"She compared me to Vindaloo." House took another gulp of scotch.

"Yeah. Painful."

"And hot," House added.

Wilson rolled his eyes. "You told me this part already." Twice, he added to himself.

"If that phone hadn't rung ’—" House sounded genuinely wistful. Well, almost wistful. Sorry he hadn't gotten laid, anyway.

"As scintillating as this is, it's not quite the evening I had in mind. Do you talk to Stacey this much about me?" Wilson hadn't meant it to sound quite so bitchy, but he couldn't help it; they'd been at Greg's place half an hour already and all they'd done was talk about how he and Stacey almost got it on.

"Huh, do you think I should?" House looked like he was genuinely considering the notion.

"You know what? Fuck you. I'm going home." Wilson stood, put his glass on the table, and reached for his coat.

Predictably, once he was halfway to the door, House called his bluff. "If you're going home, how exactly are you going to fuck me?"

Bastard. He knew Wilson was a sucker for that tone of voice. The one that sounded like whiskey and honey. Wilson stopped but didn't turn around; he really had had it with the Stacey conversation.

"You go home and I'm going to spend the rest of the evening lying in bed, touching myself, aching for it. Where's the fun in that?"

Jesus: getting hard that fast almost hurt. What a mental image. Wilson dropped his briefcase and shrugged out of his coat again. "You sure know how to sweet-talk a guy," he said, turning around to the sight of House leaning against the doorframe, the pull of his jeans hinting at the erection beneath.

He quashed the temptation to drop to his knees and suck House off in the hallway. House had said "fuck me," and Wilson intended to oblige.

"You want another drink? I'll be there in a second," Wilson said, walking over to the liquor cabinet to pour himself another. The sound of ice cubes in his class were a counterpoint to House's step/tap rhythm down the hall.

He took his time pouring the drink and turning out the living room lights. Greg didn't like anyone to watch him take off his pants; it was the only time he was still graceless.

When Wilson pushed open the bedroom door, House was lying on his back in the middle of the bed, stroking himself lazily. Beneath his hand Wilson saw a glint of color, the red latex cockring they used sometimes when House wanted to top. It wouldn't keep him from coming, but it kept him harder, longer.

"I thought I was going to fuck you," Wilson said, tugging his shirt over his head and unzipping his trousers.

House grinned. "You are. I just wanted to see what it would feel like with this on."

Just imagining it made Wilson flush with heat. "C'mon, up," he said, moving to the bed and tugging a pair of pillows down for House to rest on. House rose up on hands and knees, balanced on three points, his right leg bent but holding no weight. His heavy cock hung beneath, the latex a vivid streak of color that drew Wilson's eye.

This was going to be fun. Wilson knelt behind him, one lubed thumb sliding inside and the other slick hand cupping House's balls, already swollen to Wilson's touch. House bit back a groan.

Light touches with one hand; hard thrusts with the other. It was all too easy to imagine how insanely good this had to feel. Wilson's own cock throbbed in sympathy.

"Get on with it," House gritted.

"A little impatient, aren't we?" But Wilson wanted it about as bad as House did. He moved up the bed and slowly, deliciously, slid inside.

He and Julie had made love like this once, from behind. It had taken him forever to come; the whole time he kept reminding himself that he didn't need to favor her right side, afraid that if he fell into the slant-thrust rhythm he loved so well with House she would realize who he really wanted to be fucking.

House was moving beneath him, urging him faster. Perversely, Wilson kept it as slow as his muscles could bear. Partially to punish House for seeming more interested in rehashing the missed opportunity than in the man who had followed him home; partially because he just liked it this way. Slow enough that each stroke was tease and satisfaction wrapped together.

He could feel the moment when House stopped fighting his rhythm. Almost as a reward, Wilson reached around with one hand and palmed his erection, letting the clasp of his hand work with the motion of their bodies. House's moan almost undid him.

"This is the best part," Wilson managed. Trying to sound normal, like he wasn't on the verge of flying apart. It was a game they played, keeping the banter going when all they wanted to do was sob with release.

"What...torturing...me?"

He couldn't help grinning. "Yeah. Feeling you try not to come." House clenched around him and he had to fight not to come, himself. "God."

"Two can play," House murmured, though his voice caught as Wilson fingered the head of his cock. "Oh. Yeah." His breathing was ragged.

Suddenly the time for games was over. "Yeah," Wilson whispered, and angled up. That was it, right there, right there --

When he came his whole body convulsed, hand dragging roughly along House's prick, and that did it; House shook beneath him. His "oh" sounded like he was surprised he couldn't hold on any longer.

Wilson rolled over, enjoying bonelessness, only vaguely aware of House reaching to unfasten the cockring and fling it across the room, then groping for a Vicodin in the bedside drawer.

Next time House came wheedling for Wilson to leave work and buy him dinner, he thought, maybe he'd suggest Indian.

Something about Vindaloo sounded pretty tasty, honestly. And the look on House's face would be worth the burn going down.

The End