The Hole of the Matter, a House/Cam smut

[moonstruck88]

Rating: NC-17
Summary: Twice the price for the meat-grinder-look.
Disclaimer: House isn't mine.



She had been standing in the conference room, pouring her coffee, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Liquid sloshing - the sound of hope. The smell of pleasure in the morning.

The aroma - the steam - enshrouded her. A veil of comfort. A blanket she wanted to carry with her and curl up in at the end of the day. At the end of every argument with House.

Mondays. Beginnings. She hated that they all felt like endings. The start of another week, another case, another day. Trudging through the same routine. Monotony - the story of her life.

She had just about filled her mug when it happened. It grabbed her by the chin, turning her around. She poured a stream of coffee on the counter. The liquid seeped hot into her blouse. Burning the fabric. Burning her.

"Damn," she breathed, then heard the door swing open behind her. There was a pause as he stood there, watching, assessing, and she reached for a paper towel. His fingers tapped idly on the glass of the door. He was looking at her. She could feel it. But Cameron ignored him, merely blinking - once, twice - trying to shake the image from her head.

"Good morning," she muttered - an attempt at happiness, at hello. And when she turned to flash him a tiny smile, it was more for her own benefit than his. To ensure that she wasn't going crazy.

Nope. Still there. Definitely still there. She felt her cheeks begin to flush at the sight, right before her spine gave a shudder.

Cold. Hot. A wonderful prick of sensation.

It was House's newest version of cool with the kids, but the fad did wonders for his . . . body. His legs. For him. She saw skin she had never seen before. In places she had never found erotic. Before.

She swallowed hard and concentrated on the coffee.

One last swipe and the counter was clean; she threw the towel away, got a clean one. Started dabbing at the stain on her blouse. But it was just that - a stain - and she didn't feel like bothering with it now. It wasn't going away any time soon. So she threw that towel in the garbage as well and stiffened when she felt him behind her. Cautiously blowing over the surface of her cup, she lowered her mouth to the brim.

"Cameron," House greeted, looping a thumb and finger through the handle of her cup. His skin brushed hers and the shudder deepened. And his own lips touched the brim before Cameron's had a chance.

She gave him the glare he was looking for.

"Ugh," he spat the coffee back out, contorting his face in disgust. "Do you normally drink this without sugar?" He knew she didn't. She liked two spoons of cream and three packets of sugar. Sweet and needy: the way he liked her. "Fashion statement?" His gaze was on her blouse as he took another sip without thinking, and then spat it back out a second time.

Cameron looked down at the stain on her blouse, but her eyes quickly traveled to his pants. Again. And to the skin exposed thereof. "I could ask you the same thing." Holes - in the left knee, the right knee, the left thigh. His jeans were frayed and faded, strings hanging from the cuffs. Gruff and sexy and disheveled - as always - but this time . . . this time he'd done it. His motorcycle jacket only added to the look. "Cuddy is going to kill you."

"Sounds hot," he raised an eyebrow, then reached across her for the sugar, exposing his back to Cameron's wandering eyes. Her focus fell immediately downward, to the tiny hole at the corner of his pocket. Her heart did a flip-flop in her stomach.

"You - "

"Chase isn't the only one who shops at Goodwill," he cut her off as he fought with the sugar to open it. "In fact, most of my clothes come from Goodwill. After all the drugs and the sex and the booze, my bank account's really quite dry." He tore at the edge. Nothing happened. He tried using his teeth instead.

"You didn't get those at Goodwill." She watched as he gnawed on the packet. "You got them at some over-priced shop with loud rock music and beach bums. Give me that." She snatched the packet from his teeth and ripped the top off - now wet with House's saliva. "Twice the price for the meat-grinder-look."

"That's really quite poetic, but I'm not that stupid. Why pay Levi to stick them in a meat grinder when I can scrape them on the driveway myself." And he noticed when she didn't wash his saliva from her fingers. "Open another one for me." He brought the cup to his mouth again and winced when it was still too bitter.

Leaning his hip against the counter, he held the cup steady, watching as Cameron opened another sugar and sprinkled it into his coffee. So like a girl to sprinkle instead of dump. She was prolonging the moment of closeness; it was their way of dancing. The only way he knew how.

"I have a shirt in my office."

Cameron looked up from her sprinkling. "What?"

He nodded toward his office. "Your blouse is wet."

"Oh." And she threw the empty packet away. "No, I think I might have one in my locker." When he nodded a second time and looked down at his cup, Cameron's nose caught a whiff of his cologne, and her body went briefly numb. Then all senses returned to rape her. Hard. She was sure she would faint from the dizziness, but her hand on the counter kept her standing.

House seemed to realize the problem, because he chose that moment to make it worse. He turned toward his office, leaving a cloud of his cologne behind him. An aphrodisiac, and he knew it. Merciless. It wrapped around Cameron, attacking her, destroying her will to hold on.

"Come get your mail, please."

Her head was reeling. She blinked. Swallowed. Watched as he opened his office door. "You mean, your mail."

"I laugh in the face of technicalities." A whoosh of air and glass closed between them.

If she hadn't been high from the smell of him, she would have left him to his own mail and poured herself another cup of coffee. Maybe sat down with a newspaper. Had some time to herself. But she glanced around quickly, then plodded to his office, closing her eyes before entering.

He was already sitting, with his cane against the desk, pulling random papers into a messy pile. He scooped the pile against his stomach and picked it up, shoving it in Cameron's direction. She wrinkled her brow at him. "Is all of that mail?"

He eyed the pile suspiciously. "Don't know." And he appeared pleased to be getting rid of it - his legs spread wide and his back against the seat. Drinking the coffee she'd prepared and ordering her around. A bit too comfortable for her liking.

"And you want me to figure it out . . ."

"That was the implication, yes." Another loud sip from his cup. "Now take this; my arm's getting tired."

She sighed and held her hands out, closing her fingers on the stack. But when House released it, it fell to the floor. A hollow thud resounding.

He looked down. She looked down. Neither moved to retrieve it.

Silence.

House looked up at her face. "Nervous about something?" he chided. But then he noticed her gaze - glued to the middle of his seat. Glued to somewhere on his pants. And his head rolled downward to look.

The source of all problems to come.

There was a hole at the crotch of his jeans - smaller than a penny, and covered in a shroud of white strings. He hadn't noticed it there before. "What can I say? The driveway spares none." He didn't bother with closing his legs. "Cleverly, though, I'm wearing blue panties. So it blends well."

Her eyes got even bigger. "You're - "

"All my blue thongs were dirty," he said by way of an explanation.

She wet her bottom lip and looked away. Embarrassed. Blushing. Curious. Her cheeks were warm; her palms were sweaty. Her nose was filled with his scent. Still.

Always.

They both stared at the floor for a moment, contemplating the scattered mess of mail. But it was forgotten when Cameron stepped forward. She stepped over the mail, took the cup from House's hands. Set it down on his desk. He actually looked confused when her hand touched his knee, and stunned when she lifted her leg. Over both of his. He almost jumped when her thigh brushed his own.

And then everything stopped. The room. The air. The sound. Her movement.

Blue eyes flicked over her face. "You're thinking about doing something," he mused, his voice now raspy and quiet. "Something you've never done before." A stare-down. Green. Blue. Green. Blue. Moving, caressing, dancing. Forcing. The pain, the love. The tension. "What's the worst that can happen?"

She was straddling him - her hands on his legs, hard and hot and soft. But she wasn't on top of him. Yet. She still had time to back out.

That is, until he rolled his chair forward, trapping Cameron between him and the desk. And his smirk was wicked and playful. There was nowhere to go but down. Onto his lap. Into a place she'd never been. Warm. Hot. Welcoming.

Dangerous.

Her shudder turned into a throb. And it pulsed through her stomach to her core. Cameron lowered herself down until she was nestled between his legs. Their thighs meshed together - skin and muscle and bone. Heat. She knew she had to be hurting him. But he didn't say a word. The edge of the desk dug deep into the muscles of her back, hurting her, singing her. Burning her. It was all the stability she had.

When he laughed, the vibrations soaked through her. It rocked her and traveled to her toes. "You are so predictable." He didn't touch. Only stared - amused - at her face. "Like putty under my fingers."

When her own finger slipped through the hole at his crotch, his whole body jerked in reaction. He hadn't been prepared, at all. She smiled. And when her finger slipped deeper inward, House struggled to regain his footing on the carpet. Tensing his legs and gripping his fists. Wondering what Cameron was high on.

As soon as she felt him on her fingertip, she sucked in a sharp breath of air. He was already hard. He was hard. It made her wonder what else he was hiding.

And suddenly, she wanted to know. All of it. Here. Now. She lightly stroked him in circles.

"Damn it," he hissed. "What has gotten into you?" And she could tell he was clenching his jaw.

"I like the way you smell." She wiggled her finger. He hissed. She wiggled it again.

"That's it?" Closing his eyes as she took control.

"That's it."

"My undeniable charm?" Broken, halfhearted words.

"I ignore it." She slipped deeper inside. Past the knuckle, as far as she could push. She watched him gasp as her finger curled around him; he nearly lost his breath when she squeezed him. A hitch in his throat. A spasm of his thighs.

She felt it.

She wanted to feel it again and again - make him loose all control beneath her. Make him know, make him cry when the world went dark. When everything else fell away. She wanted to make him feel. Every movement he made tore through her.

She knew how the game would end.

Moving in harmony. Sweat on the brow. The darkness of the room and the chill of the air. His breath like blanket above her. Rolling over, pounding and panting; a hand squeals across the desk. "What are you thinking?" Is it worth the cost? "What are you feeling?" Tomorrow will be paradise lost.

It flashes. It rocks. It's ruthless and cold. A hand on the edge, possessive in its hold. His hands are too fast. The desk is too hard. Each thrust is too good and too painful.

"Take it out." His voice broke through her daze.

Her stroking stopped and she stared. "Here?"

"Your finger. Take it out. Foreman's coming." He kept his eyes on the hallway as Cameron scrambled to release him.

She tried to pull her finger out.. "I can't." She pulled harder. Nothing happened. "It's stuck."

"What?" His voice was borderline frantic. "Pull harder."

"No - "

"Yes." He tried grabbing her hand and pulling on her finger himself.

"No, my knuckle. It's not coming out."

He tried severing a few of the strings in the way. But still, her finger stayed put. Foreman was fast approaching. "Cry."

"What?"

"Just, cry. On my shoulder. Now."

She obeyed, and the door to his office swung open.

"I've got the lab work on - " Foreman stopped dead in his tracks. "What the hell?"

House was scrunching his face in annoyance, his hands in the air like he didn't know what to do with them. "She's crying," he said the word like it tasted bad.

"So she's hugging you? Usually, you're the one who upsets her."

"Doesn't matter. Women like cologne." He tried to find a place for his hands. "All my sins are forgiven."

Foreman ignored him. "Cam, you okay?"

A sob arose from House's shoulder as Cameron drowned a giggle in the noise.

"What?"

"She said, she doesn't want to talk about it," House translated, his mock annoyance growing stronger.

"Okay . . ." A pause before he continued. "Well, I got the lab results for - "

Cameron sobbed aloud again to stifle the laughter in her throat. This time House had to bite his tongue and fight to keep the smirk off his face.

"This is ridiculous." Foreman shifted. "What happened?"

House released a sigh and gestured toward the floor. "She spilled my mail." He looked down at the pile, as did Foreman.

"That's it?"

"Yep." He then looked down at Cameron. "Must be that time of the month." Her breath grew hot on his neck. "I told her it was no big deal, that she could clean it up later. But she got upset and . . . did the whole girly thing. Started pouting."

"And ended up on your lap . . ." Foreman raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"Right. And we were about to have sex, but you walked in."

Another loud sob from his shoulder.

"She'll be okay," House assured.

"Right." Foreman looked back to the paper in his hand. "The - "

"I don't need the results," House interrupted. "Just go fix the patient." His impatience was a little too obvious as he shooed Foreman away with his hand.

And by the time the door whooshed closed, House had his hands on her bottom. She had been sliding toward the floor ever since Foreman came in, and the pressure on his leg was unbearable. "Pull up," he told her, his voice as steady as possible.

But her body was shaking with giggles, and House could tell that his shirt was in her mouth. Her breath and saliva was damp against his skin. When she pulled herself back up towards him, she didn't lift her head, rather keeping it there on his shoulder. And she laughed until she cried.

"You're enjoying this." His voice rumbled loud on her lips. "I should point out that your finger's still stuck in my pants." Her response, he expected, would be to lift her head - mascara running down her cheeks - to apologize.

She sank her teeth into his shoulder instead.

Shock spread like lighting through his body. Delicious pain. A spark of white desire flashed hot behind his eyelids, and he lost all interest in dislodging her finger. Like an animal, all judgement escaped him. Only instinct was left. Tightening his grip on the flesh in his hands, he pushed himself against what he could, wanting only contact and warmth on his ache.

The ache became a scream and the scream became a desperate neediness.

He could no longer endure this in silence.

"Fuck," he breathed in a broken whisper, unable to process the need. But the whisper soon became a snarl and he gripped her ass even tighter. She started this, and he was going to finish it.

The harder he squeezed, the harder she bit. Until her teeth had his shoulder in a death-clamp. House almost cried out in pain; he was sure she had broken the skin. "Cameron," spilled from his lips like a plea. And subconsciously, his fingers dipped toward the center of her ass, parting her in his search for something to hold to.

Only then did she release him. Her head rolled off his shoulder and her eyes found his in a moment of pure desperation. Her eyes were glazed. She almost looked dizzy. The tears of laughter were now tears of lust, and House knew he'd die if they turned back now.

"Get off."

His body jerked against her, even as he said it. And she found that she couldn't obey. She couldn't get off. Or move. Or think. The pulse between her legs was insistent.

"Get off." He said it again. More forcefully this time. But with a lingering promise that he wouldn't leave her wanting. A ripping of threads, a pull of her hand; he had her finger loose in less than a second. And she felt a twinge surge through her when she moved. Her lips were wet; her panties were soaked. Her only thoughts were on occupying the void at her center.

As House pushed up from his chair, he leaned a hand on the desk for support. It was cold; he didn't feel it. His leg was burning; it felt like desire. Painful. His palms were clammy.

Cameron.

Hot and wet and malleable.

"Get on the floor."

And she did. There were no questions. No answers. Nothing to fill the silence but her knees on the carpet and the rustle of her clothing as she laid. On her back. Behind his desk. Waiting. Expecting. Watching.

House didn't bother with the blinds. The whole hospital could show up to watch, and he wouldn't notice. Or care. Kneeling overtop of her, his gaze on her body, he wasted every inch of her with his eyes. And he made it painfully obvious. One simple look had her squirming in place and raising her hips off the carpet.

Closer. Closer. Not close enough. Cameron brought a hand to the button of his jeans, but he pinned her arms to the floor. She jerked. He met her with a thrust of his own, pinning her pelvis to the floor. When he backed away, she moaned with a loss of self-control, and wrapped her legs around him. He pinned those to the floor as well.

"House . . .," she whined. Unable to withstand his teasing. He responded by nestling his pelvis into hers and gently rocking her side to side. "Guuuaaaah!" was all she could say as he moved. As he rubbed her clit with the front of his jeans. Too many layers of fabric. Too many things in the way.

He stretched out above her and clawed further up the carpet, until his chest was level with her head. And slowly, torturously, he lifted her shirt with his pinky. It tickled, and she would have laughed, but she couldn't. He touched his bulge to her stomach. And dragged it across her - from her bellybutton back to her clit. Over, and over, and over. Taunting her with what she could have.

She forced a scream to stay down. Her breathing was shattered, her skin was flushed. House knew he was driving her closer. She begged to be broken. And he could wait no longer to break her.

Cameron jumped when she felt his thumbs in her waistband. And then at her button. Her zipper. Her pants were sliding down her legs. She became immediately aware of their location. Behind his desk. On the floor of his office. Glass walls, glass doors, the conference room, the busy hallway. Her pants were pulled from her feet. Then his thumbs were inside her panties.

His hands were too fast. The floor was too hard.

Her legs were too wet to stop.

Wet.

She heard a growl crawl from his throat as he realized how wet she was. Then the warmth of her own liquid brushed against her calves as he pulled her panties toward her feet. And then off. All the way off. She was exposed to him. His gaze. His scrutiny. She would never look into his eyes again without seeing them glued to her crest.

To her great surprise, he made a fist around her panties and brought them to his nose, watching her watching him. Sensually. He closed his eyes as he breathed them in - as he sweet oil filled his nostrils. Then lingered there in the scent.

"Oh damn. House . . . Please!" she found herself panting as he reopened his eyes. She felt . . . She couldn't . . . Couldn't stand it anymore. Empty air in-between her legs - cold empty air, at that. She needed. To be filled. She needed to be touched. To be pleasured. To be ravaged as she screamed and pushed and rolled with his movements. She needed to feel him. His body. His penis. The head of him pumping at her entrance.

"Impatient," he scolded. Little more than a whisper. His own throb demanding relief. Every brush of his tip against the front of his boxers drove him further and further insane. He wanted to drag it across her. He wanted to use it to break her in half. Too shove it as deep as it would go.

So in a solid, frenzied movement, he sat beside Cameron and tore his tattered jeans from his legs. He realized what he was doing. Chase could be in the conference room, or Foreman. Cuddy could be in the hallway. Watching as his aching member sprung from his boxers, as he crawled on top of his wet, waiting colleague. But his only care in the world was how Cameron would feel around him.

She barely had time to admire his size before his shadow loomed above her once again, and his body pressed firmly to hers. She shrieked at the initial contact - his bare penis rubbing over her thighs. And House covered her mouth with his hand. But as he lifted his hand, about to replace it with his lips, a moment of quiet passed between them.

There was no squirming. No panting. No begging, moaning, or teasing. It was just House and Cameron. The sunlight in streaks on the side of his face, the golden brown honey of her hair. And the glisten, the mixture of their eyes. Blue on green. No standoff, no gain. No battle for control.

His gaze caressed her nose, her lips, the curls that hung on her forehead. Like he was noticing her for the first time today. For the first time in a while. "I've never kissed you before." It was pure and untainted. A simple observation, that spoke volumes of the past, the future. Mixed with something of the present.

"No," she inhaled his soft stream of breath, "you haven't."

And he inhaled hers. "Why?" It was an eerie time to be asking. Half-naked, throbbing, prepared to pleasure her raw. But he had to know.

"You don't like me." She raised an eyebrow, willing him to remember. Or to forget. Or to tell her that he was wrong.

"Oh." And that was the last thing he said.

Tender lips settled over Cameron's, and moved with that same untainted observation. Not like he thought she was fragile. But like he knew she deserved as much.

And as his scruff rasped gently on her cheeks, his shaft slid slowly into her.

She had never been this close to him. There was something more intimate about his mouth on hers than all the thrusts, all the throbs, in the world. He spoke to her when he kissed her - and it was more than physical need.

It was a different kind of dance.

She opened her mouth in a gasp when he pushed himself past her entrance, and House took the chance to taste her. His tongue brushed over the roof of her mouth. Tangled with her tongue. Swallowed her sighs. And he felt her hands grip his hips, pulling him farther inside. All the way inside.

In a quick decision, a maneuver of skill, House flipped them over so that he was on his back. And Cameron didn't get to react. Because the next thing she felt was his hands on the backs of her thighs, pulling her knees up toward him. She found herself kneeling over him, his shaft still buried deep inside her. Her hands on the floor. Her knees digging deep in the carpet.

Keeping himself in her cunt, House braced his hands on the floor, gradually moving to an upright position - sitting with his legs between her knees. And he dragged his hands up her back before landing them at the neck of her blouse. Tickling her skin with the fabric. Moving it aside. Inch. By inch. By inch. He wasn't afraid of being caught. He was going to savor this.

He lowered his mouth to her collarbone. And Cameron gasped. She tore at his shirt. Pulled at it. Fought with the buttons in her immense distraction. She needed his skin on her fingertips. She needed his chest to rub against her nipples. She needed to feel that warmth. But he made no attempt to take her shirt off.

But he did lean back, his hands on her waist, an evil grin on his lips. Making Cameron cried out with the pleasure. He did it again, knowing exactly how it felt. She cringed as it rippled inside of her.

But the ripple was just the beginning.

House's hands settled under her armpits and she almost laughed for the second time. It tickled. But she forgot that it tickled as his muscles went taut, and she felt him lifting her up. Off the floor. Above him. She forgot about his strength when the head of his shaft slid almost all the way out of her. It lingered at her entrance; she lingered in the air. And then House put her back down, his head plunging deep once again. She muffled an "Uuaangh!" as her eyes opened wide and she tried to process the pain. But he was lifting her up again, then slamming her down on top of him.

"Fuck! Fuck!"

He didn't even try to stifle her. Up. Down. He fucked himself with her tightness. She squeezed him and milked him and cried for him. Up. Down. Up. Down. His arms were protesting, but his penis wouldn't let him stop. He raked his head over the same patch of skin, time and time again - a knot scraping sensitive flesh. And she cried the louder each time.

She knew she shouldn't. She knew she had to swallow her cries. But every time he took her to the hilt - bone against bone and a tangle of nerves, the smell of him, the feel, the rasp and the force of his muscles - she could do nothing but beg for mercy.

Every thrust was a dare. He challenged her. To protest against his pushing and pulling. To change the rhythm and see what he'd do. But the pace of his scraping was far too good. Cameron didn't dare to mess with it.

When he felt the quiver - the unbelievable loss of control - from her body, he willed his arms to lift her once more, and then dropped her in careless abandon. Her walls clenched around him and he closed his eyes - his penis embedded in silk. It was too much. It was more than he had felt in far too long. And It was coming to a crashing peak.

When her scream began, he occupied her mouth with his thumb, pushing it hard against her gums and teeth. Leaving it there for stability. And he leaned them both against the desk - sweaty shoulders on bitter wood. She closed her eyes and bit down on his thumb. Gripping his back in her pleasure.

Lost. He was lost when her nails pierced through him.

He clamped his mouth near the side of Cameron's jaw, drowning his voice in her neck. And he shuddered. Then stilled. Rode the tsunami, long and hard. Spurting inside her. Draining. Draining. Rushing for release. Everything spilled from his tip and his eyelashes danced in his brain. Until it drained him of his will to hold on.

And so they both let go. And panted. And swallowed. And basked in the glory of the sunlight. The blast of air from the vent in the ceiling. The cold, clammy chill of their skin. The sound of heavy breathing, of something forbidden they'd accomplished. Something dangerous.

Something he wanted to do over and over. And over.

Yes, they would be caught. Yes, someone would ask about the wet spot on the carpet. Yes, they would have to deal with each other, and learn to refocus at work. Learn to coexist with the knowledge of their sin. Learn to resolve fights without hot, angry sex. And learn to balance the holidays.

Christmas at her house. Easter at his.

It would be long and strenuous, and yes, he would struggle. Letting her through his front door. Letting her into his life. Letting her into his fridge. But he would forget all that. Tonight. Tomorrow night. When he fell asleep with his chin in her hair. Time, and time again.

He scrunched his nose up at the thought. And then flinched under Cameron's thigh. His leg. His leg was burning.

It had never burned quite like this.