A/N: Sorry for the wait. Here, have a little smut to make up for it. There's also a bit of dialogue from Honeymoon in here, and a tiny bit from Role Model.
Allison is asleep beside you, lying on her stomach, her hair spilling across her pillow. The clock reads 4:47 am, and your leg is throbbing with a pulse of its own. You down two Vicodin and watch her sleep while you wait for the pain to subside. The blankets have slid down, revealing her naked back, and you can't help but reach out and trace your fingertips down her spine and over the ridges of her scars. She is beautiful, scars and all, and you want her again and again and again.
As she stirs, you lean over her and begin placing gentle kisses on her back, sliding the covers further down, past the slope of her ass. She stretches, cat-like, and lets out a little murmur of approval as your hands and mouth roam over her body.
"This okay?" you ask, trailing your fingers up the back of her thigh and then over her folds, her clit, a breath of a touch, stroking and teasing her.
"Yes," she whispers, spreading her legs to give you better access as she clutches her pillow.
"Don't move," you softly command, as you lean over the bedside table to get a condom, ripping it open and rolling it on. You turn back to her and continue touching, kissing, your mouth moving gently over all her scars as if they are erogenous zones. You aren't thinking, just feeling, acting on instinct. Finally you can wait no longer, and slide inside her, holding yourself up with your arms as much as possible so as not to crush her.
Beneath you, she writhes, moving in just the right way as you establish a slow, steady rhythm, savoring the way her tight heat surrounds your cock and the friction of your hipbones rubbing against her skin. She is making those familiar little sounds of pleasure, and though you can't see her face, you can picture her mouth open, little puffs of breath hitting the pillow, her eyes closed in bliss, and you love that you can do this to her.
You speed up, feeling yourself coming to the edge, when she wedges her hand beneath her body, bringing it to where you are joined, and strokes you and herself.
"Oh yeah, keep doing that," you say with a low rasp, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable level. And then she simultaneously squeezes you with her inner muscles and caresses you with the flat of her hand and you come hard, an almost guttural sound coming from deep within you. She continues stroking until she is also coming, her muscles pulsating around you and a final breathy gasp escaping her lovely mouth.
Sated, your veins flowing with endorphins, you roll off her and smile, pulling off the condom and wrapping it in a tissue to dispose of later. You watch as she turns on her side, facing you, and tugs the blankets back up, a matching smile of satisfaction on her face as she drifts off to sleep again.
Lying there with the soft light of dawn spilling itself over her delicate features, she looks so young and so beautiful. You marvel anew how she can be so incredibly gifted at sex and still look so innocent. Her eyelids, the gentle slope of her nose, the little upturn of her lips, all tempt you to press soft kisses there, to taste and experience every part of her. You renew your vow to kiss her on the mouth one day, and to get her to kiss you in return. She holds that part of herself back, you know, because it is too intimate. But you will get your way eventually. You always do.
mdmdmdmdmdmd
"You gonna be in there all night?" you call out to the closed bathroom door. "Let me in. Sexiness like mine doesn't come easily, you know. I've got some manscaping to do."
"Seriously?" she asks, poking her head out the door.
"No. But I do have to take a piss."
"Oh. Sorry." She emerges, looking like... you don't know, your brain cells have shut down and if breathing weren't an autonomic bodily function, you'd probably pass out from lack of oxygen. Her dress is a pale shade of purple, amethyst Wilson would probably call it, made from some gauzy fabric that falls to her ankles, with a deep slit up one leg. On her feet are strappy heels with little rhinestones across the toe strap. The top of her dress is sleeveless, the high neckline a silver band around her neck that matches the belt around her waist. Her hair is swept up in an elegant little twist, tempting your hands to reach up and release it so you can run your fingers through it. A few curls fall gracefully around her face, and in her ears are the little silver drop earrings you've seen in her jewelry box. The whole picture makes for one incredibly gorgeous woman.
As you stand there, gaping and speechless, she clears her throat and says, "I thought you had to use the bathroom."
"Did I? Oh yeah, I guess I did." You shake yourself out of your stupor and go to answer the call of nature.
When you come out of the bathroom, you stand before the closet mirror, fussing with your bow tie until she comes to your rescue and ties it for you, then holds out your tux jacket so you can slide it on.
"You look very handsome." Her voice is a sweet murmur while she runs her hands down the front of the jacket as if to smooth it out.
"Thank you," you reply, unable to form any other words with her so close and looking so damn kissable.
"I'm ready if you are," she says, breaking the spell as she grabs her little silver clutch off the dresser.
With a nod, you escort her out to the car, opening the door for her and waiting for her to get all of her dress in before shutting it. As you move to your side, you take a moment to ponder why she brings out such chivalrous tendencies in you. You've never been like this with any other woman. Certainly not with Stacy. With her you'd done the minimum you could get by with in order to keep her from losing her temper, which admittedly, hadn't worked well for either of you. There were no favors with Stacy. Everything with her was a negotiation, which was fun at first, but at some point you got tired of feeling like you were hashing out the terms of a legal contract every time one of you wanted something from the other. Allison has done something for you at great sacrifice to herself and asked for nothing in return. You have to admit it's a refreshing change, and maybe it's that that motivates you to act like a gentleman on occasion.
Something occurs to you for the first time as you slide behind the wheel of the car, and your stomach feels as if it has turned to stone at the thought. You're just sitting there thinking it through when she touches your arm.
"Something wrong?" she asks.
"You said Tara's clientele included lawyers, politicians, judges, cops, and doctors. You ever worry someone will recognize you?"
"Not really," she says with a little laugh. "Most clients weren't interested in looking at my face."
"I find that hard to believe," you say, without thought. "Your face is so beautiful."
She blinks and stares and then smiles and softly says, "Thank you."
Uncomfortable with the unintended compliment you've given her, you start the car and drive off. You were just stating a fact, same as if you'd said an adult human skeleton has 206 bones. She is beautiful; she surely must know that, surely must have heard it from hundreds of people before. So why does her reaction make your heart stutter, you wonder, as you zip through traffic, scowling.
The Princeton campus ballroom is teeming with self-important folks milling around with cocktails in their hands, hoping to see and be seen. You hate them all on sight, ignoring everyone as you guide Allison straight to the bar. You don't make it before you are waylaid by Stacy, dragging her reluctant husband behind her.
"Greg, I see the threat of clinic hours actually had an effect. I half expected you to be a no-show."
"Wouldn't miss this for the world," you retort. "It's for charity, and I'm all about doing good."
Beside you, Allison lets out a good-natured chuckle, but otherwise remains quiet.
"Greg, you finally get to meet my husband, Mark. Mark, this is Greg."
Mark reaches out to shake your hand, saying, "I haven't been avoiding you; I just didn't want to waste your time. The other doctors checked me out and they said it was just stress. College season, kids, parents, they're all over me."
"Makes sense to me," you lie, with the same false sincerity that Mark used. You then remember your date and make the introductions. "This is Allison Cameron. Allison, Stacy, Mark."
"It's nice to meet you," Allison says, smiling politely.
"You too," they answer in unison, Stacy eyeing Allison with barely concealed curiosity.
"Oh that's cute," you mock, pointing between Mark and Stacy. "How you both spoke at the same time. I bet you finish each others' sentences too."
"You know," Mark retorts, draping one arm around Stacy, "I thought you'd be all bitter, sarcastic you know, because Stacy married me."
"I checked," Stacy interrupts, "and it seems we're all sitting at the same table. Won't that be nice? You two can continue this pissing contest all night."
"What fantastic luck," you exclaim with faux enthusiasm. "In the meantime, I'll be at the bar."
You rub your forehead, pop a Vicodin, and limp off without a second glance. The bar is at the far end of the room, past a sea of tables and well-dressed people who assuage their guilt for being wealthy with charity functions like this one. Using your cane to maneuver people out of the way, you sidle up to the bar and order yourself a bourbon, and almost as an afterthought, a white wine for Allison.
"Sorry 'bout that," you say, when you feel her presence taking up the spot beside you, her soft fragrance giving her away.
She shrugs and says, "It's fine. I know how hard this must be for you, being around your ex and her husband."
Those words dismay you, though you are at least grateful she hasn't said love of your life. "Yeah, it sucks," you say, tapping your cane impatiently on the floor.
You snag your bourbon and she, her white wine, and you make your way to the table. Wilson is there, already seated with his wife, Julie, who looks about as happy as a freshly-kicked puppy. What the hell ever possessed Wilson to marry her is beyond you, but you give it another six months, tops, before one of them ends it.
You maneuver so that you are sitting between Allison and Wilson, as far from Stacy and Mark as you can reasonably get, which isn't nearly far enough, and contemplate downing your bourbon in one go. But then, that would mean another trip to the bar and it is awfully far away and your leg hurts, so you decide to sip it and make it last.
Stacy sits beside Allison, drawing up her chair and turning toward her like they are old pals ready to catch up. Awkward, you think, as you take a sort of perverse pleasure in watching and comparing the two of them.
"Greg didn't tell me he was seeing anyone. How long have you two been together?" Stacy asks, smiling politely at Allison.
"A few months," Allison answers, giving no more information than is necessary, much to your relief.
"Ah, well... where did you two meet?"
That question piques your interest. Allison is horrible at lying, but you know she'd never tell the truth either. You wait, nearly holding your breath, for her answer.
"He came in to the coffee shop where I work one night. Practically asked me to move in right then and there."
Bourbon nearly shoots out your nose at that, and you feel inordinately proud of her for telling the truth and yet not telling the truth at the same time. Well played, Allison, you think with a grin.
"He always did move fast," Stacy says, oblivious to Mark scowling beside her.
Allison, practically clenching, is not oblivious to Mark, and she leans a bit past Stacy to address him. "Did I hear correctly that you're a teacher, Mark?" she asks, making polite conversation.
"That's right," he says, tone full of mockery and loud enough for the whole table to hear. "And you work at a coffee shop. Quite a step down for Greg, don't you think?"
Everyone within a ten foot radius stops what they are doing to gawk. The tension in the air is nearly suffocating. Allison's mouth hangs open in shock, but she says nothing.
You lean forward and raise your glass to Mark and Stacy, with a snide, "Classy guy you got there, Stacy."
"I'm really sorry... Allison," Mark says, loosening the tie around his neck as his face reddens with shame. "I wasn't thinking; I just wanted to insult Greg."
Allison just waves off the insult and smiles, ever courteous, while Stacy turns it into an argument for her cause.
"This is exactly why I want you to let Greg examine you," she pleads. "You're not yourself. Please, Mark."
"Just drop it, Stacy," he mutters, glancing around uncomfortably at all the unwanted attention directed at them.
With a sigh of exasperation, Stacy stands, pastes on a smile and excuses herself. Mark glances nervously at Allison and slides over into Stacy's unoccupied seat, opening and closing his mouth before finally speaking. "Look, I'm really very sorry about what I said. I feel terrible. This whole thing with Stacy and..." he glances at you and you put on your most innocent look, before he continues, "it's all just been stressful. I hope you'll forgive me."
"Don't worry about it," Allison reassures him, with a kinder smile than Mark deserves. "But maybe Stacy's right. I mean, wouldn't it be easier to stop fighting and just let House examine you?"
"There's nothing wrong with me," he says. "I'd just be wasting everyone's time."
"I was married once," Allison says, and you perk up immediately, thinking, ooh goody, story time!
"My husband got sick, and he kept telling me, it's just a cold, it's just the flu, it's just stress from school and work, even though I knew it was more and I was so worried. By the time he finally admitted something was wrong it was far too late. Cancer had metastasized to his brain and we only got six more months together. And I know he regretted all those months of denial, when he could have been getting treatment. So do I," she says, blinking back tears. "I know the possibilities are frightening, but... all I'm saying is knowing is always better than not knowing."
Mark swallows hard, grabbing Stacy's wine glass and downing what is left in it as if to chase down the lump in his throat. Hell, even you are touched, a little, and you have to give her props for pulling out the dead husband at just the right time.
"Maybe you're right," Mark admits sliding back to his own seat. "I'll think about it."
The next hour drones on, boring people making boring small talk all around you. Julie Wilson is flirting openly with some corporate bigwig, while Wilson pretends not to notice. Make that four months, you think, until their marriage is officially over. Gulping down the rest of your bourbon, you rise and head to the bathroom, leaving Allison chatting with a pharmaceutical rep from Eastbrook about the new ACE inhibitor they're putting out, which you happen to know is the same as the old one except for the addition of an antacid and a higher price tag.
As soon as you open the restroom door to exit, Cuddy is there, in your face. You're surprised she didn't just follow you in.
"Gotta go?" you say. "There's an open urinal."
"Cute," she replies, toying with the pendant at her neck. "I just wanted to say that I appreciate that you were on your best behavior tonight. As a show of appreciation, I'm giving you another four hours off clinic duty."
"Seriously?"
"Yes. I'm hoping to encourage even more good behavior by rewarding you. Imagine the possibilities," she says with a smirk. "You've put in your time for the night. You're free to go if you want."
"Thanks Mom. Do I still have to be in by curfew? 'Cause I really want to go to the drive-in. There's a double feature." You give her your best puppy eyes, and clasp your hands together.
"I saw you brought a date tonight. You should hold on to her. She's probably the only one who can tolerate you," she retorts, giving you a triumphant look before walking away.
You let her have her little victory, moving in the other direction, back to your date. But you should've known you wouldn't break free without at least one more Stacy encounter.
"So Allison seems to have made an impact on Mark," she says, pulling you into a little alcove in the hallway. "He's willing to let you examine him."
"Good. Tell him to be in my office Monday 10 am." You try to maneuver around her, but she steps in front of you again.
"I have to admit, I was surprised when you showed up here with a date. I mean, she seems very nice, and she's certainly beautiful, but she's got to be about half your age. It's a little ridiculous even for you, don't you think?"
"Jealous?"
"I just can't see what you two possibly have in common," she replies, trying very hard to sound matter-of-fact. "The girl from the coffee shop and the world-renowned doctor."
"We're both really good in bed," you retort, side-stepping her so quickly she has no time to stop you.
"I'm serious," she says, grabbing your arm until you spin around to face her again.
"So am I," you snap. "And I don't see how this is any of your business. Go tend to your sick husband."
When you arrive at the table, Allison is sitting there alone, sipping at her wine. Something about the sight of her moves you to do something you haven't done in years. You hold out your hand to her, inclining your head toward the dance floor. "Come on," you say. "I don't have many moves, but I do a mean lopsided shuffle."
She smiles and takes your hand, lets you lead her out to the floor and pull her close. You have a hundred snarky remarks on the tip of your tongue, but you shove them aside and just sway with her for a moment, the scent of her shampoo filling your nostrils, and the reminder of her scars beneath your fingertips and the thin fabric of her dress. If you didn't know that she is more than just a coffee shop girl, that what she was before is her deepest shame and how hard she is working to overcome it, well, you'd let the snarky remarks fly. But you do know, and in that moment you feel more of a kinship with her than you've ever felt with another human being. Drawing your joined hands up, you rest them against your heart, and one thought dominates your mind for a moment.
"You'll make a hell of a doctor," you tell her, and she looks up at you in surprise.
"You think so?"
"You've got good instincts. Plus you care. Maybe a little too much, but you can overcome that. You've just proven, with what you said to Mark, that you can reach patients in a way that I never could. I'd bet a hundred bucks he'll make an appointment with me by the end of the night. And he'll show up this time."
"Thank you," she says, smiling sweetly, "and I hope he will show up."
"He will. And for the record," you continue, murmuring to the top of her head, "you're the classiest person in this joint."
Thank you to everyone who reviewed. I want to print them all out and roll around in them. I'll settle, instead, for writing more of the story.