alwaysright | October 29, 2007

October 29, 2007 - Evening

Nothing around here works the way it's supposed to work.

Of everything their John Doe--Robert Elliot--had said when Foreman had been with him, that was what rang the most true. It was stupid to think that talking with a patient with Giovianni's syndrome could change anything, least of all how he saw himself. The guy wasn't psychic; he was only picking up on the cues that Foreman had dropped inadvertently. Changing because of that was worse than stupid. It would imply that not only was Foreman ignorant about his own feelings and what he wanted, but also that he was spineless enough to act differently because of a stranger's neurological disorder. Foreman made his own choices. He wasn't looking for any advice, whether it was his own reflected back at him or not.

After the day's humiliation, Foreman had been more sure than ever that Princeton wasn't the right place for him. Less than an hour later, Chase had come up to him, clapped a hand on his shoulder, and laughingly asked if it was true.

Foreman fixed him with a furious stare. "I didn't know she worked here. And I didn't have to beg her every day for weeks."

Chase, far from being offended, just grinned wider. "Once a week. Anyway, I heard Amber was the one calling the shots."

Foreman didn't bother pointing out that Cameron walked all over Chase on a daily basis. "I have to run a biopsy," he said, turning to walk away, his shoulders hunched as he pushed his fists into his pockets.

"She seems like just your type!" Chase called after him. "Did you ever consider lightening up and enjoying yourselves?"

Fat chance of that. Not with the whole hospital in on the joke and watching. For what it was worth, Foreman didn't have to work with Amber directly for the rest of the day. Both of them were too busy running cultures and keeping the patient alive. Foreman let House do whatever crazy thing entered his mind. He didn't have any illusions about being able to stop him today, and Foreman was more interested in keeping his head down. In thinking about how to get away.

But when House sidled up to him with a job offer from Mount Zion, Foreman's first thought wasn't to jump at the opportunity. It wasn't even to suspect that House was having him on, dangling the possibility with every intention of yanking it away the second Foreman seemed likely to believe it was real.

His first thought had been, I can't go yet.

That had surprised him more than anything, made him stop and frown once he'd finally shaken House off. After having his affairs aired in the middle of a differential like a choice piece of gossip he couldn't believe that there was any reason not to take up the job hunt again. Farther afield, where the hospitals wouldn't have heard of him, or had their diagnostics cases redirected to Princeton-Plainsboro, so that they'd only know House by his reputation, not by personal experience. Maybe as far away as California; Foreman still had contacts there.

But he didn't want to go.

Partly it was the medicine. He'd felt in the thick of it again today. Working against the clock to solve a case. Challenged, following the clues from one to the next. He'd always loved that, even if he hadn't been happy working for House. But partly, Foreman knew, it was Amber, and he didn't know what do about that. He'd been shot down enough, rejected enough, that he should want to stay away from her just to avoid any more scenes like this morning's. Even so, he couldn't stop thinking about her. Wondering what she really felt and whether the attitude she'd shown in front of House was all there was.

Well, it didn't matter. He wasn't going to ask. Once the case was solved, all Foreman wanted to do was gather his things and escape. It was late, and dark, and he headed for the doors slowly, already knowing he wouldn't have the same luck he'd had on Thursday. Nothing worked out the way it should.

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From out of the car's heated comfort and into the wind Amber stepped, shutting the door firmly behind her. "Striking, right." Striking with sheer annoyingness, that was for sure. Amber didn't see what people saw in her; she supposed Thirteen could be considered pretty, if you were into auburn hair, smoldering gazes, strong jaws, and the air of an Audrey Hepburn on a really pissy day. Personally, Amber thought it just made Thirteen all the more irritating, the way no one bothered to look past her drop-dead gorgeous appearance and her very fucked-up personality.

"Notice anything else about her, or were her looks the extent of it?" She wasn't jealous. Not at all. There was no reason to be. Eric was here with her, and that was that. She just didn't like Thirteen, that was all.

To her surprise, Eric hadn't made a move to open her door, instead waiting on the curb. From his preoccupied air, like he was at the dinner table with a full plate and didn't know if he could start eating, it seemed he was debating whether or not he should've helped her out of the car. Amber grinned, glad that he'd remembered.

On her feet, Amber slipped her arm around Eric's, hooking their elbows together. Her hand found his, curling around it. She hadn't forgotten Thirteen. "I know House likes his eye candy-- none of the uglier girls lasted long, and I've seen Cameron. Which I guess at least means Taub’s days are numbered.”

Foreman's good humour only grew as Amber got out of the car and slammed the door--he nearly asked was his poor car had done to her. She looked like the only striking she wanted to do was her fist to Thirteen's face. House must have seen that. There was no way keeping both of them hadn't been deliberate. Foreman wouldn't be surprised if visions of foxy boxing regularly floated through House's mind when he put on his expression of being 'deeply studious'. There was definitely something hot about imagining the two of them confronting each other, not that Foreman was going to say a word about that. House was the chauvinist pig; Foreman knew better than to open his big mouth.

Amber took his arm, trying to guide him back to the conversation she wanted to have, but Foreman wasn't going to make it that easy on her. He turned towards her, wrapping his free hand around her waist, squeezing her hand a bit with the other. "If I didn't know it was professional concern, I'd worry that you were jealous," he said, smiling slowly, lazily meeting her eyes. He drew her closer, taking his first opportunity to really look at her since their abortive date on Friday. Other than a few slips today, he hadn't allowed himself the luxury of seeing her, because he hadn't needed to rub it in his own face how much he'd cheated himself out of. The lights from the restaurant behind him picked up highlights in Amber's hair, made the irritated spark in her eyes shine brighter. The sidewalk wasn't busy, and Foreman felt more than warm enough with his body pressed against Amber's that he didn't mind lingering. The contrast between his front and the cold air at his back made it all the better. "She's only lobby art to him unless she's got something to prove."

Eric, the bastard, grinned, as if he were in the middle of a cinema watching the year’s best summer flick. No, as if the news had thrown in a gratuitous blip of hot women mud-wrestling—everyone scantily-clad, of course. Amber wrinkled her face, annoyed that her frustration had been met with amusement and a flair of egotistical smugness.

"There's nothing to be jealous of," Amber insisted. Really. What did Thirteen have that she didn't? No, better yet, what did Amber have that Thirteen didn't? A whole lot, Amber was sure. Like this date who was possibly turned on by her rivalry with another woman and, okay, perhaps at this moment Amber didn't think she had much over Thirteen, romance-wise. "It just struck me that you started and stopped at her looks, when I asked for an opinion."

But Eric's gaze, intense and appreciative like a caress, went a long way in untying the knots of Amber's bad humor. Strength and confidence defined his half-embrace, and it was easy to follow his lead, pressing back against him. Better than agonizing over Thirteen's attractiveness and unfair spot-stealing was the way the streetlights sketched Eric's face, the silk softness of his suit's collar. Fingering the material, Amber thought of how beneath lay cotton, skin, heart; she could sense them all, if she liked. Probably would, at some point tonight.

Amber wouldn't let go that easily, though. "I wouldn't put it past him to hire lobby art. Well, at any rate, if I need you to put on a show of liking her, we seem to have that covered."

Foreman laughed quietly. "I told you, I don't know. I barely met her." He let out an easy exhale, settling closer to Amber as she fiddled with his suit jacket. "I promise to analyze our conversations for her weaknesses, if we ever have any." Thirteen wasn't who he was interested in discussing, after all. He was more intrigued by Amber's competitiveness, now that she'd admitted it was there and he'd seen it in action himself. Maybe House's game was the way that would get the best out of her, but Foreman wondered if she'd work well on a team once House was finished pitting them against each other. He also wanted to know if her drive to be the best, to fight everyone standing in front of her, ever got in the way of Amber's ability to live her life. It wouldn't be unusual; Foreman wasn't blind to the fact that he hadn't had much of a life because he'd been so busy focusing on his career.

Well, they were here now, even if they'd been talking about work. Foreman leaned forward and brushed a kiss across her lips, gently, but not so lightly that he didn't feel a quick shot of excitement. "You'll do great," he said. "House might be insane, but he's not stupid." Foreman pulled back slightly and met her eyes. There was nothing to back up his reassurance, except his own assessment that Amber was an excellent doctor, and that she worked well in the differentials. Whether House would see that, or whether that would be enough, was still up in the air, but Foreman was certain that Amber was at least the equal of all the others. It might come down not to how good she was, but to House's whim, and there was nothing any of them could do about that.

"Come on, let's eat." He settled his arm around her waist and headed for the restaurant, pushing the door open for both of them. He asked the maitre d' for a table for two, and they were immediately led across the room--not much business on a Monday.

"Good boy," Amber said, appeased by Eric's quick, if mildly flippant, promise. "Try to find something that'll really do her in, like being weak to sunlight or wood stakes." And that's when she realized: she wouldn't be alone in House's game anymore. She'd been fighting it out single-handedly, and that had been fine, that's how she'd always done it. Amber fought alone, and she fought viciously. She'd never needed anyone else's help. Everyone else had only gotten in the way.

If Eric was willing to stay by her side, then... she'd have no idea what that'd be like. Her mother and others had told her she'd get further by cooperating with people, but she'd found them more hindrance than help, so she'd skipped team playing. Would Eric be any good to her, in the competition?

Amber breathed in sharply with Eric's kiss, not surprised by it, but perhaps not ready for the intimacy, not when she was reevaluating what being together meant. It'd be a whole new way of living. God, what if he were the one to need a favor, support in defying one of House's daredevil stunts on a patient? That was how group work went, wasn't it, mutual aid?

And Eric smiled at her, looking at her as if she were cast in silver. "Of course I will," Amber replied, feeling the strength of metal within. "There was never any question of that."

If nothing else, it'd be good to have someone there who didn’t hate her every fiber.

Amber was thoughtful as they walked. She barely noticed the restaurant’s subdued blues, contrasted by a wall of cherry red in the back. Eric’s arm around her waist was an anchor, keeping her from drifting away on a sea of ruminations.

“Here,” she told the maitre d’, picking a table besides a wall. “What’s the best wine you have in the house?” When he’d told her, Amber snorted. “That’s your best? Well, bring it anyway, we don’t want to do any worse.”

Foreman settled in the seat across from Amber, still discomfited by her high-handedness towards waitstaff. The maitre d' had looked surprised when she'd diverted them to the table she'd chosen, but that expression disappeared almost before Foreman had seen it. He was better at hiding his emotions than their last waiter, anyway. He accepted Amber's dismissal of the wine with a tight smile, told them the specials and that their server would be right with them, and then headed back to the front of the house. Foreman settled his coat on the back of his chair to hide his frown. He usually made it a point to be as polite as possible to anyone serving him, and to tip generously even when the service was mediocre. He'd been ignored plenty of times, and he wanted to do what he could to make up for the stereotypes working against him. He'd never get away with Amber's attitude.

It wasn't worth the hassle of bringing it up, though. He doubted he'd change Amber's mind, and it wasn't as if he couldn't ignore it. He liked the sight of her sitting across from him, knowing she was there with him, that tonight they'd be leaving together; it was worth a few uncomfortable moments. Foreman had only seen her once when she was any less than in charge--Friday night, when she'd realized what it meant that he worked for House. "What will you do if you don't get the job?" he asked. He'd wanted to know, and maybe he shouldn't ask or put her on the spot, but Amber must have thought of the possibility. Made contingency plans. That was part of staying on top: always having a plan when the first one didn't work out, instead of floundering around and being taken by surprise.

“You just said I’d do great, and now you want to know what I’ll do when I fall flat on my face and fail?” Amber curled one hand beneath her chin, drew the other towards her chest. Between this question and her realization that being with Eric would entail more than she’d imagined, she didn’t much feel like getting close and cozy. Not even straightening out the maitre d’ had made her feel any better.

“First of all, I won’t,” she stated firmly. Entertaining the notion of anything but absolute victory was a rookie mistake, especially in this case. If she even thought of losing, House would smell the fear on her, or something, and provoke her until she snapped. The best defense was never letting on you have a weakness; let House go sniff the other candidates’ butts for their fears and chase after them. “And if I did—“

She had no idea. She hadn’t thought of it.

The white tablecloth rustled against her thighs as she crossed her legs. “If I did, then I’d deal. There are other jobs out there, and I can always find some corner in need of a radiologist.” Question was, would she want any of those jobs? She’d left her last position precisely because she was tired of the radiologist routine.

At this rate, she’d have a stomachache before the waiter arrived with the menus, assuming he ever did bother to drop by their table. “Look, I’m happy to talk about work, but contemplating my hypothetical failures wasn’t how I’d pictured our evening. Tell me something about yourself.” Thinking of a question, Amber was amazed at how many popped into her mind; she knew almost nothing about this guy she was twisting herself into shapes over. “How long have you been living in Princeton-Plainsboro?”

Foreman winced when Amber rephrased his question, turning it around as if he'd meant to attack her. It wasn't an easy question, but he wondered if his own discomfort had led him to ask her something pointed. "It's realistic--" he started to defend himself, about to point out that he'd been stuck in a worse spot after he'd been fired from Mercy, but Amber talked over him. Foreman sighed. She had the right idea, not wanting to admit failure ever, but it wouldn't help her if things turned out badly. And around House, they usually did. Amber groped for words, suddenly at a loss, and Foreman pressed his lips together, berating himself for bringing it up. She looked uncertain, and then angry at her uncertainty. "I'm sorry," he said. There was something like panic, and almost sadness, around Amber's eyes, as if taking her mind off her goal for even a second could make it disappear. Their table was small enough that their knees nearly touched underneath. Foreman pressed his leg against hers, as if the pressure could be reassuring. "I trust you. I don't trust House."

It surprised him that he did trust Amber--well, trusted her to do her best, trusted her to be herself. Even more, he realized, he did want to help her. He'd been so contemptuous of House's game, he was sure he'd never get sucked in to caring about who won or who lost. His plan was to do what Cuddy asked, but otherwise keep himself aloof, so that he could at least pretend to have some sort of objectivity about the whole thing. Now, seeing Amber's expression harden for a moment before she determinedly changed the subject, Foreman found himself thinking up ways that he could rig things in her favour. And whether him helping would actually be helpful--House might take his interference as disruption of his fun, and get back at him by firing Amber. Maybe it wasn't worth it.

He focused on Amber again, pushing away all the maybes. "I moved here about four years ago, for the fellowship," he said. "I was in LA for my residency before that." He shook his head, remembering his third day on the job--the first time House had bothered to show up. "My first case, House told me he didn't hire me because I was good, but because I'd been an idiot kid--got myself into trouble for breaking and entering. He had my juvenile record, all of it. I'd never been so pissed off." It wasn't a story Foreman liked to share, but he didn't doubt Amber would find out eventually, if only because House decided to share at story time, and he thought it might cheer her up, to know that deviousness was definitely on the list of qualities House liked.

Amber shrugged. There wasn't really anything to apologize for, and it was a fair question. She might've asked it of him, if their situations had been reversed. She would've wondered before, because a true winner always has a backup in case Plan A doesn't work out, but she hadn't wanted to psyche herself out by developing plans B and onward. "It's okay, I just don't want to think about it."

He slipped his leg along hers, rubbing softly, and Amber couldn't not react, her motion automatic. She pressed back against him, even as she realized that he was trying to calm her down, turn her away from the fact that he'd asked an awkward question. Well. He certainly was able to illicit physical reactions from her. But that he could get to her viscerally, that was why she'd flirted with him and asked him out, wasn't it? Her attraction to him was how they'd ended up here.

His anecdote worked to distract her where the touch hadn't, though. Amber leaned forward, her hands clasping over the table. "Wow, I'd almost not believe that, but it is House. Do Chase and Cameron have criminal records, too?" Amber briefly pondered stealing, so as to add "theft" on her resumé, but discarded the idea, since she couldn't practice medicine from jail. It’d be taking the lesson too literally, anyway. "And, wait, you committed a felony?" She thought of Eric's pristine image and grace, how hard he worked to maintain his composure. "That actually explains a lot."

The return press of Amber's leg against his made Foreman want to go farther. It wouldn't take much to rest his hand on her knee under the table, just over the edge of her skirt. He wouldn't, not yet anyway; it was too soon into their dinner, and he didn't want to seem like all he was there for was the physical side. They had more between them than that, even though he didn't want to keep his hands to himself. It was too easy to touch her. Too easy to get involved, to want more, and it made him question all over again why he'd asked--practically begged--for a second chance with her. Was it really that powerful, whatever they felt between them? The way he couldn't stop watching her, brushing his leg against hers, reacting to her, made him think so. How could he throw himself into this, knowing how much he felt, when there were still no guarantees about how it would turn out?

Foreman snorted, trying to imagine Cameron or Chase surviving any brush with the police more traumatic than getting a speeding ticket. "No, they don't," he said. Over three years, they'd all figured out about each other what made House hire them, and 'competence' was never first on the list. Foreman wasn't going to tell their secrets to Amber, though. She'd already heard the rumour that Cameron had slept with House--it wasn't true, but that sort of thing could circle the hospital grapevine for years. Probably--although Foreman hadn't heard it himself--his record was part of that gossip chain, too. "Yeah," he said. He shook his head. It was hard to reconcile the teenager he'd been with who he was now. It was even harder when he could never quite forget the adrenaline rush of doing something he knew he shouldn't, that he knew he could get caught for. He met Amber's eyes, wondering if she'd really understand. "My friends wanted stuff they could pawn. They showed me how to force a lock. I never did it for the money, it was just--" There'd always been enough money--not for top of the line stuff, but enough, and his parents saw to it he and Marcus never missed out on a few special treats now and then. It had been...something, anything, that was against the rules. He'd been following rules all his life, and he supposed, since then, he'd gone right back to the straight and narrow. He let out a short breath, raising his eyebrows. "It was fun. Until I got caught."

He pressed his lips together, not sure why he was telling Amber any of this. He didn't much like the fact that she thought it explained something about him, either. He was glad when their waiter arrived, bringing the wine and two glasses as well as menus for them, taking him off the hook for answering any more questions immediately.

As might be expected from someone detailing past crimes, Eric seemed discomforted, shaking his head, forehead frowning. Still his leg remained firm, almost hot, against hers, and he fastened on a strong gaze. It was like he was challenging her to criticize him while simultaneously admitting to what he'd done wrong. Pride and humility, all in one.

Amber's desire for him came roaring back.

A table was suddenly too much to have between them, the brushing of a couple of limbs not nearly enough. But the middle of a confession about poor decisions didn't seem the right time to climb into his lap, and even if it were, once they started, Amber wouldn't want to stop.

She listened carefully to Eric's tight voice. It sounded like typical teenager misdemeanors, the rebellion anyone went through. But he'd faced a bigger retribution than some did. "I've never stolen anything," Amber admitted. "Except from my brothers, and my parents. And there were the scavenger hunts in college, I stole for those, and I took House's keys to wash his car." Amber paused, then remembered. "I stole someone's notes, too, but she deserved it." She'd never thought about it before, but she really had done her share of thievery, always with the belief it was the right thing to do. "Okay, 'never' probably isn't the right word."

But she got it, the stealing hadn't been the point. "The fun always comes before getting caught." That was part of the appeal of working with House: they had a near blank check for rule-breaking. They got caught, sure, but they weren't punished.

Amber lifted her glass of wine. "To second chances," she said, thinking not just of Eric's past, but the fact that they were drinking together again, that they hadn't given up on each other. She had no idea where they'd end up, but she was glad to have the chance to find out.

Foreman wasn't sure what to make of Amber's list at first. She couldn't really compare those tiny thefts to his juvenile record. He'd barely scraped through without having to serve a sentence in the young offenders' centre. The fact that it was his first conviction and that his dad had been been nearly shaking with anger beside him when he'd agreed to community service and probation instead were the only things that had saved him. They hadn't saved Marcus, two years later. Amber might have shoplifted for a scavenger hunt--for a game--but that wasn't anywhere near as serious. He shouldn't have told her. She didn't really understand.

Or maybe she did. Partly, in any case--the thrill, the excitement, that she'd obviously felt before. Foreman's eyes widened at the low sound of Amber's voice. The way her teeth caught her lower lip on the word fun had him thinking along other lines completely. She'd wanted to fuck him right on the dance floor of the last place she'd taken him. At the time he'd thought she'd meant it as a tease, adding to the intensity of their flirtation, and he'd laughed it off. Amber wouldn't back down, though, he knew that now. Her eyes were dark, and the idea of doing something completely stupid when anyone might catch them fired up Foreman's imagination, his stomach tightening with a quick flutter of nerves and arousal.

He clinked her glass when she offered a toast, a slow smile spreading as his heart beat more strongly. "To having fun," he said, "without getting caught."

"Eric," Amber said with a lilt to her voice, "You'll give me ideas." In fact, he already was, with his wide grin and the glint in his eyes. His tone, low and animated, made her think of promises breathed out between kisses, of whispered dirty talk. She flushed, arousal surging within. There was no reason why they couldn't, a bathroom could do, or even-- she took in a sharp breath. "Or is that your intention?"

She brought the glass to her lips, carefully gauging his reaction. All she needed was the slightest encouragement, a sign that he wouldn't dig in his heels and protest that wasn't what he'd meant; repeating last time's rejection wouldn't do.

The wine was rich and its oak aroma only intensified her desire. How good it'd be to kiss him, tasting the wine on his lips, to take this heat building up inside her and share it with him, creating fire between them. Getting caught barely crossed her mind. It seemed too remote a chance, and that even if someone did find them and want to report the police, there were ways to wriggle oneself out of trouble. Money, cajoling, threats, flirting, these all could solve most problems. But they wouldn't get caught, and she'd love to have him here. The wine she'd sipped radiated within her, spreading warmth and confidence.

In encouragement, Amber slipped her hand beneath the table, massaging his knee lightly. It was as far as she could go with her hands, but she was creative: she knew other ways to reach further, and the tablecloth would hide anything she did. “Or have you become too good a boy to take a risk?”

Jesus. Foreman had no idea what he'd started. Amber's cheeks flushed to a deeper pink, and her eyes glittered with an intensity that took his vague imaginings and seemed to give them shape and form right in front of him. It shouldn't be this hot, just to think about it. But it wasn't just thinking. The way Amber watched him, evaluating, her lips full against the rim of her wineglass, her goading smile, all said that this was no fantasy. She'd taken his bait, and there was no way in hell Foreman was going to back down when he was the one who'd made the overture. Yeah, he'd been following the rules for half his life, and what had that gotten him? Busted back down to House's fellow. Back in New York he'd taken a risk and gotten caught--and paid for it. This time, he felt invincible as a teenager, completely immune to consequences. His breath caught in his throat when Amber's hand touched his knee, her fingers massaging just above it. Exactly where he'd wanted to touch her. The sheer possibility of that light caress went straight to his dick.

Foreman took a quick, shallow breath. He didn't want to get caught. Fuck. In public. He'd never be able to show his face in this restaurant again. Foreman cut his eyes around the room. There were practically no other diners. This late on a Monday? They'd be lucky to get their waiter back here, let alone anyone else. The bathrooms were down a short hallway...fuck. Well, what did he care if he could never eat here again? There were plenty of other restaurants in the city; no one had to know.

Reaching under the table, Foreman covered Amber's hand with his, first drawing her palm slightly higher on his thigh, then tracing his fingertips along the thin skin of her inner arm, a featherlight touch, wondering if he'd be able to measure her heartbeat. His skin already felt hotter, his suit too confining. "Not that good," he said, his voice hoarse. He'd never done this before. Drunken making out in the middle of a college party until things had nearly gotten out of hand, yeah. Out away from the city during a camping trip, once, in the shadows of the trees away from the fire. But like this? His pulse was hot and fast in his throat. He was too curious about what Amber would do, would suggest, to do more than raise his eyebrow, leaving it up to her where this would go.

Amber watched with triumph as Eric's gaze narrowed, determination shaping his features. Yes. This time, yes, it'd happen. She wasn't sure what had changed, why he'd be more willing to fuck her while across a table than when hard up against her, but at this moment, Amber didn't care. Questions and justifications later, actions now.

Her breath hitched as his hand curved over hers and made her palm more of him, the silk of his pants smooth and cool. It contrasted with the heat of his body, the pounding of her blood. She felt like she would burn up, faced with the nervous-excited strain of Eric's voice and the hunger of his look, and why couldn't she reach any further? A few more inches and she could cup his crotch, see him try to hide his reaction. The neighboring conversations seemed to become clearer and louder as she perceived their potential audience. Amber was already this wet and she'd been barely touched.

God, it'd be too long since she'd last done anything like this.

Amber's eyes flickered to the bathroom. It was their safest option. If it was a single room, as it often was in restaurants of a higher quality, then they could lock themselves in; the staff might never even find out. They could get as naked as they liked, go as far as they wanted, all while facing a huge mirror with carefully flattering lighting. She couldn't deny the appeal of that.

But Amber had to know: how far could she push him?

With considerable regret, Amber extracted her hand from his knee and leaned back in her chair, opening her menu. "I hear the beef kabobs here are to die for," she commented, training her voice and expression to be solemn. It was impossible to keep the sides of her mouth from curling up, though. As she leafed through the pages, she carefully extracted her right foot from her shoe and raised it, rubbing the inside of his lower leg.

At first the only answer he got was Amber pulling away from him, the warmth of her hand disappearing from his leg, her arm no longer within reach. Foreman hadn't missed the flicker of her glance towards the bathrooms, and he wondered if she'd made her own calculations and decided it was too risky after all. He sat back, the roil of anticipation and arousal suddenly grinding to a halt. But a second later, Amber's voice curved warmly around the ordinary, pointless topic of what was good on the menu, as if she was cool, careless, and completely uninterested. Foreman couldn't miss the impish smile at the corner of her lips, or the slide of her foot along his calf. He swallowed hard. She wanted to tease him, and it was so damn sexy. She had to know it. And, knowing Amber, she had to be doing this on purpose. She was testing him. Seeing what he'd do.

This time Foreman didn't hesitate. He let his hand rest on Amber's knee, but instead of the light, warm, promising touch he'd intended earlier, he immediately went further, sneaking his hand under the hem of her skirt. His reach was longer than hers, giving him more room to play. There wasn't anything between his hand and her leg except the silky smoothness of her nylons. Foreman loved the sensation of the sheer fabric under his fingers, warm as Amber's skin, and so goddamn tantalizing. He might be imagining the hint of moist warmth as he reached higher, but from the flash he'd seen in Amber's eyes before she decided to pretend indifference, he didn't think so. With a hint of pressure, he urged her to uncross her legs. If she didn't want them to duck into the bathroom...God, it was even more open here, exposed. The waiter could interrupt them at any time. But Foreman wanted to know what Amber would show--whether he could deepen the flush on her cheeks, make her breath come sharp and halting.

"I've never been here before," he said, letting his voice stay dark and warm. Anyone listening might imagine he was talking about the restaurant. "You'll have to tell me what's good."

Amber shivered at the sudden intimacy of Eric's touch, hot and firm and absolutely right in all ways. But she quickly reigned in her reaction. This was a game, and rule number two was to be as discreet as possible. (The first rule was: have outrageous fun.) Even as Eric's hand climbed, closer and closer to where she really wanted to feel him, Amber maintained a calm expression. Only her rapid heartbeat and growing wetness would've given her away-- and only Eric could pick up on those indications.

"It's hard to go wrong, here." Amber crossed her legs, extending an invitation by granting more access. She could hardly wait. "But if you ask me, the best dishes are the strong, spicy ones." She punctuated the adjectives with more force than necessary; nothing in this world was cheesier than food double entendres, but if they were going to make out in public, she might as well go all out.

At worst, Amber would end up horny and desperately needing a proper attention; at best, she could come. Either outcome was fine with her. Eric, on the other hand, had more to lose. Not only was he more self-conscious of his image, but his horniness or orgasm would have far more visible signs than her own. If this came down to a game of chicken, she was confident of her odds. Her grin stronger than ever, she extended her leg further and higher, rubbing his knees and the inner curve of his thigh. How different and exciting to sense him through her toes; it was like looking underwater, familiar sights distorted into new forms.

In her peripheral vision she saw the waiter approaching and almost laughed, wondering how Eric would react.

"I like something rich," Foreman said. "Lingering." He was determined not to back down, even if Amber wanted to assault him with bad puns. He might end up with the world's worst case of blue balls, and have to sit here long after their food was finished to wait until he could walk out of the restaurant without advertising exactly what had been going on under their table, but he wasn't going to let Amber get the best of him. Her foot had found its way past his knee, and Foreman had no doubt where Amber meant to move it next. If she started pressing against his crotch, curious and exploring, he wasn't going to be able to hold on to his composure. Sweat was gathering in his armpits, running down his back, and it was all he could do to keep his breathing even. Pleasure jolted through him like electric shocks each time Amber's foot rubbed him higher up. Fuck. Fuck, he was getting hard. She shouldn't be able to do this to him, so easily. And, to top it all off, Amber's glance lifted over his shoulder for a second, her smirk growing. The waiter with the perfect fucking timing.

"Have you decided what you'll be having?" the waiter asked, looking at Amber as if he was on his guard against her.

It meant that he wasn't paying attention to Foreman. Under the guise of listening closely, Foreman shifted his chair an inch or two closer to Amber's, until he was more or less beside her. It was all the extra room he needed. He gripped Amber's ankle firmly, preventing her from going any further with her teasing. He pulled her closer, until her leg rested in his lap, giving him full access to return the favour. She might feel his erection against her outer thigh, but he was free now to tease every inch of her inner leg, hitching her skirt higher under the cover of the tablecloth. "I've heard the kebabs are good," he told the waiter quickly, before his voice could give him away. "I'll have that with the roasted potatoes and green salad." He hadn't so much as glanced at the menu, and he was more or less making a stab at what might go with the kebabs. Once the waiter nodded, accepting his order, Foreman paid full attention to Amber. To touching her. Nothing too firm, nothing that would give her any relief. Skipping and brushing his fingertips up and down her thigh. All the way, this time, and he hadn't been imagining it, she was already wet. He could feel it through her panties, through the nylons. Knowing that sent another surge of sensation through his cock, and he tightened his right hand on Amber's thigh, pulling her leg closer against him. His heartbeat was so loud he was surprised the waiter couldn't hear it. He could only be glad that his skin hid any blush. Refusing to show any reaction (he'd worked with House for three years; he could hide how he felt for five minutes), Foreman slipped his finger over the damp spot at the juncture of Amber's thighs, soft and fleeting and, he hoped, as frustrating as possible.

Ah, so Eric rose to the challenge of terrible culinary-based dirty talk. She snickered. "Lingering?" She deliberately stopped her foot's progress forward, circling her big toe over the same spot, digging in. "I'm sure we can find something along those lines." Amber could sit here all night, fondling him through appetizer and main course and desert-- but he might not find 'lingering' so appealing a taste after all.

Having made her point, Amber continued with her foot's rise. The real tantalizing would come in at and around his groin, and she was curious as how hard he was. And hard he had to be, judging from the curving of his back, the pinching of his face that he couldn't hide.

"I want the Thai chicken.” It was the only thing she remembered seeing during her faux-review of the menu. On the verge of laughing-- at the waiter, at the fun of sneaking around, at the anticipation of Eric having to talk with her foot eliciting his hard-on-- Amber let her attention slip. A serious mistake. With a few key maneuvers, Eric turned the tables on her, so to speak.

At least now she knew how hard he was.

Sure, with the new set-up more of her leg was over him, but the position twisted her too awkwardly, giving her less mobility for subtler motions. So she slipped her leg down, just in time to savor him playing along her thigh, light and casual and wonderfully teasing. Her heart rate exploded as his fingers brushed her wetness and she couldn't not tip her head back, eyelids fluttering.

Had anyone noticed? Did they suspect? Wasn’t that other couple looking their way?

Amber wanted to kiss him, to bite his lip, to scrape his beard against her throat. That she couldn’t, not without waving a flag declaring what they were up to, only made her want it all the more. So she went for more sly contact, fixing her gaze on Eric’s shining eyes. God, his excitement was so sexy. She loved that they were in this together, surfing the same waves of joy and frustration. Her hand snaked beneath the tablecloth, cupping his tenting crotch, feeling yet another flash of desire. “I want you inside of me,” she said as conversationally as possible, but she couldn’t keep the edge from out of her voice. “I want you to fuck me on this table, hard.”

Foreman barely noticed the waiter escaping with their orders. Amber tipped her head back, her chin lifting slightly, her eyes slipping closed for an instant. Her breathing hitched in reaction to his touches, growing shallower each time he stroked her fully. With her lips parted, just enough that he could see the tip of her tongue, all Foreman could think about was kissing her, deep and thorough, tasting every shaky breath she let out, until he could feel her arousal with his mouth, not just his hands. Answer it with his own need. Let it build, both of them getting more than was possible right now. Christ, he needed more. Never taking his eyes off Amber's face, Foreman massaged his fingertips just above her clit, or as close as he could tell through the fabric, wanting to feel Amber's thigh trembling under his restraining hand.

He'd thought hooking her leg across his lap would save him from her teasing, but God, it was worse. If he'd let her keep going, her foot massaging his cock through his pants, then maybe he would have lost control, but maybe he wouldn't have cared. He could have pushed against her, trying to roll his hips forward as much as possible without giving himself away. As it was there was the warm pressure, enough that he couldn't get away from it but not moving. His erection was starting to strain against his pants, full and hard, reminding him with every chafing second that this was a stupid idea, that any sound or movement would make everyone in the damn room aware of what was happening. Somehow, though, that only added to his excitement, glancing around and seeing people involved in their own conversations, with no idea.

He nearly gave the game away himself when Amber touched him. Upping the stakes, her hand covering him--so fucking good. A strained sound caught in his throat, not enough for anyone to hear, although Amber probably would--and would be pleased at his reaction, he'd bet. I want you to fuck me on this table. Fuck, he couldn't think, Amber's words echoing in his mind, the images conjured up making him almost painfully hard. But, like her barely-double entendres of a moment ago, it was another push, something that he'd find even easier to answer. "I want to make you come," he said, matching her tone. "Right here. For me, while I'm watching you. Touching you. So no one else knows."

Amber pushed her hips up, guiding his touch towards her clit; he was so close, so painfully close. The tease, he was doing this on purpose, he had to be. And she loved it. When she finally did come, here or wherever, it'd feel so good, having earned the pleasure. She wouldn’t forget this night, not for a long time.

Eric’s words made her shiver with anticipation and she squirmed, squeezing his hands between her legs. God, she loved hearing him, loved hearing that sophisticated voice speaking such vulgarities. It was so unexpected, like a newscaster suddenly narrating a sex scene with pornographic detail. "Do you?" Amber asked, tone low and cool and taut. She wanted to hear more, hear him let lose a stream of obscenities.

"Funny," she commented, gripping his erection through the fabric. He was so hard she could feel his form through the silk, and she couldn't help imagining him entering her, how he’d feel inside. She already knew, from experience, but once wasn't enough. She had to have him again. But, for now, she unzipped his pants, undid his fly and, oh, it was so much more satisfying holding his dick this way, with only his underwear between their skin. Her hand encircled him. "I was thinking the same thing, making you come right here, my hand fucking your dick, with everyone around us." Amber glanced quickly to that couple she’d noticed earlier. She was pretty sure it wasn’t just her imagination: the woman was peering at them with wide eyes. But Amber wasn’t worried; the woman was far too mousy to report them to anyone. On the contrary, it only excited her all the more, that someone might really be watching.

Leaning in closer to whisper in Eric’s ear, "Race you to it—whoever comes first, loses.”

Foreman kept moving his hand as Amber tried to pin it between her thighs. Back and forth. A strong, heavy pressure, then a short teasing brush. He had no idea if he was winning or losing this game, but the longer it kept up, the less he cared. He felt more like a teenager than ever, holding back his groans, his jaw tight with how hard he was clenching his teeth not to let loose how he was feeling, like he was hiding a furtive beat-off session behind the bathroom door. "Yeah," he said raggedly. I love watching you. God, he couldn't say that, not even if he wasn't trying to keep back as much as he could. It was their second--third?--date, and they might be practically fucking in public, but he couldn't say that.

"Amber--" Her name jerked out of him when she started undoing his belt. The word stop leaped to mind, but he swallowed it down. Couldn't give in. Her fingers were deft, more skillful than he could have ever imagined. It seemed like only seconds until her hand was inside his pants. Close. Stroking him. Eroding his control. Foreman sucked in a deeper, even breath, and reached for his wine with his free hand. He took a sip, although it wasn't the wine he was savouring. The pull of silk across his cock was light, slippery, so fucking close to perfect. When his hand dropped back under the table, he brought his napkin with it, pushing it against the back of Amber's hand. He was not going to walk out of here with a semen stain on his shirt, and he hoped Amber took the hint. From her words, maybe she wouldn't care about that either. The more she spoke, the more the sounds of the restaurant faded from Foreman's attention. He forced his eyes open, taking another look around. That was the only thing saving him from coming on the spot: knowing that he might be watched. He'd kept up his own efforts at bringing Amber off by an act of will, and his fingers were already moving harder and faster. He had to get the better of her, and fast, before they both went too far.

"I think you're wrong." Start with a challenge, to make sure she was listening. "I know you don't like to lose, but if you--mmn--do that--much longer, then you will." He'd looked around when Amber did, seen the woman who was peeking furtively at them from across the room. What could she see? The tablecloth moving? How close Foreman was sitting to Amber? The soft, intimate way Amber had leaned in to whisper in his ear? Whatever it was, she kept looking back. She suspected, at least. Embarrassment burned through Foreman, but it wasn't as strong or as hot as the feel of Amber's fingers curving around his cock through his shorts. And Amber hadn't stopped after seeing that they were being watched. She'd grown bolder, more brazen. She liked it--wanted to be seen. "I could...follow you back to the bathroom. Have you up against the door." Foreman clenched his teeth, struggling to keep too many images, too many sensations at bay just a little longer. It wasn't his fantasy, his kink, but he could see how to drive Amber over the edge, make her picture everything the way she'd been invading his imagination since this evening began. If he could just hold on to his control a little longer. Keep touching Amber, firm circles over her clit with the heel of this hand, teasing strokes along the damp material with his fingers, pressing up rhythmically, so close to being inside her. Ignore the eager, dangerous play of her fingers up and down the length of his erection, the treacherous heat of pleasure building in the pit of his stomach. Foreman leaned in, his lips warm and close against Amber's ear when he finished speaking. "Anyone could be listening. Right on the other side. I'd fuck you until you couldn't stay quiet."

Christ, she couldn't stay quiet now, not with the barrage of words and images and Eric's hand doing things to her, rubbing and pressing and bringing her so close to the edge. It suddenly didn't seem fair, that she couldn't climb into his lap and take him in, as she should be able to, humans were made for this, weren't they? But with Eric sharply bringing down the handkerchief as a shield to his shirt, Amber was reminded to keep up the least in propriety and limited herself to a few throaty gasps.

Still. The images he conjured, they hit her hard, striking precisely at some of her favorite fantasies. The two of them coupling, her back against cool wood, the soft bangs and clicks the door would make, and the knowledge that they were just inches from public gaze. She'd have take him up on the offer, gone there to the bathroom this very moment, but even if they couldn't fuck there, fact was, here they literally were under public scrutiny. Amber liked to think she'd seen a flash of jealousy in that woman's eyes, wishing to be in her shoes. Doing what she was, with Eric. But Amber wouldn’t give her shoes away, not even in exchange for the whole world.

"Fuck, Eric," Amber gasped, shuddering with his breath against her ear. “This is amazing.” The more excited she got, the faster and tighter she gripped him, trying to match their paces. She'd meant it about the game rules, and while she wouldn't mind losing in this case, she had to stand up to the principle of the matter. And it was so tempting, to make him cave in, make him relinquish some of that pride he held on to so fiercely. She knew Eric was close too, his pupils huge and his grimace in holding back whatever sounds he couldn't help making. His erection was so hot in her hands, so inviting, and she stroked furiously, her thumb up tighter along the base of his dick. "C'mon, harder, like you mean it--"

Foreman frowned fiercely, his eyes shutting against his will, as Amber's breath--the word amazing--puffed against his throat, his ear. Yeah. Oh, fuck, yes, it was amazing, more than that, but he didn't know if he could keep this up. Arousal and adrenaline sent his heart slamming against his breastbone. Amber's gasps--barely held back, badly concealed--heightened his urgency so much that he didn't know if he was going to come or panic. They were being watched. He knew that, and yet he hadn't pulled back, hadn't insisted on at least escaping the goddamn room. Their food would be here any minute. If the waiters weren't watching them and laying bets as to how far they'd go. Foreman felt caught, like he'd been carried away in a whirlwind, with no will left of his own; Amber's hand was hot and deliciously tight around his cock, sending surges of thought across his mind. Give in. Let go. Come.

His mouth drifted closer to Amber's throat. All he wanted was to suck her pulse point to the same tight, hard rhythm of his hand. Kiss her, finally, ravage her mouth until she couldn't push out another sound past the seal of his lips. The second he started, he'd be lost. Kissing her would give them away. Even once. Foreman wouldn't stop himself then, from groaning harsh and loud, from letting their badly-kept secret become a public indecency charge. He let out a quick, hot breath, but didn't let himself close the last quarter-inch between them. With his right hand, he let go of her leg and grabbed her wrist, gripping it tight enough to stop her. Maybe he was a coward, maybe he was an idiot, but he couldn't let her finish him off, not like this, not in front of a restaurant full of people. "I won't lose," he said. "This time."

He lifted his left hand--still trapped under the bunched material of her skirt--and finally pushed his fingers underneath the elastic of Amber's nylons and panties. She was slick and wet and it felt so amazing that Foreman stopped breathing altogether, until his lungs ached from lack of oxygen. No leverage this way, and he couldn't keep up the same rhythm of hard, driving strokes, but he could curve his wrist, thrust his middle finger deep inside, press up into Amber's tight, slippery heat, feel her muscles constrict around him. Like he meant it? This was more than that. More. Plunging in, his palm squeezing Amber's clit, his finger rubbing her inner walls. Anyone--that woman across the restaurant--who was looking--they'd see his shoulder moving; he couldn't conceal that anymore than Amber could hide her expression, but Foreman couldn't stop. Couldn't stop staring, watching Amber's face, wanting exactly what he'd told her--for her to come for him. He didn't care about anyone else, what they saw, what they heard. For him.

Well, if Eric was going to play dirty, of course he was going to win, and he was a cheater, big, huge, dirty cheater, and Amber could've burst from sheer pride. So he played to win. 'This time,' he he'd said, which meant there'd be a next one and then, oh, yes, Amber would be ready for his underhanded ways.

This round, though, she had to concede defeat, her heart dashing against her chest, her thoughts so muddled she couldn't keep track of what was happening, what hand was where and what Eric was doing but did it really matter, as long as he kept doing it, kept on pushing deeper and harder. Her wrist, he'd gripped it so tight it almost hurt, but the chafing, it only added to the senses assaulting her, his cologne's scent as he leaned in towards her, and his skin, it was slick with sweat, hers must be too, christ, what did it matter, where they were and who was watching, she just wanted--

"Eric," she breathed, peaking so high, like she was flying, here in this chair with him right next to her, and she bent her head, moaning, "Oh, god," and kissed him as she soared through clear blue skies. His mouth was so hot, so wet, and she sucked him in, channeling her gasps into him, and she could taste the wine and god, yes, could feel his pulse as fast as her own, and she never, ever wanted to come back down.

But back down Amber came, and of all the places to come back to, this one was pretty good. Opening her eyes to peer around the restaurant, she verified that no one was making a huge fuss over what had just happened at their table, and then looked back to Eric. She couldn’t tell if he was indignant, turned on, or tremendously embarrassed. Probably all three. “You’re no fun,” Amber teased, squeezing his hand between her thighs again. He was uncomfortable, she knew, and wouldn’t take well to further innuendo, but coasting on a good mood, she couldn’t resist pushing him. She twisted her wrist out of his grasp and encircled his balls, thumbing the base of his penis. It throbbed, strong and insistent. He wanted this, how could he not? “C’mon, give in,” she invited, flashing a promise-filled smile. “For me.”

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