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mistakes we knew we were making iii
by leiascully
Janitorial closet on the third floor, and she didn't know how he'd gotten the keys, but she wasn't surprised.
Psych ward, she said. Appropriate.
Be nice, he said, pushing her skirt up her thighs. Goddamn floor length formal wear. Why can't you wear that tennis dress to these things?
Same reason you can't wear t-shirts, she said, fumbling with his tuxedo pants. Heightens the mmmmanticipation.
He had her breasts out of the low neckline and his fingers fumbled with her panties as his mouth moved over her breasts. She was going to have to wear a shawl the rest of the night to cover marks of lips and teeth and stubble but god his mouth. Always getting him in trouble and this would get both of them in trouble but it was so good. The edges of his teeth or maybe it was his sharp tongue grazed her nipple and she yelped and jumped, pushing her hips against his, and in her high heels, she was just tall enough for the angles to line up. She had his pants down and the hot length of him in her hands and it was trouble, he was trouble, and she guided him anyway, hissing at the pressure. They had done this the first time, almost by accident, and then the second time, because there was nothing to lose, and by now it felt like tradition or close enough, and she'd had a martini for each of them and followed him up here.
Yes, she said, more, and this was bad for his leg and for her dress, but she braced one high heeled foot against a bucket and pushed up against the wall, half sitting on some little countertop that dug into the backs of her thighs.
Mmm, he said against her breast, still pulling too hard, but she didn't care. There were few enough kisses in her life that she was glad of the ones she had. He shifted in and out of her, his rhythm as ragged as his breathing, but he had a hand up her skirt as well and his fingers kept time.
Fuck, House, she said, and her fingers dug into his back.
Yessssss, he said. All around them was the smell of chemical cleaners, the antiseptic clean smells of her hospital, and she could hear the rustle of their formal clothes and feel the scrape of his stubble across her breasts, and the tulle under her skirt rough on the back of her thighs, and it was sensory overload with him moving in her, and his fingers between her legs, and anyone could catch them at any time, some escaped psych patient, and the thought of being caught fucking her employee in a janitor's closet drove her over the edge. The darkness turned into pinpricks of light and then a nova and she knew he would have tiny rings of crescent bruises from the pressure of her fingernails, but he was still heaving into her and she goaded him on, the free heel pressed into his calf.
Come on, come on, she said. Fuck me, House, do it. She liked the rough words coming from her polished mouth, and both of them decked out pretty, and now the closet smelled like sex and cleaner and she was close, so close to a second thousand points of light orgasm, but he gasped and nipped her breast and stopped thrusting, just resting in her, panting into the hollow of her collarbone. She put out a blind hand in the dark and found spray bottles, a broom handle, and then the roll of paper towels she'd gotten a quick glimpse of for the few seconds the door had been open.
Here, she said. Clean us up. He ripped a few paper towels off and pulled out of her, wiping her down. The towels were rough against her sensitive flesh and she wriggled on the countertop.
Panties, he said, offering them to her and god only knew where he had kept them. She heard the paper towels crinkling as he cleaned himself off, and then the sound of dress pants being pulled up and zipped. She dragged her panties on and kicked his cane in the dark, kneeling to pick it up.
Think we look decent?
No. But we're not the center of attention.
True, she said, at least today.
She stopped into the bathroom to smooth her hair and dress anyway, and he waited impatiently outside. He was a caricature of a best man and she was a bridesmaid without much honor, but at least Wilson was happy, and Julie was happy and maybe this time things would work. That was why they'd had the reception in the big meeting room at the hospital: a marriage of minds, an acceptance of the truth of the job, a celebration that Wilson's friends could actually attend, at least for a few minutes. She hoped it would work.
Do you think it will stick this time?
Hard to say, he said. Julie seems reasonable. On the other hand, I almost hope it doesn't. I like fucking you.
We're sick, she said. We shouldn't, if it happens again.
Everyone fucks at weddings, he said. And after weddings. Coming home with me, Cuddy?
I might, she said, knowing she would, but they left it at 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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