All In, But Not Yet Over, part 3
House/Cameron
Rating: Mature
What did House remember, later on?
Fleeting impressions:
The pull of Cameron's eyes as she asked him to stay. The combination of bravado and hopefulness in her face. The wisp of soft hair that curtained her right nipple, until he brushed it away because he had to see everything, everything, everything. The long, long walk to her bedroom, and how he'd inwardly cursed his limp, and his Goddamn cane, for making that long, long walk into something significant enough to remember, when it should have been nothing. And then how Cameron had turned it into nothing, because it was only a part of him, a part of the man she wanted. The arch of her feet in those fuck-me pumps. The desperate, almost painful, twist of his stomach muscles. The thrill of knowing she must be feeling that same twist, because when she sat on the edge of the bed, she'd caught her lower lip in her teeth, pressed her thighs together tightly and rocked while he undressed.
House had roughly told her to get rid of the panties, but before she'd done so, she'd let him see that they were drenched with wanting him. His breathing had sounded like sandpaper on wood. And, then … her hip bones, jutting out and framing the place where her legs met – House had tormented himself, over and over, imagining just that very sight – but his imagination hadn't even come close to the sheer eroticism of the reality. Cameron had started to roll down her thigh-high stockings, but House had stopped her hand with his. "Leave them on – the shoes, too," he'd rasped; she'd smiled, and then writhed as he ran his hands up and down her silk-covered leg.
He'd been so hard that it hurt. And her urgency matched his own; she'd whimpered, and tried to soothe herself with her own fingers while she waited for House to sit on the edge of the bed and position himself.
"Fuck … oh, fuck, oh, Cameron, Cameron …" House was vaguely aware that he was incoherently gasping out all sorts of sex words, all sorts of exhortations, but he couldn't help himself. And as she straddled him and he pushed up into her, he heard her panting and sobbing his name, and he gave up any attempt to draw this out, but slammed into her like a train. Oh, God, the sounds she'd made! Next time (that there would be a next time seemed as certain to him as the rising of the sun every morning) – next time, he would take his leisure, let every moment, every sensation, register. Next time, he would kiss her breasts and stroke her back and lick her inner thighs. Next time, he wouldn't swallow her whole.
But, this time – this time, they'd fed on each other like animals. And afterwards, Cameron had given him a Vicodin in anticipation of the pain he knew was forthcoming, and whispered to him how happy he'd made her, and had completely understood that his self-conscious mutterings were meant to tell her exactly the same thing. The last things of which he'd been aware before falling asleep were her hand on his hip, and that he seemed to be … well, almost smiling.
End