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It's Beginning To Get To Me
by liam22
Jell-O shots and wild sex. You remember her glib response, slightly frustrated, but you've given her plenty of reasons to be. You frown at the image that comes to your mind; she's never seemed like that kind of girl and it bothers you that she doesn't fit in her little prescribed box. In your mind, she's a romance novel clich, not an extra in a spring break special.
You like to think of her, lying against a pile pillow in her bedroom, candlelight flickering off her skin. She's romantic enough for them. There'd be wine, red of course, and she'd be drinking...no, sipping. She'd be sipping her wine, savoring the taste.
She'd get up and slowly peel off her clothing, starting with the buttons of that vest. It would fall to the floor unnoticed. Her blouse would follow. You'd never understand her fascination with tiny buttons.
Her pants would be next, and there would definitely be some shimmying going on. You picture her standing there in her underwear. It's a pale colored lace against even paler skin. But, she doesn't keep it on for long. You can feel yourself harden at the thought.
She'd lay back down against her pillows, hair fanning out around her face. You envision her hands coming to her breasts, stroking and tweaking the tips into hardened points. She'd doubtlessly be imagining her hands were yours. Her breath quickening at the thought.
After a while, one hand would drift down between her legs. She'd slowly circle the bundle of nerves there to draw out her pleasure. She's whimpering, moaning, and imagining you. You take yourself out, starting to really get into this fantasy.
She'd slip a finger inside herself. One, then two, until she is quivering around them. You're caressing yourself harder, in time with her imagined strokes. She speeds them up, suddenly impatient to reach her peak.
She cries out your name when she finally comes. It is your fantasy after all. You do the same, releasing yourself at the image of her blissfully spent. All the previous tension has dispelled from her.
Allison. Her name slips out of your mouth like a forbidden plea. You wonder if she would ever let you call her that.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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