Wilson's phone vibrates at his hip halfway through the first session. Fortunately he's sitting near the back of the hall. He's not especially surprised to see House's name on the display.
"I'm in a session," Wilson whispers.
"Are you on stage?"
"No, but Blandford's about to start the first keynote."
"I was just calling to make sure our plan for Sunday was still on."
That seems contrived. "You have my flight number, right?" Maybe House just wanted to hear his voice. The thought is warming, if unlikely.
"I'll pick you up at the airport at three."
"Fine. Okay. Look, I'll—"
"And then I'll bring you back here." House sounds too nonchalant. This should worry Wilson, but he's trying to listen with one ear to the guy introducing Blandford, and he doesn't get the cue in time.
"Yeah, fine," he says.
"I can probably keep my hands off you in the car. I mean, I'll be driving, and I do value that little red corvette."
Suddenly Wilson's attention is focused on the rasp of House's voice in his ear. Panic and arousal flare, intertwined. "Oh, no you don't," he warns, as quietly as he can.
House ignores him. "But the minute we get inside—you know, I can't decide whether I want to kiss you first, or just get my hands down your pants. The thing is, I really like to hear you whimper."
Wilson feels dangerously close to whimpering now. He swallows hard. He glances around the room, but he's hemmed into the middle of the row, no way to excuse himself without stepping on a dozen people.
"You'll strip all your clothes off, and lie down on my bed, and I'll get my hand nice and slick and then drive you crazy."
Wilson surreptitiously tugs his conference packet over his lap, biting back a hiss as the fly of his khakis presses too hard across his suddenly very hard cock.
"House," he whispers roughly, and he's pleading now, though whether for the sane thing (for House to stop) or the insane one, he isn't certain.
"It's so much fun to get you going," House muses, conversationally. "Maybe I'll use both hands, one on your cock and one on your balls. You like that."
Wilson exhales, fighting for control. His face is hot, he can feel himself sweating, and he can't believe no one has turned to stare at him. Thank God the room is dark. Blandford is showing slides, his voice droning, and Wilson is a hairsbreadth away from disaster.
"Of course, I could always fuck you." House's voice is beginning to lose its cool veneer—he's getting worked-up too, and that's what tips Wilson over the edge. "Make you come." The words are almost a groan.
Wilson's breath catches in his throat as he loses it, his whole body wrenched and quivering.
The woman next to him turns, her face a model of concern. "Are you all right?"
He's never been so mortified in all his life. Oh, God, she must know! "I'm fine," he manages, "just—sick patient. Consult. You know."
She nods, a little dubiously, and turns her attention back to Blandford.
In his ear, House is chuckling. He heard that whole exchange. "Enjoying your conference so far?"
"I'm going to kill you," Wilson whispers.
"See you on Sunday," House promises, and hangs up.
Wilson shifts in his seat, newly-aware of the wet patch in his underwear. There's no way he can concentrate on Blandford's keynote now. He'll just have to spend the rest of the hour planning elaborate ways to get his revenge.
The End