his hands holding the handles of the couch tightly. She has him where she wanted him, powerless, fingernails digging into the fabric. What fool would ever want to refuse something like that. Free casual sex, no strings attached? He'd be an idiot to say no.
He stares at her through half closed lids, and she smiles naughtily, pushing her tongue between her teeth as if this is some child's play. "Succubus" he thinks and she smiles even wider, as if she heard his thoughts.
"This is not fair" he whines, the voice hardly sounding right. Even talking seems difficult right now when she latches his erection in her greedy palm.
"Well you out of all men should know life kinda sucks." She giggles evilly and then let go of his cock and moves back to stand. He looks at her with alarm, about to voice his protest but then she pulls the skirt of her dress to her groin and slowly turns her back to face him.
"Do you still want me to go?" she asks, and without having him answer, sits herself in his groin. He stares at her surprised. This is different from what he is used to, but then again she is different.
She turns her head to him, staring into his eyes and pushing herself against his chest. Her hand reaches to his cock again and she tugs at the skin forcefully, making him grunt.
"Touch me, Greg." She commends, using his name in order to tease him. He stares at her half aggravated; he is not used to taking orders from women, or anyone to be exact. But her stroking at his organ becomes firmer while she grinds her ass against him.
"Touch me." She whispers again and pushes her lips closer to his, almost kissing him.
He complies, reaching his pianist hand between her open thighs and pressing his long fingers against the cotton of her underwear. He feels the outlines of her cunt, wet and sticky against the fabric and he cannot help but like his lips.
She sighs with rapture, enjoying the nearly invasive touch of his fingers. He attempts to push inside, despite the barrier of her underwear. Which makes the race toward desperate only more desperate. For the first time tonight, he has somewhat control.
They sit there so perversely, touching, grunting, playing with each other's intimate places, and what goes through his head is that she has no idea what she is heading toward.
She squirms against him, panting and gasping, enjoying the way his big body feels against her, the way his fingernails scratches her cunt as he tugs her underwear aside roughly in order to expose her.
He grazes her clit with his thumb and she swallows hard, unintentionally squeezing his cock in her hand which nearly throws him off the edge, he knows very well he won't be able to last long if they'll keep at it. "Fine," he rasps, slowly sliding his fingers out her.
"Is this yes then?" she asks, pointing his erection in the direction of her entrance and then grazing the head against her clit.
"What do you think?" He asks her irritated.
She chuckles again and then finally presses him into her. They sigh with unison – she let him slide slow into her, inch by inch until he fills her completely, his cock thick inside her, stretching her inside to accommodate his size.
They pause a moment, each one of them getting used to the other and trying to collect their senses back, although it will be impossible to control anything to follow.
She wants to keep eye contact the entire time, struggling to stare into his eyes, while simultaneously lifting herself up. His cock slides out of her, until only the tip is left inside her. Un-approving the situation, he places his hands on her waist and pulls her back down, forcing himself up her canal. She cries sharply while he groans into her ear. Selfishly enjoying being fully wrapped by her velvet folds, she is warm and moist. Everything a man needs.
She tries to determine the rhythm once again, but his hand reaches to her back and he pushes her lean down. In this position she won't be able to look at him and he will be in command, if she wants to play this game she better know who is in command.
He bounces his hips quickly, thrusting into her long and firm while holding his hand on her shoulder. The room shortly fills with the sounds of two bodies slapping against each other and their desperate aching pants. It's not long before her interior muscles begins to shudder, in that position the head of his cock hits an ultra sensitive spot inside her and since he knows he won't last long tonight, it will be favorable to all to wrap this one fast.
She parts her lips and cries out with amazement, feeling her orgasm swept her away while he continues pushing in and out of her fast. His organ is teased and clenched by her taunt muscles, and at last he explodes into her, groaning with relief and then pushing himself to rest deep inside her.
Resting against each other, still sweaty and exhausted. Both of them know very well how twisted their game is but no one is voicing a protest anymore, they are silent, trying to read into their own minds and realize what drew them to each other from the first place.
"Sex." She whispers, breathing heavily while feeling all the sticky mess they created. "It's nothing but sex."