This is so for Michelle, who I met tonight and had a bitchin time with... though it was raining hardcore and we got effed up a buncha times around the Pru. She rawks hard.
Tiramisu would have been much better than tapioca, but she would take what she could get. Curled up on her couch, an anonymous book nestled in the space between neck and knee, Allison Cameron began to live out her Friday night.
She never followed the plot, it didn't matter. But reading a book made her feel much smarter that it did to flick on the television and watch Animal Planet all evening, accompanied by a nice pint of Ben and Jerry's... or one better, a nice bottle of Italian wine.
So tapioca and merlot was the buffet for the evening. The alcohol served only to numb her addled brain, the tapioca just an excuse not to eat more rice cakes. She couldn't handle any more rice cakes; diets were overrated anyhow.
But the merlot, well... that was flowing quite easily. Focusing her eyes on the bottle, the black/purple swam in her field of vision, but only a little. She wasn't that drunk, she was just on her way. Maybe that would help her forget.
Forgetting would be really great, if only for one night.
Life had begun to throw her curveballs and since she wasn't good at sports (or metaphors for that matter)... well they kept flying over the plate at ninety and she was striking out looking. It was all passing her by... but when he was in her bed, when she was in his, when they were in some anonymous slum of a hotel, for a second she felt as if she were alive.
Someone was touching her, making her feel wanted, singular. Someone was attending to her and even if it was wrong (there was no speculation, it was wrong, period) and Cameron couldn't help but embrace it. Fully, she embraced it, wrapping her arms around it's back, drawing it closer and deeper, just deeper, harder.
He was good at what he did, she couldn't deny it.
As she was about to begin on page seventy-three (for the third time; she couldn't seem to follow the plot at all) three sharp raps resounded on her door. They couldn't have been cane taps, they were too dull, too far spread. That could only mean one thing.
Placing down the plotless book down on the coffee table, she sat up slowly, allowing her blood a moment to space itself evenly throughout her body. When she stood, she felt the wine, warm and friendly in her belly, felt the heat lick her cheeks as she made her way to the front door.
Upon opening it, her suspicions were proved correct. "Wilson..." she said slowly. The low thrill that ran throughout her body shocked her; a tidal wave crashed over her head, consciousness catching up to her so she could look to meet his eyes.
She hated to want him, she really did, but it was impossible not to. The way he touched her, made her feel real…
"I thought it was James," he said quickly, elbowing his way into her space, forcing her to spin around and wobble a bit before she gained her footing once more. "Apparently I was wrong."
He'd always been wrong; she'd always been wrong. There was no real blame to place in the matter but both of them still felt the need to try and assign it somewhere.
He didn't sound guilty, and didn't sound accusing. He was simply, confused. He was wondering, as was she, why he kept doing it, why she kept doing it. "It is, sometimes. Other times... it isn't." There were other explanations she could have come up with.
She could have told him that the color of his eyes wasn't the same when he was lecturing them on the finer points of radiology as they were when he was going on and on about how tight she was. The juxtaposition was too much and she had to make her way over to the sofa. "Yeah, sometimes it isn't," he agreed, and sat at the opposite end of the sofa.
"What will he do if he finds out?" Wilson asked.
Cameron just simply glared, "What if she finds out?" She never felt too bad about what she was doing as long as she continually reminded him that that gold band around his finger stood for something. Then again, the fact that she would actually allow herself to be 'the other woman' placed a sufficient amount of the plentiful blame solely on her head.
Then there was silence, the hum of her refrigerator creating a thoroughly banal soundtrack to what she assumed would escalate into some sort of confrontation. "We're not good at this," he commented, scooting closer to her on the semi-worn sofa.
And then he was beside her, hot breath and nearly-faded cologne tingeing her skin and she couldn't stop it, couldn't stop…
"You shouldn't be good at this!" she shrieked, succumbing quickly to the kisses over her neck. There were things she wanted to tell him, things she needed to tell him. She wanted to remind him of Julie, the pretty blonde waiting for him at home, more lonely than he could imagine. "And he doesn't own me."
"No," Wilson murmured between wet, wet kisses. "But you want him to, and he wants to... and I can't help it."
As much as she wanted to shove him away, scream at him for all the anger she felt, all the shame, the guilt, the way his tongue slipped over the crest of her ear, the way he breathed and spoke and touched and felt, she could almost imagine that he was someone else. Almost.
"I don't want you," she keened as he stripped her of her clothes. "I never, ever have."
Wilson's eyes glittered as he looked up at her. "Then you need to stop me, because I can't."
"Don't want you to stop," she whispered as his fingers tangled between her legs, drawing out tiny cries, shrieks of sudden pleasure. It was good there, when he was between her legs because she didn't have to see his face and she could imagine. But there was no scruff rubbing against her thighs and there were no orders to take and adhere to. There wasn't any abrasive language, just sweet, low fucking that made her fall apart every time.
She hated it; she loved it.
She wanted more.
Her phone was ringing, she heard it amongst the ringing that he was serving to create in her head. The machine clicked to life and recited its spiel and suddenly his voice resounded over the hum of her fridge.
"Cameron... I suppose you're out, since it is a Friday night... just wanted to let you know, before you get in on Monday, that that file you snagged has Cuddy on a rampage and you might want to return it... before she has my balls in a vice. This is all your fault. Bye."
And she came so hard, hips rocketing up to meet his lips as he held her, knowing that he was exactly what she didn't need, but she took anyway, and that's what had him smiling as he crawled up her body.
Her body was sticky with a sheen of sweat she couldn't really attribute to him. Stars still swept across her field of vision as she struggled to gain balance on two elbows. James's expression was smug when he glanced up at her. "Round two?"
And though she despised that he was relating to their coupling as a sporting event, she could only spread her legs wider and nod a belated 'yes.'
Squeezing her eyes shut, she willed herself to believe it wasn't real, it couldn't be real. It was too immoral, too insane. But when she felt the sweet slide of him, her eyes popped open and she saw him… but only heard the voice of the man on her answering machine… needing something from her.
He wanted to hear his voice once more, feel him close around her but all she felt was the rush of Wilson, warm and thick and all she could think about how wrong, how wrong it all was.