The Best Little Secrets Are Kept. 9
The best little secrets are kept: Chapter nine
House
Sunday
“You’re early,” Cameron states in a surprised tone of voice as she opens her front door. I straighten out of my lean on her doorway and enter her apartment; she glances obviously at her watch as she moves aside. I notice a slight frustration arrive in her features as she closes the door behind me.
“Do you want me to come back later?” I offer innocently, as if I don’t know I’m an hour early.
She must have just arrived back from a run; she’s holding a small yellow towel in her hand and there’s a noticeable layer of sweat on her skin.
I stare obviously at her outfit as she decides whether she should kick me back out again. She’s wearing a plain white t-shirt and a pair of tight blue shorts that cling to her thighs. The word snug seems appropriate and I really hope she’ll want a hand getting out of them, something I think I could definitely oblige with.
She catches my stare with her own and ushers my eyes back toward her face and away from her thighs.
“No, it’s okay; I just wasn’t expecting you for another hour, that’s all.”
Well, considering we both know this is a booty call, there isn’t a hell of a lot she needs to do other than get naked. But she’s obviously a little off guard at my early arrival so I decide not to vocalize that particular thought.
She smoothes out the lines of frustration in her features by finding a polite smile, before heading into her living room. I follow her in and she motions for me to sit down.
I spot a familiar fur ball on the sofa; the black and white cat I saw when I was here a few weeks ago is curled up there. It looks up as I approach. It’s a grizzled old thing with gooey gunk in its eyes, and a spatter of ugly battle scars covers its nose and ears. I notice there are clumps of fluff all over the sofa cushions too. Even its meow is a rusty harbinger of the fact he’s not long for this world.
I shoot Cameron a quick unimpressed look that suggests I’m not a cat person.
She dabs at the sheen of sweat on her forehead with the towel, then places a hand on her hip. “What?” she challenges.
I let my gaze meander back to the cat and I tilt my head, “Don’t you think it’s irresponsible for a doctor to have a pet?”
She snorts out a laugh and folds her arms. Hmm: defensive Cameron already, that was quick.
“Why?”
“You’re never here,” I reason.
“You have a rat,” she points out. It’s a nice parry, but she’s missing my point.
“Steve doesn’t need company and he doesn’t need petting. I also don’t have to let him in the garden every five minutes so he can take a crap in my next door neighbor’s flowers.”
Cameron smiles, “Henry is a house cat, he can’t go outside,” she counters smugly.
“Why?”
“He has food allergies. If he eats something he shouldn’t out of a trash can it would probably kill him. The people at the rescue centre needed someone who could manage his medication regime and I wanted a pet that didn’t need to go in and out every five minutes.”
Well, consider me informed, but that thing is ugly and if she doesn’t think so, she’s in denial. She turns around and heads into her kitchen. I watch her go, noticing how the shorts hug her ass as carefully as her thighs. I’d really like to help her get out of them soon, the sooner the better really.
“We’re perfect for each other,” she says as an afterthought, hopefully referring to the cat.
“Why bother?” I return.
“It’s nice to come home to someone who is always happy to see you.”
I take a reluctant seat by the thing; it smells like damp and looks like it’s no stranger to the process of getting reversed over by automobiles.
“Why didn’t you get a kitten? I hear they’re cuter, smell less and tend to last longer.”
“He doesn’t smell,” she asserts defensively, raising a stern eyebrow as she glances back at her scruffy lodger, and me, “And cat shelters don’t have trouble finding homes for kittens.”
I snort out a laugh, of course they don’t. I knew that was the reason she got this instead of month old ball of fluff. She wanted a charity case; I just wanted to see if she’d admit it.
“Do you want a drink?”
“Sure,” I reply. The cat looks up at me and I just know he’s about to attempt something stupid, like trying to climb into my lap. If he does we’re going to learn if he can fly. He’s obviously got Cameron fooled but I’m sticking to my suspicion that he dug himself out of a pet cemetery quite recently.
“So why are you early? You’re never early, which makes me think this is premeditated,” Cameron asks.
“I’m not early; you said six,” I reply simply. Truth is, I was bored and I had a suspicion she wouldn’t be doing much else, because I have a suspicion her weekends are as empty as mine usually are.
“I said seven,” she asserts.
Like it matters; I don’t like the apprehension that fills me when I’m getting ready to meet her. I’m not very good at sitting and waiting. I prefer to just get on with things. And right now, while she’s wearing those shorts, I know exactly what I want to be getting on with.
Her cat mews at me in a way that makes me think maybe it has throat cancer, if cats can get throat cancer that is.
Henry then gets up and stretches; I listen for a loud creak but I don’t hear one. He ambles over and proceeds to rub his face along my arm. I have to get up and move away from it. Steve will only get jealous if I come home smelling of the enemy. And I’m not having the goddamn thing sitting in my lap.
I go into the kitchen, quietly. Cameron is reaching into her fridge for something.
“Seeing as you’re early, I hope you don’t mind waiting while I get ready,” she says loudly before standing up straight and backing into me, obviously unaware that I’m directly behind her now.
“Get ready for what?” I say quietly, as her butt bumps into my groin. She turns around, slightly startled, and then folds her arms. I see a flicker of unease in her body language.
“For a man with a limp, you’re pretty good at sneaking up on people,” she says. I notice she’s a little flustered with this sudden proximity. I’m relieved it’s not just me who gets nervous about the awkward intimacy we’ve been sharing recently.
I look into her eyes, daring her to look away first and she does. I can feel the ghost of a smile on my face.
She then leans forward and places a warm palm on my chest so she can push me back and reach the cupboard I was blocking. She opens it up and retrieves two glasses.
I watch her pour the juice and I lean on the counter while she opens her freezer and puts some ice into the drinks. I wait until she hands me a glass before I lean in and kiss her. It’s about time to cut to the chase.
I place my hand on her cheek and notice her skin is clammy and I can taste the salty residue of sweat on her upper lip.
“I’m gross, I need a shower,” she says, smiling uncomfortably before pulling away.
“I don’t care,” I reply but she leaves the kitchen anyway, throwing, “Well, I do,” behind her just before she disappears into the bathroom.
She’s never spurned any of my advances before; actually, now I think about it, she’s normally the one advancing. Maybe she’s having second thoughts. If she is, it doesn’t surprise me and I start thinking maybe I should go.
The sound of the shower in the bathroom reminds me of the first time I came in here, so to speak. She did seem to enjoy that as much as I did. I need to stop worrying before self-doubt conquers me. I need to stop being so paranoid.
If she didn’t want me here I wouldn’t have gotten through the door.
I go back into the living room and take the opportunity to have a quick poke around. Not a lot of stuff to snoop through, though. I think someone with OCD would marvel at the tidiness of her apartment. She has a small CD collection that consists mainly of crap I’ve never heard of. The bookcase holds a few classic pieces of fiction, mostly girly pap. The rest of her books are medical texts and dictionaries. I notice a stack of dog-eared journals on the bottom shelf; all of them were published in the late 80s. It takes me a second to work out why they’re familiar to me.
I grab one and flip through it, then I realize they’re recognizable because I have the very same stack somewhere at home; they’re the journals I’ve had articles published in.
I drop the journal back down onto the pile and get a sudden pang of guilt for not signing her article, but I make sure the feeling is just passing through. I’m not going to dwell on it because I know she’s past that now, no need to bring it up again.
~
“House,” Cameron whines when I enter the bathroom. She’s got her back to me but the creak of the door must have given me away. She’s in the shower; I can just make out the contours of her body through the fogged up glass.
I flip the seat on the toilet down and sit on it.
“What are you doing?” she asks, almost disinterestedly. I’m not sure; I don’t feel as bold as I’d like her to think I’m being. If I was really daring I’d have stripped off ten minutes ago and we’d have been fucking in the shower by now.
But I’m not that brave.
“Got bored snooping through your stuff; do you ever think about me when you’re in here?” I say with cockiness that I don’t really feel.
“No,” she replies quickly. “Now get out.”
“Liar,” I reply before leaning my cane against the wall. I still have my drink. I look down at the ice and I get a couple of interesting ideas.
“Do you?” Cameron suddenly asks, turning to face me and weighing her words down enough to make me look away from her. I don’t know what the hell I think I’m doing now actually.
How is it she’s the one that’s naked, yet I’m the one that suddenly feels uncomfortable? I place a finger on my chin and quirk my head to the side.
“Do I think about you while I’m in your shower? I’ll have to be honest and say no.”
“You know what I mean,” she says and then turns away from me again.
Obviously - I was dodging the question. I don’t think she needs to know that I whack off most mornings in the shower to the memory of the first blowjob she gave me.
When I kissed her in the kitchen I sensed she’d become uncomfortable about what we’ve been doing, but her relaxed attitude to the fact that I’m sitting here watching her in the shower, suggests maybe she just didn’t want me to go near her until she’d washed away the evidence of her workout.
“Okay then, glad we cleared that up. Can you leave so I can finish getting ready?” she asks, but I can tell she’s smiling.
“Make me,” I return playfully.
She turns to face me again, and pokes her head around the glass so she can stare me down properly.
She gives me a look like she’s trying to figure me out. She’s facing me down butt naked in the shower while I appreciate her, I should be in control of this situation, but I know I’m not…well not yet anyway.
“What’s going on?” she asks.
“I keep trying to work out why?” I say, looking away from her. .
“Why what?”
“Why you like me,” I force out. There is an obvious pause before she answers.
“I suppose that’s half of the reason I do,” she replies and I can only just hear her over the patter of the shower. “You’re attractive because you don’t know how attractive you are.”
And I really wish I hadn’t heard that, I can’t look her in the eye now. Crap, we’re veering off into serious territory; this isn’t going quite to plan. “That’s crap,” I say dismissively. When I look up she’s reaching for the shower gel. I need to make this more about sex and less about me.
“So, do you jerk off and think of me or not?”
“Of course, what about you?”
Wow, okay, I wasn’t ready for the brutal honesty of that remark, I figured she’d brush it off again. The idea that Cameron masturbates while thinking of me, as ludicrous as it is, has stiffened me up quite significantly.
“Of course,” I reply evenly, but it sounds weak compared to her answer. I clear my throat. She’s winning whatever game we’re currently playing, and despite how uncomfortable this statement is going to make me feel, I’m going to say it anyway.
“Touch yourself.” My voice quivers, giving away a nervousness I’m trying to hide. I can’t tell if the comment has caught her off guard or not. She turns around again slowly, then studies me for a moment, probably trying to work out if I’m being serious or not.
“Why is nothing simple with you?” she says softly.
“Simple is boring, besides, what’s wrong with coming up with different ways of getting you off?”
“That’s why you’re early?”
“Maybe,” I say cryptically. “So, are you going to do it?”
“I don’t know, are you going to take your shirt off?” she counters strongly; there is a sly smile on her face. It’s interesting how every step of the way she’s never been anything less than equal in this, in what we’ve been doing. I don’t know why her healthy, almost insatiable sexual appetite surprises me, but it does.
I quickly pull my t-shirt over my head and throw it on the floor. She smiles, then slips a finger inside herself. My hand goes to my face reflexively. It suddenly feels very warm in here. I can’t believe she’s actually going to do this in front of me. She closes her eyes and starts to slide her finger in and out.
“What are you thinking about?” I ask softly.
“I’m thinking, why is House still half dressed? And why isn’t he in here doing this himself?” she replies thoughtfully.
“I want to watch,” I reply coyly, unable to take my eyes from her as she begins to fuck herself. Each time she slides her finger out so she can tease her clit with her finger tip I get a little bit harder.
This is getting very naughty; she’s right, I should really be joining in, now I’m here. I look down and take a piece of ice out of the glass I’m holding, then I place it on the floor and go over to her.
“Keep your eyes closed,” I say coolly. She does, but she also goes to remove her hand. I reach down and stop her; my heart starts to race a little as I touch her.
“Don’t: I want to see you get yourself off.”
“You’re perverted,” she says, but the smirk on her face tells me I haven’t crossed any lines.
I watch her for a moment, and then I place the ice on her nipple, observing her sharp exhalation of breath when it touches her skin. The ice will melt fast so I need to get to my destination quickly.
I circle both of her nipples before sliding it off her breast and onto her stomach, never taking my eyes from her expression, watching every reaction. Her hand moves and she starts stroking herself quickly, she’s all concentration.
I put the ice in my mouth for a few seconds then I lean down and let my tongue follow the cold path the cube left on her skin.
My hand falls down to join the one between her legs and she carries on masturbating as I place the ice against her clit. She leans forward slightly and places her free hand on my shoulder to steady herself. I’m thankful her eyes are still closed; I don’t think I could watch her watching me do this to her.
I place my lips against hers and her tongue darts out to meet mine as I rub the ice cube against her clitoris; she practically purrs when it makes firmer contact. She hums into my mouth and I feel my cock stiffen inside my jeans. I can’t help but move her hand away and take over now. I slide two fingers inside her, the ice stays wedged under my knuckle as I rub her until she starts to come and there is nothing but an ice cold rivulet of water running down her inner thigh.
~
Cameron
There are several damp patches on the sheets of my bed because I didn’t have time to dry off properly after my shower; House was pretty insistent that we dealt with his erection quickly, before there was nothing left to deal with.
I’m on top of him, and he’s trying very hard to keep up with me, but if I’m moving a little too fast for him it’s his own fault. He can’t do what he just did in the bathroom and not expect to get mauled a little in return.
Sex with House continues to surprise me. Not because he’s good at it, or even that we’re good together, I’m just surprised at how different it is with him. What we have between us, I’ve never felt with anyone else before.
I daren’t tell him that though, I don’t want to freak him out. I don’t think he’d be able to handle the admission even if he did believe it.
It seems like we’re constantly taking one step forward and two steps back at the moment, but the step forward happens to be great sex, so we’re stuck here, for now.
I’m starting to work out what he likes, and what works for him. I find it difficult to find the courage to come right out and ask him if something feels good or not, if he likes it when I do this, too hard or too soft, too fast or too slow.
I have to rely on what I normally do when I’m dealing with House, I try and read what his expression and body language is telling me.
The definition in his features changes when something feels good and I can tell when the position is a little off and he’s uncomfortable. I suspect this position works better for him than anything else we’ve tried so far.
I know I have to be careful where my weight falls. But then I always have to tell him he won’t hurt me when the positions are reversed, so maybe I should trust him when he tells me that I’m not going to hurt him.
His hands grip my hips tightly as his own grind upward. I think he’s almost there; his face tenses and his eyes close like he’s trying to hold on as long as he can.
~
I’m lying on my back and staring at the ceiling, idle thoughts breezing in and out of my mind. House is lying on his stomach beside me; his head is buried in a pillow and turned away from me, but the palm of his hand in on my tummy. His thumb is tracing a slow circle around my belly button. A thin white sheet covers us both from the waist down. Of course I’m on the side of the bed where most of the wet patches have ended up, even though it’s his fault there are wet patches because he wouldn’t let me dry off.
There are probably a half dozen things we should speak about right now, but I can’t seem to find one word. There is something quite nice about this and I don’t want to spoil the moment.
Eventually he turns his head and looks at me. I take hold of his hand; I don’t think I’ve ever known him to be this quiet before.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing,” he replies, quietly.
That’s got to be a lie. I suspect he’s plotting his escape, wondering how to get out of here without spending the night or something. Maybe that’s a little cynical of me but House doesn’t stay quiet for this long, not unless something is courting his attention internally.
I’m about to suggest we go and get something to eat when there is a knock at my front door. House sits up and gives me an apprehensive stare.
Crap: sometimes, not very often but sometimes, Chase calls by on the weekend to see if I want to join him at the latest bar he’s discovered. I think it’s because he likes to show how okay he is with us being friends after what happened between us. I really hope it isn’t Chase, but I have a sickly feeling it will be. This is not going to go down well with House, I can just tell.
“If I were you, I’d stay here,” I say hastily, I don’t have time to explain. I throw on some jeans and a blouse and head for the front door.
Don’t be Chase, please don’t be Chase.
“Fancy a few margaritas?” Chase asks cheerfully as I open the front door. Of course it’s him.
“Hi,” I feign surprise, because I don’t want him to see the dread I’m really feeling. “It’s not like you to call on a Sunday,” I say. My voice sounds nervously high pitched. I glance past him into the hall and find myself extremely thankful that Foreman isn’t standing behind him.
He moves his head to the side to bring my attention back to him. “I don’t normally, but there is a new bar that’s just opened downtown, I’ve got VIP tickets, I wondered if you wanted to come with?”
I fold my arms in front of me and force a smile onto my face. “Do you really want to kick a working week off with a hangover?” My inner geek can’t help but point out how irresponsible getting drunk on a Sunday night is. He normally calls on a Friday or a Saturday.
Chase shrugs. “It doesn’t have to be a late one.”
I shake my head, easing slightly back from him, suddenly worried that he’ll be able to smell House on me; it’s a ridiculous notion, I know, but I can’t help myself. “Thanks for the thought, but I’m pretty tired, think I’ll have an early night.”
I’m aware of how disheveled I must look and I wonder if he can tell I’ve got no underwear on as he gives me a curious once over. Eventually his eyes flit to the side in thought, like he just remembered he left the iron on at home. Then a grin appears on his face.
“No problem. I just thought I’d stop by.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow then,” I say lightly.
“Yeah,” he says and nods his head. He turns and heads toward the elevator. I’m about to close the door when he turns around places his hands on his hips and tilts his head.
“There is a bike parked outside, looks remarkably like House’s.”
“Oh,” I reply, surely House didn’t park it right outside?
Chase sticks his bottom lip out and shrugs.
“It’s not every day you see a bike like his, especially one with an identical scrape along the side of it.”
“What are you trying to say?” I bark defensively, Chase’s smile widens as I flounder. I think my face is giving me away now, considering I felt it flush bright red.
“Nothing,” Chase says, pretending to shake the thought away, but the smirk on his face makes me feel queasy. “Have a nice evening.”
“You too,” I say, with zero feeling. I close the door and rub my eyes. If we just got caught out, it certainly wasn’t my fault.
When I return to the bedroom House is sitting on the end of my bed pulling his jeans on.
“Well, that was weird,” he says aggressively. I wonder how much of that conversation he just heard. I watch as he puts his sneakers on, considering what to say.
“No, masturbating in the shower in front of you is weird. Chase calling by on a weekend to see if I want to go out is normal.”
He won’t look at me, he’s doing up the buttons on his jeans, and he looks pissed off. I can’t tell if it’s because of what Chase just said or the fact that Chase actually turned up. If it’s the latter, he has no right to be upset. I fold my arms and lean against the drawers in front of the bed.
“That’s it. Fuck me, and then fuck off again.”
That’s probably two more fucks than he’s ever really heard me say and it makes him look up quickly.
“It’s not like that,” he says, almost pouting.
“No, then what is it like, House? Nothing about any of this is normal. You show up, we have sex and it’s great but the minute it’s over you clam up, freak out and won’t talk about it.”
“This is a bad idea,” he says quietly.
I actually laugh, because it’s absurd. “Yeah, I get that, but I’m afraid your self restraint needs a little work.”
“What about yours?” he returns.
“I’m not ashamed about what we’re doing.”
He looks away and remains quiet for a few moments, which would suggest he is ashamed. I wonder if he knows just how crap that makes me feel.
When he starts to speak again his voice is almost inaudible. “You hang out with Chase a lot?”
“No,” I reply quickly.
“But you have slept with him,” he says, looking anywhere but at me.
I don’t know if this is jealousy or anger or something else entirely. I do know he didn’t seem to give a crap at the time; he couldn’t have been more indifferent when it happened, so I don’t know where this is all coming from.
“One time,” I admit, before I take a deep breath. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Why didn’t you call me that night?”
I really wasn’t expecting him to ask that, but it is easy to answer, “Because you wouldn’t have come.”
It’s true and he knows it; his head seems to sink a little bit lower and he doesn’t bother trying to deny it.
“Perhaps. I also wouldn’t have screwed you while you were out of your mind on crystal meth.”
Ouch, even if that’s a dig at Chase it manages to sting me too; he has no right to have this conversation with me . He didn’t care then, why does he now?
“Stop making comparisons, House, it’s pointless. What I did with Chase will never happen again. It was a mistake; even he agrees with that.”
“Fine,” he says moodily. He goes to stand but I come forward and place my hands on his shoulders; he finally looks up at me.
“Do you trust me?” I ask.
“I don’t trust anybody, you know that,” he says quickly, tilting his head away again so he doesn’t have to look at me.
“Okay, do you believe me when I say I find you attractive?
“No.”
“Then what’s my motivation, House?”
“I don’t know,” he says; he sounds almost lost and, sadly, I have no trouble believing him.
“Why is it so impossible for you to believe I like you for you? No big mystery and no ulterior motive,” I ask.
“Because you like fixing people, you need people to need you.”
“And do you need me?”
“No,” he says quickly. He’s just proved himself wrong, hasn’t he?
“And don’t you think I already know that?”
He stays silent. Something about Chase turning up has spooked him. I can’t quite put my finger on it but it has.
“Can’t it just be enough that we’re enjoying this? we don’t have to put it in a box and label it,” I say, but he remains silent. I’m starting to think he will never believe I like him for who he really is.
I let go of his shoulders and back off. “If you want to go, go. But Chase just noticed your bike outside so I’d give it a minute before you go running out of here.”
I feel instantly bad for implying he could run, but I’m too angry to keep that sort of thing in check. I have to leave the room.
I go and sit on the sofa in the living room, a few moments later I watch House go into the bathroom to retrieve his t-shirt. I’m wholly expecting him to leave when he comes back into the living room, but surprisingly he doesn’t. He comes over and sits by me on the sofa.
“If Chase knows, Foreman knows,” he states, in a matter of fact way.
“I know.”
We sit in silence for a while. Henry jumps down from the chair opposite and nudges my hands but I shoo him away; eventually House leans back and looks over at me.
“Cheap shot abut the running,” he says quietly.
“Sorry,” I reply. He nods and we stay silent, thinking for a few minutes longer. The problems we thought we had before were bad enough, but this takes everything to a whole new level.
Eventually House asks. “So…what do we do now?”
That’s a pretty good question. “I’ve got no idea.”