"Are you insane?"
"What?" House assumed as innocent a look as he could muster. "I just think we ought to christen the car."
"Okay, that's a disturbing mental image." The words were disapproving, but House could hear him trying not to laugh. Score.
"I'm not talking about breaking a champagne bottle over the hood; wouldn't want to scratch my new baby."
"God forbid."
"I mean the fun kind. Where we lean your seat back, unzip those nice slacks, and see how long it takes me to make you moan." House was studiously keeping his eyes on the road, but he was pretty sure he heard a sharp inhalation. The kind that suggested Wilson was paying very close attention indeed. "I have several fantasies filed under that category, actually," he said, conversationally. "'Making Wilson Moan.'"
"Really." Oh, yeah. Wilson's voice was perfectly even, which meant he was well on his way to desperate. "And you think we should do this on the open road."
House wrinkled his brow, as though he were considering it. "I multitask well, but not that well. How about waiting until we get the car into my garage?"
Wilson didn't respond to that directly, but he might as well have. "Were you not listening when I suggested fourth gear?"
True, fourth gear would get them there faster. But the engine wasn't revving too badly, and House was enjoying the anticipation. Especially now that Wilson was trying not to squirm. House smiled, smug, and stayed in third the whole way home.
As the garage door rolled shut behind them, Wilson looked at him sideways, clearly trying to gauge whether he'd been serious.
"Here's the thing," House said. "I had a plan. I was going to lean over your lap and suck you off as slowly as humanly possible. Maybe leave your seatbelt on, just because it's kinkier."
Wilson's head thunked back against the headrest. House swallowed a smile. This was far too much fun.
"But I neglected to take into account the fact that I haven't driven stick in a while."
Wilson managed a snort at that. Good to see sophomoric humor was still alive and well. But his eyes had fluttered closed, and his cheeks were flushed. He might be snickering at House's phrasing, but he was well on his way to an erection.
"And now my leg aches like a sonofabitch. Which means I'm not bending anywhere, anytime soon."
Wilson turned his head and opened his eyes. "The front seat of this car is the approximate size of a postage stamp. Something tells me you can reach." Open invitation in his face. Nice.
House raised an eyebrow. "Is that a request? Because I was planning to ask if I could watch you do yourself."
Wilson's chest rose and fell, but he didn't speak. Just as House was starting to nurse a dim worry that he had overstepped somehow, Wilson reached down, unfastened his pants, and pressed his palm down through the soft cotton of his boxer shorts.
If a mirroring thrill ran through House, he liked to think he didn't show it. He leaned back against the door of the car, his right leg bent slightly at the knee to keep it from spasming, and inhaled hard, and watched.
Wilson struggled a little to cant his hips upward, but didn't unhook the seatbelt. Obedient of him; House appreciated that. The belt was a dark stripe over the grid of his Oxford shirt, holding him in place.
He worked himself nice and slow, and damn if that wasn't a vision out of House's own personal porn movie, the one that played in his head most nights when he took himself to bed. He'd never actually imagined Wilson jerking off in a Corvette before, but he was sure as hell going to after tonight.
Though in most of his fantasies Wilson's eyes were shut, and this time Wilson didn't break his gaze. Not even when he pulled his dick out through the flap in his boxers. House wanted to see everything, but as Wilson got closer to coming, he found himself staring at Wilson's face, not the blur of his hand. His chest felt peculiarly tight.
He meant to say something safe, maybe suggest that Wilson slow it down a little, but what came out instead was, "When we get inside I'm going to fuck you into tomorrow."
Wilson choked on a gasp and came all over his shirt. That was when he closed his eyes, chest heaving. The click of his seatbelt unfastening was loud in the silence of the garage.
The benefit of limping, House reflected on his way in, was that nobody could tell when you were too hard to walk right. He left the door swinging open and made his way to the bedroom, shedding his jacket on the floor as he went, knowing that Wilson would follow.
The End