That the manipulation was so blatant, so unbelievably obvious, was the only reason House went along with it. Wilson in crisp slacks just a touch tighter than his typical work clothes, with a shirt just a little more stylish and tie just a little more flirty than usual. Protestations that House didn’t have to come, would probably be bored out of his mind, interspersed with hints of a few of House’s favorite things: jazz, open bar, and lots and lots of lesbians.
House insisted, Wilson resisted, and that was how they ended up walking into a hotel ballroom in Manhattan together.
“Wear your ring for me,” Wilson whispered, catching House’s left hand and easily slipping the gold band on. House groaned.
“We’re hunting hospital donors, aren’t we?”
“Of course,” Wilson replied, light glinting off his matching ring, and gave House a brief kiss before turning to the two women approaching them from the right. “Tanya; Melanie. So nice to see you again. I don’t believe you’ve met my husband, Dr. Greg House. He’s the chief of…”
House refused to listen and refused to smile, but he did deign to nod at the two women and allow Wilson to put a hand at the small of his back. He decided to give Wilson exactly three and a half minutes to establish his Serious Gay Couple cred and then House would be heading straight to the bar.
He hated these functions with a passion. Damn Cuddy with her pesky donation goals for department heads. And damn Wilson with his ambitions for an expanded oncology program with attached temporary residence for family members.
“You focus on work too much,” House had grumbled when Wilson had first shown enthusiasm for Cuddy’s plan.
“Oh,” Wilson had replied, “you’re right.” House’s smug smirk (he loved it when those words fell from Wilson’s lips) had been wiped clean away at Wilson’s next statement. “I should be thinking more about us having kids.”
House grabbed a drink from the nearest bar and then began a circuit of the room. The promised lesbians were indeed out in force, but unfortunately they were not as young or as hot as House had anticipated. Very staid, very proper: serious business homosexuals. As he walked, the snatches of conversations he caught were about auto safety standards and financial planning and summers in the Hamptons, and he was bored almost to tears.
Out of sheer desperation he gave the jazz combo more than twenty minutes of his attention. The saxophonist wasn’t bad, but House felt a strong urge to shove the piano player off the bench and take over. No soul whatsoever, and always a half step behind when the others improvised.
House’s reward for attending these events – aside from half of the donation checks, which House had immediately claimed as his right, given the whole joint use of marital assets thing – was sex. Very good sex, to House’s specifications. After the egregious boredom of this particular evening, Wilson was going to have to upgrade that to outstanding sex, with something special thrown in. House wasn’t sure what that was yet, but thinking it up would at least stave off the tedium until House could whine his way to an early departure.
With that thought, it was time for another drink, and fortunately a bar was right at hand with only one person waiting. The bartender was already pushing the man’s drink across the polished surface; excellent timing.
“What is this?” the man asked indignantly, pointing at the glass.
“A lemon slice, sir,” the bartender replied through clenched teeth; he had obviously encountered this guest before.
“What is it doing in my drink? Never mind that I have a life-threatening citrus allergy – no one in the known universe puts lemon in a Rob Roy.”
The bartender softened, looking slightly apologetic. “I didn’t know about your allergy, but you don’t have to worry. That’s not an orange slice. It’s just lemon.”
“Which is a citrus fruit!” the man exploded. “More acidic and thus more deadly than orange! Who doesn’t know that? I would call you the stupidest person in the world, but that honor is obviously reserved for the woman who allowed your Neanderthal father to procreate with her.”
“Sir!” Any hint of apology was gone, as the bartender straightened up and tugged down his vest.
“Go find someone who is not a moron to make my drink. Or better yet, get out of my way and let me make it myself.” Without waiting for an answer, the man strode around the bar and began looking around, ignoring the bartender completely.
“I’m getting my manager!” the bartender threatened as he stalked off.
“Don’t forget to breathe on your way there!”
Highly amused, House tried his best to keep a straight face. He leaned into the bar and asked as innocently as possible, “Don’t you think you were hard on him?”
“No. Idiot could have killed me, and where would the universe be then?” The man grabbed at glasses, ice, and liquor, staying well away from the garnishes. “Who the hell puts a lemon slice in a Rob Roy?”
House laughed. “Who the hell drinks a Rob Roy? Is that for your ninety-year-old grandfather?”
“Nice. Funny. Quite a laugh riot.” The clink of ice into the glass rang a nice counterpoint to his words. “And you are drinking…?”
“Yes, I could tell from the bum’s beard you’ve got that you had no discrimination whatsoever. One drinks a Rob Roy to mask the taste of the swill this fleabag hotel dares to defame the good name of scotch whisky with.”
“It’s not that bad,” House replied, just to provoke the guy.
The man took a sip of his drink, nodded once, and passed the bottle of scotch over to House. “What kind of accident did you have?”
Asking about the leg right off the bat, that took some balls. Or an utter absence of tact. Could be either. House scowled, hooked his cane on the side of the bar, and poured himself more scotch.
“Radiation?” the man asked. “Or did you stick the lit end of a cigarette in your mouth by mistake? Because those are the only reasons I can think of for your complete lack of taste buds. Unless it’s congenital. Some kind of rare genetic disorder?”
House found himself laughing so hard that he could barely breathe.
“Are you on drugs?” the man asked curiously.
House got a hold of himself, wiping his face with a quick hand. “Yes,” he replied, “but not the ones you’re probably thinking of. I’m Greg House, by the way.”
“Doctor Rodney McKay.” McKay shook his head. “Maybe I should just take that bottle back from you.”
“Not on your life,” House retorted, and clasped it to his chest. He changed the subject before McKay could get any ideas. “You don’t seem like the type for this kind of affair.”
“Well, yes, not surprising because I’m not.” Waving off a few approaching guests, McKay leaned against the bar. “You don’t look the type either.”
“Nope. Would it sound hen-pecked to say my husband dragged me here?”
“Not at all,” McKay responded. “Because hens are female, so I guess it would have to sound cock-pecked. Oh my God. Did I just say that?”
“Yes, you did.” Finally, after countless numbers of these functions, he’d met someone interesting. House could’ve sighed with relief. “But as you were saying, before the weird sadomasochistic detour, you’re not the type for this kind of function. So what type are you?”
McKay pulled himself up to his full height and looked down his nose in a move that would’ve seemed haughty if House hadn’t been taller than him.
“I’m one of the world’s preeminent astrophysicists, working on – well, I can’t tell you what I’m working on, because it’s top secret, but suffice it to say it’s important. Life-altering, even.” McKay ignored House’s skeptical expression and pushed on without taking a breath. “I’m here tonight because my colleague, who is not a physicist but is still reasonably intelligent, was asked to attend as a temporary liaison and goodwill ambassador between the US military and the gay and lesbian community.”
House was intrigued in spite of himself. “I thought the armed forces still had that Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy.”
“Well, yes,” McKay replied. “Some PR cretin thought it would be a good idea if the military reached out to show how excluding gays from service is not based on prejudice but on sound policy rationale. ‘We’ve got no problem with the homosexuals,’ is, I think, the theme. ‘Just don’t come out while on active duty or we’ll fire your ass.’”
House smiled into his glass. “I take it you’re a Democrat.”
“I’m Canadian. It’s a moronic policy. Gay men and women in the Canadian armed forces can get married to each other, and our defense hasn’t been compromised one bit.”
“Nobody wants to take your polar bears and caribou anyway, eh?”
“Wow, you should be on the comedy club circuit. So original and side-splittingly funny. Maybe you can get the piano player from the jazz group here to go with you – he’s always a half-step behind too.” McKay finished his drink and slapped the glass onto the bar. “I wonder where Sheppard is now. He’s spent the whole night flirting with the same blow-dried slickster –”
“How long have you two been together?” House was highly amused by just how much the simple question flustered McKay.
“What? We’re friends, that’s all. Why would you say that? You said yourself I’m not the type for this kind of event –”
“I was referring to the very proper upper-crust-ness of it, not the gayness. And the evidence clearly points to the two of you being together. There’s the unnecessary upgrade you just gave him from colleague to friend; the very un-straight worry about his flirting; the anger at a policy that doesn’t apply to you and therefore shouldn’t be affecting your life at all; and most conclusively, the fact that you hauled yourself to an event you clearly don’t want to be at just to spend time with him.”
McKay frowned and crossed his arms. “You’re an annoying bastard.”
“I get that a lot.”
Sighing, McKay looked across the crowd. “There’s Sheppard. Oh, and he’s with that guy again. Now I’ll admit that the man looks good – it’s the suit; it’s got to be the suit – but with all that charm, there can’t be any substance to him.”
House didn’t bother looking; he was too busy smirking at McKay’s discomfort. “Going to stomp over and reclaim your boyfriend?”
“Shut up,” McKay murmured. “John’s got a minimum time obligation, so we’re stuck here a bit longer.” He looked back at House. “I hate small talk, but you’re not cleared to talk about anything actually interesting, so… What do you do?”
House pulled over a nearby chair and sat, trying to ignore the ramp-up of pain in his thigh. “I’m a doctor. A real one, not a PhD. My specialties are nephrology, infectious diseases, and diagnostics.”
“Oh, ‘real’ doctor, huh? Couldn’t cut it in the hard sciences, the ones that require thought and analytical aptitude?”
House waved a hand dismissively. “Well, you know, saving lives no one else can save – it pays the rent.”
“It certainly does,” replied McKay under his breath, and House was still puzzling through what that meant when McKay suddenly rolled his eyes and sighed in utter exasperation.
“And now they’re having their picture taken together. What is this, the prom?”
House looked over his shoulder in time to see the flash go off. The event photographer held still a moment, then nodded and walked away, giving House an excellent view of the model-handsome military man and the “blow-dried slickster.” The two men were laughing together, leaning into each other’s shoulders, and House could feel his blood pressure rise. He snatched up his cane and was halfway across the room before McKay could catch up to him.
“What are you doing?” McKay asked as he trotted alongside. “I don’t need you defending my honor.”
“Your honor doesn’t concern me in the least.”
House was mentally three sentences into his brilliant cut-down of Sheppard – he was not averse to producing tears – when Wilson noticed his approach and broke out in a broad, fond smile.
“House! Glad you came over; I’ve been telling John all about you, and he’s dying to meet you.” Wilson draped an arm around House’s waist and pulled him close, and House started to feel appeased. God, he was turning into such a sap.
McKay joined them, and there were introductions all around, and Sheppard told a very amusing anecdote at McKay’s expense. McKay grew indignant (which seemed, along with arrogant, to be his default setting), and insisted that the tale would have a completely different spin if parts of it weren’t classified. When Sheppard favored McKay with a long, lazy grin, House felt a distinct warmth in his groin and decided to forgive any flirtation Wilson might have indulged in.
Another story was exchanged, and then several more, and then House found himself standing next to McKay as Sheppard and Wilson made their way around the room, saying their goodbyes.
“God, they’re gorgeous together,” McKay sighed. It gave House a sudden inspiration, and he looked over at McKay with both eyebrows raised.
McKay pursed his lips. “What?” Recognition seemed to dawn, and McKay’s eyes widened slightly. “You’re not suggesting…”
House pointedly looked over at Wilson and Sheppard, who were standing side by side, smiling charmingly at a petite older woman. With each movement their arms brushed, and House could easily picture a similar teasing touch skin to skin. His earlier jealousy was completely gone, because what he imagined would involve him, too, watching and directing.
“You’re nuts,” McKay said. “I don’t think –” McKay inhaled sharply, his words seemingly forgotten, when Sheppard leaned over to whisper something in Wilson’s ear.
Seven minutes and two hasty sidebar conversations later, the four of them were walking into McKay and Sheppard’s hotel room. It was bland but generously sized, with two queen beds and a small sitting area with a couch, arm chair, and desk. House immediately claimed the couch, while McKay leaned against the desk. They both focused their attention on Wilson and Sheppard, who were standing next to the nearest bed, facing each other from an arm’s length away. Wilson’s tie was loosened slightly, and Sheppard had shed his coat, draping it carefully over a chair.
When Wilson glanced over, House knew exactly what he was thinking. Nothing had been done yet; nothing had even been directly said. A farewell and a few handshakes, and he and Wilson could walk out the door without even the appearance of impropriety.
“Eyes forward,” House commanded quietly, and they had passed the point of no return.
Wilson’s small step toward Sheppard changed the dynamic between them so quickly that McKay gasped. With the shrinking of the space between them, the intimacy and intensity grew even before Sheppard slowly raised a hand to the side of Wilson’s neck. House shoved down a surge of jealousy; he had set this in motion, and he wanted to see it through.
Sheppard’s thumb glided along Wilson’s jaw centimeter by centimeter. Their eyes were locked, and the ever-changing contours of their smiles leant a glow to the charge between them. Wilson’s head began to tilt slowly, first into Sheppard’s caress and then away and forward. Sheppard shifted subtly as well, and their lips were a breath away when McKay started to talk.
The words spilled out of him like a stumbling colt – something incomprehensible about ancient ascension and “hot chai, uh” – until Sheppard silenced him with a firm, “Rodney.”
Wilson pulled back a fraction to let Sheppard speak, although his hand continued a careful, thorough exploration of the musculature of Sheppard’s forearm and bicep.
“Now,” Sheppard said, “I’m used to hearing you talk – I like it even – but if you’re not careful, you might just break James here’s concentration.” Sheppard took in a deep breath and stretched as Wilson began to lightly nuzzle at the skin below his jaw. “You don’t want to break his concentration, do you?”
“Well, no, certainly not, but I –”
Wilson pulled back as if to illustrate Sheppard’s point, and Sheppard and House both grunted in disappointment. Sheppard instantly drew an arm around Wilson’s waist, holding him in place.
“You want me to get out the gag, Rodney? I could do that.”
House followed Sheppard’s gaze to McKay’s face, which was flushed and pinking as he shook his head quickly. “You have a gag?” House asked, and was surprised to hear how deep and rough his voice had become.
As McKay’s eyes grew wider, Sheppard moaned. House looked back toward him and found Wilson had returned his attentions to Sheppard’s neck, moving at the same tantalizingly slow pace.
“It’s mine,” panted Sheppard. Pulling himself together, he continued, “I can get a little noisy, and where we live that’s just not prudent most of the time.” His hands slipped to Wilson’s hips and tugged, bringing their groins into contact for the first time.
All four men sucked in a breath, and then Wilson’s lips were on Sheppard’s. Slow, slow, it was a slow kiss but not tentative, no, definitely not. Sheppard’s eyes were closed, and as Wilson gently ended the kiss, House could see the tip of Sheppard’s tongue easing out, chasing after Wilson’s lips.
“Torture,” McKay groaned. Perched awkwardly on the corner of the desk, he was squirming and shifting.
“Of the best kind,” House agreed. He moved over until he was comfortably wedged in the corner of the short couch, with the best possible angle for the show. “Keep going,” he said, and was gratified to see Wilson respond immediately to his command, stretching steady fingers toward the buttons on Sheppard’s shirt.
The mutual striptease that followed was slow, skin revealed inch by inch. House had expected the thrill that came with the newness of seeing Sheppard’s body for the first time, but he was surprised how intensely arousing it was having a new angle on Wilson’s familiar form. Mine, he thought, even as another man’s hand stretched across Wilson’s torso, and pride wound itself gloriously around lust.
When the last bit of shirt fabric had fallen away, Sheppard and Wilson were pressed chest to chest, mouth to mouth, hands exploring each other’s hair. Wilson’s hair was getting deliciously mussed, and Sheppard’s hair – well, it looked exactly the same as it had. Thick and spiked, and House could imagine what a treat that was for Wilson’s fingers.
He chanced a look at McKay, who had moved from the desk to the desk chair. McKay’s left hand was palming the back of his head and his right hand was rubbing steadily along his lower abdomen, with periodic quick, light forays to his groin.
“I think it’s time to see the rest of our boys’ flesh,” House commented, and McKay nodded.
“Oh, yes,” he said, and rose from the chair.
Sheppard and Wilson continued kissing even as McKay approached them. “On the bed,” House directed, and Sheppard sat, pulling Wilson with him. Wilson ducked, nipping at Sheppard’s lips, and then quickly straddled him.
McKay was kneeling by the bed, tugging at Sheppard’s shoes. With those off, McKay lightly nudged Wilson’s back, and Wilson pressed forward, pushing Sheppard to a prone position and following along. Their mouths never stopped moving; they never broke their kiss for more than a few short seconds for air. House knew how talented Wilson’s mouth was, but to witness it in action from this angle was an entirely new sensation.
It took a few minutes for McKay to get Wilson’s shoes off, as tightly tied as they were, and then he stood next to the bed, staring at the two men undulating against each other. “Down in front,” House called.
McKay swung to face him, heat pouring out of eyes every bit as blue as the ones he saw in the mirror each morning, and asked, “Where do you see this going?”
Sheppard began to chuckle, and Wilson took that as his cue to roll to his side and focus his attention on Sheppard’s belt.
“Jesus, Rodney,” Sheppard laughed, as he pulled himself backward until he was fully on the bed, “only you would want to have a relationship discussion in the middle of a foursome.”
McKay aimed a scornful gaze Sheppard’s way. “Technically it’s not a foursome, because Dr. House and I aren’t physically involved in it. It’s instead an exhibitionist twosome, not that I’m not enjoying it.” Sheppard opened his mouth to respond, but McKay steamrolled over him. “But none of that is the point. The point is I was not talking about relationship issues, I was talking about the sex, and it is relevant where the sex is going, because no offense to our new friends who we met, oh, one hour and forty-three minutes ago, but we don’t have any condoms, and I would prefer not to take any strange diseases with us when we go back to – um, home.”
“Down in front,” House repeated firmly and gestured with his cane. Wilson had Sheppard’s pants almost all the way off, and House wanted to see.
McKay refused to budge, and House had to crane his neck to see around him. Sheppard looked almost exactly as House had imagined him: toned and strong and undeniably male. House felt his mouth go dry as Wilson, who was now crouched by Sheppard’s feet, began to slowly draw his hands up Sheppard’s legs, caressing every inch of skin.
“Maybe they’ve got condoms,” Sheppard said, stretching and twisting in response to Wilson’s touch.
“Married,” Wilson murmured, and nuzzled his nose into Sheppard’s hip.
McKay’s retort started out strongly sarcastic – “Which might indicate some kind of fidelity and thus cleanliness, if you weren’t currently…” – but faded into something considerably more breathless as he noticed Wilson’s tongue trailing along Sheppard’s hipbone – “mouthing my boyfr… oh.”
House was getting a crick in his neck and his patience had worn thin. “McKay, move your ass,” he snapped, and was gratified to see McKay move away. “We don’t have condoms, but that’ll be just fine. They’d cover up too much anyway; I want to see. Speaking of which, Wilson, you have too much clothing on. Get over here and let me fix that.”
After a quick kiss to Sheppard’s chest, Wilson obediently climbed off the bed and came over to House. House began undoing Wilson’s belt and then looked up into eyes that were warm and serene. “Enjoying yourself?” House asked quietly.
“Can’t you tell?”
Wilson’s erection bobbed as House freed it from Wilson’s pants and boxers. House placed a small kiss on the tip and shoved Wilson’s clothing to the floor. “Is it as exciting as cheating?”
Wilson frowned, his eyes filling with concern. He leaned down and pressed his cheek to House’s head. “Do you want to go?” he whispered. “I’ll stop right now. I only want to do this if you do.”
A tension House had refused to acknowledge eased at Wilson’s response, and he felt a swell of affection course through him. Which was embarrassingly soppy, so he just smacked Wilson on the ass and said, “Get back out there, tiger.”
Wilson pulled away, smiled his secret I know you smile, and turned back toward the bed. “Wow,” he said, and stopped short.
House nudged him aside so he could see, and then emitted a “wow” of his own. Sheppard was on his hands and knees on the bed, flushed and breathing deeply, while McKay, one hand on the small of Sheppard’s back, was gently working a butt plug into him.
House felt his heart rate increase, and other portions of his anatomy were taking notice as well. He stroked a finger up the cleft of Wilson’s ass and was pleased when Wilson shuddered in response. “Want to pick one of those up for us?”
“Oh, yeah,” Wilson breathed, and pushed back into House’s hand. House smirked and pulled his finger away, briefly tracing a line under Wilson’s butt cheek before bringing his hand into his lap and settling back into the couch. Wilson made a small noise of protest but remained where he was, his attention focused on the men on the bed.
McKay looked up at them, lingering on Wilson’s body for a moment before making eye contact with House. “You said you wanted to see,” he said with a quick nod toward the plug, which was now more than halfway inserted. “He comes hardest when he’s filled.”
Wilson moved instantly to the other side of the bed and tilted Sheppard’s head up with a few fingers. The kiss that followed was wet and noisy and lewd, and House had to rub the heel of his hand against his groin just to relieve some of the pressure.
Panting lightly, McKay eased the final inch of the butt plug into Sheppard and then tapped him once on the hip before retreating to the nearby chair. As soon as he felt the tap, Sheppard reached out with one hand and grabbed Wilson, pulling them both upright without ever breaking the kiss.
Wilson and Sheppard were now kneeling on the bed, pressed together from knees to lips, kissing as if the world depended on it. Sheppard’s arms were around Wilson’s shoulders; Wilson’s hands were on Sheppard’s ass, alternately kneading the flesh and tracing curiously around the edge of the plug.
Noisily, they broke their kiss; both were desperate for air, drinking it down in great gulps. “A little more space,” House told them, and Wilson complied.
As Sheppard began nipping along the curve of Wilson’s jaw, letting out a small moan with each nip, Wilson pulled his hips away an inch or so – just enough room for House to see both their cocks pressing and sliding against each other.
House cupped his hard-on through his pants and squeezed, but just lightly. He wanted, needed this to last and couldn’t risk too much friction. A quick glance at McKay showed the man had either less control than House or a great deal more; his hand was inside his pants, rubbing steadily.
Sheppard’s moans were getting much louder, and House could see the reason why. Wilson’s hand was wrapped around Sheppard’s cock and making long, slow, steady strokes. Wilson leaned in for another kiss but kept his hips back so that House and McKay could watch the unhurried masturbation.
Sheppard began to thrust his hips, clearly wanting Wilson to pick up the pace. Smiling smugly, Wilson tightened his grip but refused to speed up. With his other hand, he caressed Sheppard’s balls a few times, and then reached toward his own straining erection.
“No touching,” House commanded. Wilson whined but obeyed, bringing his hand back to Sheppard’s balls.
McKay shot House a look, but House ignored him. They had played this game of denial before, and the agony of delay and anticipation always heightened Wilson’s orgasm.
“Sheppard, you close?” House asked.
Sheppard groaned out, “Oh, God, yes,” and House thought he might’ve heard a whimper from McKay, but he was too busy watching to check.
Wilson, who was lapping at Sheppard’s right nipple, interjected, “I want to suck him off.”
“You can suck me in a minute,” House replied, and Wilson smiled as he moved to Sheppard’s left nipple. He was keeping the same steady speed in his strokes, easily fending off Sheppard’s attempts to increase the pace.
“Sheppard, are you ready to come?” asked House.
“Yes, if I could just –” Sheppard snapped his hips, obviously desperate for more.
“You’re going to finish yourself. Wilson, let go.”
Sheppard grunted in frustration as Wilson moved away.
House leaned forward; he couldn’t wait to see this.
“I want you to come on Wilson’s face.”
Sheppard and Wilson both moved faster then than they had the entire night. Wilson dropped to hands and knees, positioning himself inches away from Sheppard’s cock. Sheppard brought his hand to his cock and pulled, one time slow and then again and again, faster and faster. He looked down at Wilson, who was looking up at him, smiling a huge closed-mouth grin, and the connection between them was so electric it almost took House’s breath away.
Sheppard groaned one last time and then yelled, “Fuck. Fuck,” as he orgasmed, pulses of semen striping Wilson’s face gorgeously.
Wilson caught Sheppard when he sagged forward, until McKay bustled forward, naked from the waist down. “Mine,” he said as he eased the plug out with one hand and pushed Wilson away with the other. Sheppard fell a bit when Wilson slipped out from under him, but McKay caught him. “Beautiful. You’re so beautiful, John,” he murmured in Sheppard’s ear as he entered him from behind in one long thrust.
House looked up at his own beautiful man, who was flushed and perspiring and come-streaked and almost trembling with need. “Why are your pants still on?” Wilson asked. “You said I could suck you.”
“So get to it,” replied House, his fingers working the buttons on his jeans.
Wilson was hungry for it, greedy, grabbing for House’s erection as soon as the front plackets of House’s jeans were open. He wouldn’t even let House get his boxers down, but instead pulled House’s cock through the front flap and wrapped his lips around it.
With the added stimulation of the memories of Wilson and Sheppard together and the real-time porn of McKay pounding into Sheppard – talking incessantly over Sheppard’s moans; god, they were loud – House knew he wouldn’t last long. About two minutes later, he was clutching at the couch cushions and thrusting up sharply into Wilson’s very eager mouth.
Wilson licked a long stroke from balls to tip and then stood up. “Can I come now?” he asked, almost whined, and House marveled that Wilson had made it this long.
“Yes,” House granted.
“In your mouth?”
House nodded and pulled Wilson closer. At the first touch of House’s lips and tongue, Wilson keened and came, spilling into House’s mouth. House struggled to catch it all and then swallowed.
“I think you and McKay had a simultaneous orgasm,” he noted. Wilson snorted, sank onto the couch, and drew House into a long, deep kiss. They were interrupted when McKay dropped a wet washcloth on Wilson’s shoulder.
Sheppard had slipped under the covers, but McKay pulled them back to clean up. Gesturing, Sheppard noted, “Other bed’s free.”
With Wilson curled around him, House fell asleep to the sound of McKay’s snores.
They were drinking coffee in the Diagnostics conference room and ignoring the Fellows working around them. Wilson was trying to wheedle House into attending another fundraising event.
“Come on,” Wilson said. “We have to go. Lots of potential donors, and it’ll even be fun.”
“It couldn’t possibly live up to the fun of the last event we attended,” House replied and smirked. Amused by Wilson’s disapproving frown, House continued, “And we definitely do not have to. Our quotas have been filled for the year. And part of next year as well. Just got a copy of the proof today, stamped ‘received’ by Cuddy and everything.” He pulled the slip of paper from his pocket and handed it over.
“Rodney McKay. You did not hit him up for a donation. House, how could you? I hope it isn’t too… Eight million dollars?”
The Fellows all stared at Wilson and then joined him in staring at House.
“Apparently astrophysics pays better than I thought.”