Work Text:
Electrifying
House has absolutely no business being in Cuddy's office. She's not in yet--hell, the clinic isn't even open yet. It's even too early for her little lapdog of a secretary or the much scarier guard-dog version in the form of Brenda Previn to be sniffing after him. No one could possibly believe that he'd ever drag his carcass out of bed any time before nine, which means no one suspects him, which means he's not going to get caught.
Well, not yet.
House shrugs his backpack onto Cuddy's desk, careful not to disturb her neat piles of paperwork. The zip sounds louder than it should, as if the silence in Cuddy's office disapproves of him. House grins as he pulls out the handcuffs. They're stiff black leather, padded on the inside so that they won't chafe, and joined together by a couple of stainless steel D-rings that clink together in defiance of the quiet. He rubs his thumb over the smooth leather. The metal buckles that hold the cuffs closed are cool, but they warm quickly under his touch.
House takes one last look over his shoulder, out through the glass door. Still no one around. He tugs open one of Cuddy's desk drawers, one he hasn't seen her look in since the last time the hospital was audited (he still maintains that wasn't his fault, unlike the time before that, which he happily takes credit for). He drops the handcuffs in, on top of an old stack of financial files.
He closes the drawer almost all the way, leaving it just open enough that someone observant would know right away that it's been messed with. Enough that someone a little less observant could easily bash her knuckles against the jutting corner if she expects it to be firmly closed at all times.
The plan, after all, does involve getting caught eventually.
--
He's happily asleep in the chair in his office, in the middle of a dream about his boss that's decidedly not professional. He's enjoying the way she's shouting his name, until suddenly he jerks awake to find that...not much is different. In the dream he'd had his hand halfway up Cuddy's skirt, and fuck, her skin was hot and smooth under his fingertips. He'd been skimming his hand lightly upwards, while she straddled his legs where they were propped on the ottoman, and steadying herself with one hand on his shoulder. He could feel the quiver in her muscles, and he knew, he knew, that she was about to clench her thighs together and trap his hand the instant before he won his bet with himself that she was going commando.
Even so, waking up is almost better, because Cuddy really is standing over him, right where he has the best view along the slit in her skirt, and she's glaring down at him like she wants to either stake him out or get him off. Possibly not in that order. Possibly, House considers, it works out to the same thing.
"Why, Cuddy," he says, leering happily at her and wondering how many chances in a lifetime a guy has of waking up to a wet dream come true. "Monitoring my REM sleep? I think we have a sleep lab for that sort of thing."
One look tells him she hasn't found the cuffs yet. Another look convinces him that no, she really can't be hiding a panty line under that skirt. She glares at him, and somehow that goes straight to his dick, too. He shifts in the chair, kneading his thigh lightly even though this morning's Vicodin still seems to be doing him some good.
"Monitoring your paperwork," she says. "I know I gave you an office for that sort of thing."
"It's seven-thirty in the morning," he protests. Nothing breaks the mood like charting. "Don't you sleep?"
"I'm pretty sure with you on my staff, that would be criminally negligent," Cuddy says. "And it's a quarter to ten."
"Huh," he says comfortably. "Time for my coffee break." He sits forward and reaches for his cane, propped against the footrest.
Cuddy grabs it before he can and pulls it away. House freezes, then sits back nonchalantly, watching her carefully. He licks his lips and remembers that breathing tends to work out better than not. Cuddy's look is stony, but her cheeks flush to a delicate, gorgeous pink, and her lips are parted just enough that House wants to kiss her, to let his tongue explore along the line of her lipstick, then slip inside to see if he can convince her to open her mouth further. She raises her eyebrows and holds out his cane, as if she might be offering it to him, but he doesn't trust her for a second.
"You're due in the clinic in fifteen minutes," she says softly.
God, she's beautiful, but when she says things like that, it drains the enthusiasm right out of him. House doesn't know whether that's a good thing or not. At least he won't have to adjust himself before standing up. "How are you going to drag me there?" he says, pulling on his most stubborn expression.
"With some strong rope and a ball gag, if you don't start listening to reason."
If he thought not breathing was going to be a problem earlier, then it's nothing to the way the air abandons his lungs at her words. She really shouldn't be able to do that; it's got to be illegal. He wonders if there's any lawyer in the state of New Jersey he could convince to take on his sexual harassment suit for the way she's standing there. "Give me my cane," he says, and swallows hard to get rid of the hoarseness in his voice.
She brushes the back of his knuckle with her thumb when she passes it to him. It's like a match flame on a gas barbeque.
Really, really illegal.
He treats four colds and a sprained wrist before he comes down from the high of imagining saying no to her.
--
House spends two hours in the clinic and remembers none of it. He charts on autopilot, and the duty nurse stares at him in astonishment each time he comes out of the exam room and waves his hand for the next idiot with a nail through his foot. He doesn't care. He's watching the glass doors of Cuddy's office, straining for a glimpse of her typing at her computer and making notes on budget requests and complaint files (mostly his). At some point, she's going to open the bottom drawer. He is going to be there, at the admit desk, the moment she looks up, startled, breathless, blushing; and then he's going to disappear before the manhunt starts.
That's the plan, anyway. He's still working out the variations (her expression, the exact shade of the flush spreading from her throat to her breasts, the sound of her nearly-silent gasp), when he realizes that the moment has come and he's in no position to run away.
"House," Cuddy snaps, hunting him like a very pissed-off lioness. "My office. Now."
He grins, because it's easy for him to hide that his hand is sweating on the handle of his cane, and not so easy for her to hide how tight her nipples are through the sheer fabric of her blouse. Not that she usually goes out of her way to hide that. One more thing he loves about her. "Is it time for that nooner already?"
"You've been hiding your eBay purchases in your office supplies budget!"
Oh, right. Well, to be fair, it wasn't like Wilson could afford the bidding war House had gotten into for that much vinyl. "What's that worth?" he asks. His traitor heart starts thudding harder, but it's not like he's strapped to a tattletale EKG. "A slap on the wrist? Or did you need me to bend across your desk while you go for the paddle?"
Cuddy's eyes snap like St. Elmo's fire. "Office."
"After you," he says, and he's pretty sure she knows he can't resist following the view.
--
House has always enjoyed the sight of Cuddy sitting behind her desk. When she spreads her hands across the wood, it's like she's tapping into the leylines of the office, like some sort of administratrix vampire. Plus, when she's sitting and shouting at him, he can see right down her shirt. Today's bra is black lace, with a tiny clasp between her breasts, and it's almost unbearably skimpy. House squeezes his cane and transfers his weight to his bad leg, considering the benefits of dressing left.
"...so I can't make it over tonight," she says, and House frowns quickly, rewinding the part of the conversation that he missed after the yelling.
"You said no," he says.
"That's right."
"You're going out with Wilson instead."
She smiles at him with the least-believable innocence he's seen since he last practiced in a mirror. "Yes, House."
"You're doing this just to mess with me," he says. He paces around her desk and glances surreptitiously at the bottom drawer. It's still closed to the exact quarter-inch that he left it this morning.
Cuddy spins the chair slightly, keeping him in front of her. Her legs are crossed, and she's not wearing her shoes, so that all he can see is smooth nylon running up under her skirt. "I don't know what you're talking about. The Hockney exhibit sounds fascinating."
She can't quite hide the smile that twitches at the corner of her lips. He scowls at her. Definitely messing with him. And using Wilson. That's supposed to be his prerogative. And, really, he does it so much better; she should learn not to try and best the master.
The messer is about to become the messee.
--
"You lied to him about when the Hockney exhibition was ending?"
House looks up ingenuously from the ninety-third level of Tetris on his Gameboy. He doesn't think he'll ever get tired of Cuddy sweeping into his office to accuse him of the most trivial interjections of fun into her clearly too-tedious life. "Wilson believes the schedule on his Blackberry more than the flyer," he says. He pauses to consider, looking thoughtfully out the window. "Especially if the flyer's missing."
Cuddy closes her eyes and slumps in defeat. "You know his Blackberry password? What is it?"
"I would never betray a friend's confidence like that!" House says, shocked at this unfounded attack on his strict ethical code.
"But you'd send him to a bondage exhibit when he's expecting landscapes?"
House raises an eyebrow. "It's good for him," he says. He tries to picture them both, standing like an island of staidness among the photographs and careful lighting, surrounded by leather and writhing bodies. He imagines the sweat pricking in Wilson's armpits, his uncomfortable erection; he imagines the slippery heat growing between Cuddy's thighs, the subtle catch in her breath when she leaned in to take a better look.
Fuck, he should have followed them. There's a panicky flutter trying to escape his chest via his throat, but he sets his jaw and ignores it. He lifts his legs down from his desktop and levers himself to his feet. "You should have sex with Wilson," he says, stalking her carefully across his office, mapping every flicker of her expression.
Cuddy meets him halfway, looking up softly into his eyes, and Jesus, that turns him on. "I seem to recall that I already did."
The only thing that saves House from a heart attack is that she's not talking about last night. "Just the two of you," he clarifies, even as he hates every word he's saying. "Before you start falling for his knight at the museum schtick."
"Is that what you want, House?" Cuddy places her hand on his forearm, and he can feel the heat through his shirt sleeve.
Every cell of his body screams No! but he refuses to say it. He glares at her, clamping his mouth shut. He wants to know every instant of their conversation from the moment Wilson knocked on her door to their goodnight kiss--and there must have been a kiss, they've slept together, there's no embarrassment lost between them--and he wants to know if Cuddy suspected him when they were at the exhibit, he wants to know if she enjoyed it, whether she's found the goddamn cuffs yet, he wants to know how obvious he has to get.
"I didn't think so," she says, with the confidence that could, and on more than one occasion, has torn him to shreds. She turns around and heads for the door.
House finds his voice, finally. "Get any good tips while you were there?"
Cuddy glances at him over her shoulder, with a playful, dangerous smile. House's throat goes dry instantly. He's struck motionless as she swings out of his office, and he's left alone with the drumbeat of his heart.
--
He is, House decides quite calmly, going fucking crazy.
He's clutching his tennis ball rhythmically in one hand, then transferring it to the other, his knuckles whitening with each squeeze. It's possible that Cameron was talking at him earlier, but staring right through her while he let more entertaining thoughts pass through his mind's eye seemed to annoy her, and after a while she left.
He barely waits until the end of the workday before pulling on his helmet and peeling out of his parking space. When he gets to Cuddy's place, he doesn't bother knocking. Her key is still under a flower pot next to her door, and he uses it to let himself in.
Even though she's not there, he moves through her house as quietly as he knows how. Her knickknacks haven't moved since the last time he checked, her mail is all bills for boring things like electricity, and the food in her fridge is wretchedly healthy. It's boring and predictable and entirely Cuddy. The air smells like her perfume, her shampoo. God, he feels pathetic.
House pauses in the bedroom. His hands itch to test the texture of the comforter. There's a pile of pillows that he throws into a heap on the floor before sitting down on the bed, bouncing experimentally on the mattress a few times. The squeaky bedspring hasn't changed. House struggles up for a moment and takes off his jacket, throwing it at the chair in the corner of the room.
It's been over a month since the first time he and Cuddy slept together. And while things haven't changed--he's not going to let that happen--they have gotten more intense. Since the first time she asked him to keep his hands to himself and he let her get away with it, he's wanted...more. And with Wilson, House had given up so much that he felt like he was barely there, like he'd emptied himself out in front of them and then didn't know how to get himself back. It was amazingly, frighteningly good, when Wilson came inside him and Cuddy stroked his cock and he let them. He wanted them both, and he gave over to them entirely.
Aside from Wilson's cautious, pleading little looks, they haven't talked about it since. House rubs his thumb over the handle of his cane. He doesn't want to talk. But he still wants that feeling; it's a lot like safety, and that scares him most of all. He glances around Cuddy's bedroom again, and then he tosses his cane after his jacket.
It thumps softly on the carpet, halfway across the room. Maybe he could get to it, in a hop-step or two, if he wanted to risk collapsing on Cuddy's bedroom floor. Or maybe he's just trapped himself even more than she already has. His breath stutters in his chest. He frowns and settles back against the headboard, forcing himself to breathe evenly.
The front door opens just as he's about to roll over and snoop through the drawer in her nightstand. He knows about some of the toys she keeps, but it seems like there's always another surprise, and he loves that and hates it at the same time, the not knowing.
Cuddy must have seen his motorcycle parked on the street, but she takes her time coming in. Two clicks are her heels falling to the floor, and a jangle of hangers when she opens the closet. After that, there's barely a whisper of sound, until she's standing in the bedroom doorway.
House raises his eyebrows innocently. Cuddy stares back at him, sighing as if she's about to lecture him, but she doesn't say anything. She's wearing the same clothes that she had on at work and she's carrying her purse. She opens it, holding his gaze, and she pulls out the handcuffs.
"Looking for these?" she asks, her voice soft and dark.
He'd almost forgotten how real the handcuffs were, the stiff leather and the cold metal clasps. He can't help tearing his eyes away from hers. There's simply no way he can look her in the face when her voice and the clink of the cuffs are enough to start his dick swelling in his pants. He doesn't know what to do with the fact that she can affect him so strongly, that he wants her, that he's getting turned on just from the idea of what she might do to him when he can't fight back. "Yeah," he says, and he manages, at least, to make it sound defiant, like this is all her fault. Which it is.
Cuddy holds up the handcuffs and studies them, a finger tracing the manufacturer's mark. "They have a complete under-the-bed restraint system, you know."
So she's been doing some online window-shopping of her own. She's been thinking about this, too. "Yeah," House says, grabbing wildly for whatever control of the situation he still has, the power to shock her, "but Wilson has his AmEx flagged to question purchases over a hundred dollars."
"You bought these on his credit card?" Cuddy sets the cuffs on the bedside table. It's deliberate, as if she knows he won't move. Even if she doesn't use them, she can tie him up in words and feelings and leave him just as helpless. House wants to throw them across the room and he wants her to restrain him before he has a chance. This shouldn't be about his self-control, or about how he wants her. She ignores the cuffs and there's no way in hell that he'll ever, ever ask. She fiddles with the top button of her blouse, instead, opening it slowly, and House's breathing quickens.
"I buy my groceries on Wilson's credit card, if he leaves it lying around where anyone can find it," he says. The words come without a thought. He's staring at her, open-mouthed, and he can't even make himself care. The way she skims her hands down her body as she strips, the way she touches herself--her blouse comes off, and then her skirt, and then she's crawling towards him on the bed, straddling him, and he's so hard in his pants that he can't think.
Cuddy leans even closer, her lips brushing next to his ear. He sucks in a breath at the warm puff of air against his throat. "Lying around in his wallet in his locked office?" With a tickling whisper of fingers, she pulls up the hem of his t-shirt, sliding it up his chest and then off.
"Seriously," House agrees, reaching for her while he still can, cupping his hands over her bra and stroking down to the silken skin of her stomach, "me and the night janitor." He stretches up, awkward where he's sitting, and manages to lay a kiss against the swell of her breast. Their bodies ease warmth into each other, without the clothes between them. "Spending sprees like you wouldn't believe."
"Mm," Cuddy says. She's still not kissing him, not touching him. House frowns and opens his mouth to taste her, clean sweat and bitter perfume. His soft-lipped, rasping kisses bring him closer and closer to her nipples and then back away, off the material of her bra, back to her skin. She's going to break. She's got to. Run her fingers through his hair and guide him back, so that he'll suck and lick and tease while she presses her hips against him. "I don't think so, House," she says, her voice infuriatingly normal. "You wanted him to know."
"That his credit card security is crap?" House mutters, sliding a finger under the elastic of her thong, along her ass. "Yeah, I'm a good friend that way."
"It's going to show up on his statement." Her fingers slide down his right arm. She picked up the cuffs while he wasn't paying attention, and now she's easing the leather cool and snug around his wrist. He hears the snick of the clasp closing a second later. Tight enough that it's undeniable, that he already feels tied down. House looks up at her, wanting to touch her everywhere now that he can't, trace her cheekbones and her lips with his fingers, brush her hair back from her face. Anything. This time she does kiss him, too lightly, lips and tongue teasing against his. "You wanted Wilson to know that you bought the handcuffs," she breathes against his mouth. She lifts his arm up and behind him, threads the cuffs through the headboard, then takes his left hand in hers. "You want him to do this." The second buckle closes. The snap sounds incredibly loud, over the rush of blood in his ears.
The cuffs grip his wrists firmly. House curls his hands into fists and flexes his arms, testing, and the links chink against the bars of Cuddy's headboard. Cuddy's tied him so that one wrist crosses over the other, and so that he just has room to sit up or lie down. There's no pain, only an unyielding certainty. House squeezes his eyes shut. He can smell his own sweat, sharply, and he feels the throb of his erection, constrained by his jeans and Cuddy's knees on either side of his thighs. He can taste her breath, so close to his mouth, so close to kissing him.
When she gets up, the bed moving, her weight shifting, House hisses and opens his eyes. He can't stand not to see her, not to know what she's going to do next.
Pleasure and shock are drawn on Cuddy's face as she sits back. Her eyes are wide and darker than he's ever seen them. She reaches out and strokes her hand down his cheek. House jerks his shoulder forward, and just as immediately is pulled back. He can only turn his face to kiss her palm, running his tongue over her lifeline and tasting salt.
Cuddy's trembling, he can feel it in her hand. "House," she says. "Oh..."
"Cuddy," he answers, her name standing in for permission after the fact. He catches one of her fingers in his mouth, biting only hard enough to hold her, and swirls his tongue around the first knuckle, the sharp edge of her fingernail, the softness of the tip.
Cuddy draws her hand back slowly. House grunts, but he can't ask for more, not yet. Not when she's reaching behind her back, undoing her bra. It slips off slowly, and, fuck, her breasts are perfect, the slope and curve of them, the darker pink of her areolas contrasting with her honey-smooth skin, the tight goosebumped beads of her nipples. House pulls on the cuffs again. The rattle makes Cuddy startle, her gaze flying to his, but he can see in her eyes, in the parting of her lips, that she likes it.
She kisses him then, and he strains forward to make it as deep as possible, to feel her breasts brush against his chest. It's over before he's even begun, because Cuddy's a tease. He knew it. He knew she would be. And he can't do a fucking thing about it, except lift his hips and bite back his groan of disappointment. Cuddy's lips drift down his throat, pausing in the notch above his collarbone, flicking across one pectoral to his nipple. Her hand's already pressing lower, and he lies down when she pushes him, so that her fingers can work open his belt while she kisses his chest.
It makes absolutely no sense, why it should matter that he can't touch her. When he kept his arms up because she asked him, when he knew he could break the rules anytime it suited him, he held back and enjoyed her. Now that he can't, there's an edge of adrenaline to every move she makes. There's no reason for her to hurt him, for her to do anything except make him feel good, but nothing at all about this is reasonable or logical. He knows his legs are free; he knows he could ask her to let him loose; he knows, but he can't. He can only stare down at Cuddy's lips brushing against his stomach, growing more frantic, panting hard. He nearly jumps out of his skin when she pulls his jeans down and off in a sudden yank. His underwear follows a second later, and then he's naked and exposed in front of her, his erection straining upwards, and he can't escape.
Cuddy smiles at him. She smiles. Like this is all a walk in a very kinky park. She probably wants to hear him beg--she lets him get off if he asks--but she's not ready for that yet. "Wilson liked fucking you," she says.
House grunts agreement, trying to shift closer to her. If she would just touch him, then he wouldn't have to think about how he can't hide a thing about himself, his scar or his body or his expression. Thinking about Wilson fucking him only makes him feel more urgent. He has to get out of here, not talk about it, and he has to remember the sensation of Wilson's cock thrusting into him, how explosively he came while Wilson moaned into his ear.
"Would you like it," Cuddy asks, "if Wilson fucked me? If you got to watch?"
"No," House says, immediately contrary. It's the only thing he can do. If she ever gets serious about a gag, or a blindfold, then he really will run. This is already too much. "I'll fuck him," he says, and the idea settles warmly into his skin. "You can watch, see how long you can hold out--"
"I wouldn't talk about holding out if I were you, House," Cuddy says.
And she gets off the bed.
"Oh, no." House half-sits up, his abs straining as he struggles against the cuffs. "Don't you dare, Cuddy."
"Sorry," Cuddy says. She's standing a foot away from the bed, completely beyond his reach. She slips a finger down the front of her thong, closes her eyes. "Did you need something, House?" she whispers, and he can hear the huskiness in her voice, he can hear how good it feels as she touches herself.
"Get back here," he growls.
"Maybe I've got a different idea," she says, "about who should fuck whom." She opens her eyes long enough to slant the hottest look at him that he can remember--and, when he's alone and lonely, he can remember a hell of a lot about every minute he's spent with her. She pushes her thong down, over her hips, letting it fall to the floor. She walks across to the closet and opens it, rummaging inside.
"This had better be worth it," House says. "Cuddy--"
His eyes widen when she turns around. His heart pounds painfully, and he forgets the cuffs completely, he practically forgets his own name.
Cuddy's holding up a two-headed dildo, already fitted into the front of a black PVC harness.
House barely hears his own long, low moan.
The dildo is long and slender and a bright, obscene pink. The head is gently rounded, the shaft curved just enough that House can already imagine it inside, stroking his prostate with every thrust. "Cuddy, that's--you're--"
Cuddy smiles, suddenly girlish and playful, and steps easily into the harness. She must have practiced this, but he could swear she never had this the last time he went through her place with a fine-toothed comb, which means that she bought it for him, recently, wore it and used it and thought of him. She's using her fingers again, sliding them down between her labia, rubbing her clit in small, tight circles that make her thighs quiver. She's panting lightly, and then she's working the shorter, curved head of the dildo up and inside. She fastens the harness on, the straps leaving white lines in her flushed skin when she tightens them. She cups the dildo gently in one hand, moving it back and forth, and, God, it must still be stimulating her clit, and working deep inside her cunt. She moves her hand as if she's jacking off her own cock, and she whimpers, just a quick, half-breathed ah, there yes.
"Cuddy--" House aches to touch her, to touch himself, anything, but now the cuffs feel like they're the only things anchoring him to her bed, to this moment.
Cuddy meets his eyes, and House knows, knows why he bought the cuffs, why he wanted this so badly. It's this moment, when everything that's going to happen is laid out in front of him, and he can already feel how sweetly, impossibly pleasurable it's going to feel, and he trusts her, he wants her and he trusts her and she is going to fuck him so hard. "Please," he says, hoarsely, keeping his voice as level as he can.
She climbs on to the bed again, at an angle to him. She opens the bedside drawer and finds a condom for the toy, then the bottle of lubricant. She brings out a folded towel, as well, one that's old enough to have the pattern faded.
"Turn over," she says.
He doesn't want to. He wants to watch every second, as she slicks the lube over the dildo. At her look, though, he rolls awkwardly to his left, his wrists uncrossing. She forces him up long enough to place the towel underneath him. He can just barely hold himself up on his elbows, his arms extended in front of him. The friction of his cock across the towel is enough to make him groan, and he pushes forward, trying to bury himself in the sensation.
Cuddy's hand on his back stops him. She massages his lower back and his tension evaporates under her hands. She drops a kiss on the curve of his ass, and then her finger, oily with lube, slides down in slowly deepening circles.
Her name stutters on his lips when her finger first reaches inside him. It's good, it's good, but he can't think of anything except the dildo, of that first delicious thrust, when she finally moves in him. An eternity passes while she plays with him, taunts him, moves the head of the plastic cock to his ass and then takes it away.
Then--then, all at once, she does it. Steady, and slow, but all the way in. House can feel the sway of her breasts above his back, her uneven, desperate breathing on his back. It's all he can do to hold himself up on his elbows and breathe as the cock finally, finally rubs across his prostate.
"Oh, oh fuck," he says, the words torn from his mouth, and Cuddy kisses his shoulder, still buried inside him. "There--Cuddy--"
Any thought he might have had about not begging, not giving in, leave in a rush. His abs ache from holding himself up, but he needs to, needs to thrust back when Cuddy pushes forward. The dildo is as deep inside her as it is in him, and just that thought--that they're fucking each other, at the same time--is enough to drive him absolutely insane. He can hear Cuddy's moans and each one seems to lift his own pleasure until it rises, and rises, and he feels like his whole body is melting from inside his dick outwards. The handcuffs clatter against the headboard with every thrust, and House feels pinned down, tied to a single place and a single moment in time, when there's nothing but Cuddy, and him, together.
When Cuddy pulls out, he collapses against the bed. "No--"
"Just a second--" She sounds as needy as he feels, but it's only the fact that he's tied down that stops him from grabbing her and sliding into her, fucking her as hard and as long as he wants.
She moves to the night table again. House twists around as far as he can to see, and this time she pulls out a small, egg-shaped vibrator. It fits into the pouch in the front of the strap-on harness, just above her clit, right where it will be pushed against her every time she thrusts into him. She turns it on and gasps above the tiny, insistent buzz.
A second later, she's moved carefully again, positioning the dildo. She slams into him hard, and House's vision nearly whites out. He can just feel the echo of the vibrator's buzz when she's buried all the way inside him. It's electric, it's the most intense thing he's ever felt, and it doesn't stop. He's oversensitive, he can't reach his dick to jack himself off, there's only Cuddy fucking him, her hips moving relentlessly as her cock finds his prostate again and again. He bucks his hips, feels the complaint in his leg but ignores it. Cuddy's voice climbs, her rhythmic moans sounding in his ears, and then he feels her come, in quick, jerking waves, his name on her lips and her hand reaching, at last, for his erection, moving frantically over the head, wet with precome.
House's orgasm thunders through him, and it feels like nothing so much as relief, the fullness of Cuddy's cock inside him, the friction of her hand on his dick, all of it overwhelming him until he comes in long, shuddering spurts.
--
He feels empty when Cuddy pulls out of him, long after they've both collapsed into unmovable lumps, their bodies nearly glued together by sweat. Cuddy takes off the sodden harness, and he sees her wince when the head of the dildo slips out. They're both going to ache in the morning. God, they're too old for this. But House stays quiet, even as Cuddy pulls the towel out from under him, messy with his come, and rolls him back to his back.
At last, she reaches for the cuffs. House frowns lightly, pulling against their hold on him, and shifts uncomfortably. "Leave them," he says.
"Your arms will fall asleep."
"They're fine," House snaps. He doesn't know why he wants to keep the cuffs on--he doesn't know why anything, anymore. It's one mystery, at least, that can wait until morning.
Cuddy looks at him doubtfully, but she lies down beside him and rests her head on his chest. House's arms are comfortable enough, draped above his head.
"That," she says smugly, "was very good."
"I know," he says, feeling just as smug if for his own reasons.
He knows when she falls asleep. He knows the moment when he's ready to follow her.
He's trapped--he always knew that--but now, at last, it feels real.
end