misanthrope_md | for Pamela

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pamela

for Pamela

It was a short walk to House's hut (previously Cameron's hut) as he certainly hadn't been about to park his bike somewhere far away. He'd been right, he wasn't having trouble walking - in fact, being high made it a bit easier since his leg wasn't throbbing like usual. He and Pamela kept up their usual banter on the way, but mostly it was him making blind jokes and innuendos - she didn't seem to mind.

When they got there, he said, "Home sweet home. Here's the tour: bed is five paces straight in front of you."

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It's a pushy thing and she rarely asks, but since he all but offered, Pamela lifts her hands and cups his jaw. He needs to shave...that's the first thing she notices. Weak chin, thin lips, good cheekbones, strong brow. He fingers and thumbs creep along, feeling every inch as she forms an image of what he must look like in her mind.

Her touch grows lighter, lingering at his lips. Nice voice and soft lips...definitely a plus. Every brush of her fingers against skin and stubble gives her a little charge and she keeps going, moving down his throat with one hand, all the way to his collar.

"How old are you?" she asks as her fingers move beneath his eye. He can't be much older than Bobby, she thinks, and that's a fine age to be.

The whole thing was strangely erotic, though whether that had anything to do with how stoned he was, House had no idea.

Figuring there wasn't any point in lying, he said, "I just turned fifty. So. You like what you see, so to speak?"

"S'not bad," she replies, nodding a little...the movement translating to her whole body so she writhes just a little. She's loose, but not all that high. It's kinda nice.

"Looks don't matter, though. Never really did." If he knew some of the guys she'd gone with, he'd probably feel like a supermodel.

"What does matter?" he asked, and his voice came out a little lower than he'd intended. The way she's moving is extremely appealing, and he drops his head to ghost his lips across her ear.

"It depends," she says, her voice softer, a little gravelly. "Talent, mostly. Passion. Creativity. Not being a dick..."

"I can get out my guitar, if you want," House said, sliding his hands up, underneath her shirt to rest on the bare skin of her lower back.

If there was ever a magic word that got her pants to disappear, that was it. Her breath catches slightly and she chases his touch with her spine.

"Later. I'll totally hold you to that offer."

"You know what's going to really piss you off?" he added, pushing back her hair so that he could press his lips to her neck. "Where we were sitting earlier - my bike was, oh, fifty feet away. But I figured if I offered to show it to you you'd get distracted and we wouldn't be doing this."

"You can show me that later, too," she assures him. The banter and distractions are all well and good, but she didn't come here to get wound up then go play show and tell. Pamela reaches down and pulls her shirt off, letting it fall to the floor.

House suddenly feels like maybe his karma is taking a turn in the right direction. His hands slide up, over her bra, thumbs tracing the curve of her cleavage.

"Nice rack," he says cheerfully, and then kisses her. There's nothing tentative about it - it might be a first kiss but they're already past that.

She'd like to tell him that he'd better think she has a nice rack. She'd like to tell him to hold on for dear life. That it's a damned good thing he's not shy. That she's really fucking missed this kind of thing.

She'd like to tell him, but Pamela's busy getting absolutely lost in the kiss. The way it feels and the taste and scent...let's just say 'dry spell' wasn't a strong enough turn of phrase. She's kissed so few men since she lost her eyes that it's still a little shock to the system.

It's a good kiss, no doubt, House thinks, and she gets extra points for enthusiasm. He slides his hands around to her back so that he's holding her tight against him, and then winds one hand up into her hair. He's already half hard, which he hopes makes her rethink any further erectile dysfunction jokes.

Pamela gasps, a little shocked at how much more she feels. Her skin is alive everywhere he touches and she can't wait to get her jeans off. Holding his face so she can keep her bearings, she tilts her head and kisses him deeply, small mewling moans escpaing...until her glasses his hit nose and she pulls away.

"Shit," she mutters, reaching for them. "Do you mind if I lose them? Don't want to kill the mood, but they're kind of..."

"Nah, I've always found it annoying when a woman wants me to look deep into her eyes during sex anyway," House says before kissing her neck. Her eyes aren't a pretty sight, it's true, but he's not bothered; the only scars he has a hang-up about are his own.

"Such a fuckin' romantic," Pamela replies dryly, not put off by it at all. She simply takes them off and holds them out. "Put them somewhere handy, honey. Can't afford to have them get broken."

House takes them and then leans over to set them carefully on his nightstand.

He turns back and looks at her and says, "This is really the first time since you lost your sight?" He slides his hands up her bare arms. "I guess I have to make it good."

"Yeah," she nods. "You better. Might put me off men altogether if you suck."

Somehow, she really doubts he'll suck. Guys his age had the experience...if they've paid attention at all throughout their lives.

"Well, I am a doctor," House pointed out, as if that meant anything. "I've got warm hands." And he unhooked her bra with barely a twist of his fingers.

Warm hands, cold heart...She's not sure why that pops into her head but is grateful it leaves just as quickly. She lets go of him long enough to shrug out of the strap and let her bra fall, too. She has a pair of doves tattooed on her chest, one on each breast.

Licking her lips, she trails her fingers over his skin lightly, noting the muscle and bone. He's definitely not bad, but she can't help but miss the fact that she can't see him.

"Nice ink," House says before sliding his hands over her breasts. "I don't have any," he adds, in case she was wondering. "My rebel streak extends solely to my bike and my disdain for authority."

He kissed her neck again and then slid his hands back down to start working on the fastenings of her jeans.

As her jeans fall open, Pamela shifts to get to her feet so she can shimmy out of them. As they come off, there's even more ink...stars on her hip bone, a tribal anklet, and a heart with roses on her ass.

"No ink? Shame," she says as she carefully steps out of her clothes and then holds her hands out to him. "Stand up, honey. No fair if I'm the only one naked."

She had a fantastic body - especially for, you know, a woman who wasn't in her twenties like it seemed like most of the people here were.

"Well, I can pretend I have some if you want," House said, taking her hands and getting carefully to his feet. He unhooked his jeans and yanked them down. "You want a mental image of Spongebob tattooed on my thigh?"

"I think I'll take a pass," she laughs, reaching out to touch his bare skin. "As long as you don't have Jesse Forever above your ass too, we're golden. Now...before I get all hot and bothered, you do have rubbers, right?"

"Sure," House said, "and you're just in time. I'd been thinking of throwing them out in a fit of depression."

He looked down at her hands and added, "Maybe it's a good thing you can't see that my boxers have Scooby Doo on them."

Actually, they were blue plaid.

"Ruh roh," she laughs, her hands moving slowly lower. "Quit fucking around about your clothes and just get out of them," she adds, then leans in and kisses where her lips meet skin.

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