Work Text:
Losing Control
When Cuddy unlocks her door, House has been waiting patiently on her front step and using the knocker as his personal drum set for a quarter of an hour. The porch light goes on and the door swings back to reveal one marvelously pissed-off Cuddy--in that robe again, and quite clearly nothing else; House could easily make a habit of waking her up every evening, and maybe, some nights, twice--and to cover the fact that he has no reason at all to be here, he immediately starts in with, "Really? Just an ass grope?" in a tone of incredulous disappointment.
"Really?" she snaps back. "Brain cancer?"
House glares at her stubbornly. That so wasn't his fault, not really. "Do you ever answer your door before your guests petrify?"
"At two in the morning? Not usually." Cuddy smiles like a woman who knows every loophole in the justifiable homicide statutes. "Goodnight, House."
"I was hoping it would be." That's a little too honest, and for a moment House has no idea what to do with his face: boy-scout innocence, comfortable lechery, or his usual I am so right smirk.
Cuddy catches the slip; he can tell by the way her smile doesn't change, but suddenly it's not murder but world domination she's plotting. He curses himself for his uncertainty, for letting it show. For a week she hasn't done anything, or said anything, and he's only cracked a slightly more personal set of jokes that no one gets but the two of them--and Cuddy's not telling, so neither is he. She's got him by the balls, but that's not a thought that's exactly hindering him right now.
"Looking for a rematch?" she asks, and her smile is dangerous exactly because of how playful it is.
"Thought I'd give you the chance to win some of your own back," he says, deciding to brazen his way out.
"Oh, I see," Cuddy says, and that devilish smile is seriously starting to unnerve him. She may have been asleep ten minutes ago, but it doesn't show now. Her eyes are gleaming, and she sways forward a step or two until she's got her hands on his chest and she's smiling up at him like she can't wait to hear what he'll say next. "Maybe I'm remembering wrong, but didn't I clean you out last time? Are you sure you even have enough left to ante up?"
He's so much taller than her, especially now that she's not wearing heels. It's easy to forget, because she works hard at the hospital to sit behind the power of her desk, or yell at him from across the room. He's stuck remembering last time, the way she fell asleep spread across him like he was her own personal body pillow. If the humiliation of walking away wouldn't be more than the potential payout, then House would be thinking up clever ways of telling her this is all a joke, a test to see how she'd react. He's not going to win points by that method, but he's not going to lose face that way, either.
Except that it's already gone too far. She knows she's got the upper hand, and he knows it too. The worst part is, she knows that he knows. Time to bring out the big guns. House leans down, and whispers next to her ear, "Lend me some stake money."
"When do I get the loan back?" Cuddy murmurs, her words warm against his throat. It's almost, almost a kiss. House grins faintly and breathes in the clean sleep-warm scent of her. He's so close that he can taste victory. It's not the only thing he wants to taste before the night is done.
"As soon as I take a hand," he says in a low voice, "you can have my winnings."
"Can I get that in writing?" Cuddy asks, and that's all it takes. He's in, for better or for worse, and he spares a moment to wonder what that means, but then she's turning around in the doorway and walking inside, leaving him, just like last time, with the decision of whether to close the door and go after her, or escape whatever it is he thinks he should be running from.
"You were bluffing," he calls after her, loudly, and locks the door after himself when he follows her inside. She glances over her shoulder at him, and he steps nearer. He's never stood this close behind her. She hasn't let him.
She doesn't move away, though, even when House moves forward so that he's nearly pressed against her back, close enough to smell the last traces of her perfume and the more recent scent of bath gel, something subtly spicy. House wants Cuddy to take her robe off, wants, really, what they had last week, but with her back to him he doesn't know what she'll allow. He sets his cane aside, leaning it against her couch, and lays his hands on her shoulders. He wants to catch his fingers under the robe's neckline and brush it aside enough to let it slip off, but she tenses under his hands and he doesn't.
Instead, he lays his palms down more firmly. Cuddy's shoulders are tight and the knots run deeply. House strokes his fingertips downwards, over the cloth, tracing the lines of tension that run from the nape of her neck past each vertebra. Cuddy's forcing her shoulders square and standing as tall as she can. House frowns lightly as he touches, probes, diagnoses. She's been tense for so long that her muscles have forgotten how to relax completely, and that only adds to the problem. House circles his thumb over a bump of tension in her trapezius muscle, pressing lightly. Cuddy's head tips forward and suddenly the tightness in her shoulders loosens. She's not fighting him anymore. She's inviting.
House increases the pressure with the balls of his thumbs. He presses harder and slower, working each tangle of stress that he finds until it unwinds under his touch. He moves outwards from Cuddy's spine, digging his fingers into the muscles under her left scapula. Cuddy's breath catches, subtly, but he hears it. She doesn't tell him to stop, and House realizes he's found the good spot, the place where the pain ravels together throughout the day, settling in so deep that she only knows it's there when he starts to work it away. He pushes at the place with the ball of his thumb, using a hard circling pressure, and Cuddy's hair brushes over his knuckles when she lets her head fall to the right. Her breathing is deep, and it hitches now and then when his hands work the knot just a little harder than she wants; but he doesn't let up, because the sound of that tiny catch is driving him crazy.
"House," she says--it's almost a moan--and that's all the permission he needs to press his lips to the juncture of her shoulder and neck and kiss her, just where the robe gives way to skin. He can see the line of her breasts beneath her robe, rising and falling with her quickening breaths. Her nipples show clearly through the silk, and he wants to lick them through the thin material until Cuddy is wet and panting and desperate for him.
"You've got a tell," he whispers, and moves his hands down to her hips, with nothing but warm fabric between his palms and her ass.
"You've got a lot of nerve," she answers, but she's pressing back into his hands. He kisses her again, then scrapes his chin across the marks he's left with his mouth. Cuddy shivers. "Do you know how many resources your staff wasted to try and save your life?"
"They saved Mr. Gomez's life," House says. "That's not good enough for you?"
Cuddy tenses under his hands again. "It wasn't a joke," she says.
"You were worried about me," House says, amused.
Cuddy twists away from his hand and turns to face him. "Of course I was worried," she snaps.
House smiles. He's not laughing at her--he finished with that two nights ago when he idly googled the Make A Wish foundation to submit her name as a volunteer (they'll be mailing her the sign-up forms and a request for a criminal records check in two to three weeks' time). It's strange, though, the warmth that moves through him, just knowing that she's pissed off that he's not dying after all. He's halfway turned on, and mostly he finds it funny that she wants to talk about this now. "You're upset that you didn't get to hear the reading of the will?" he asks.
Cuddy rolls her eyes. "The last thing I need is to inherit your Hustler collection," she says.
"Ah," he says, already planning the call to his lawyer to put in that exact codicil, "already have the subscription, do you?"
"House," she says, and then she's stalking forward, sliding her hands up behind his neck. "Shut up," she murmurs, right before she kisses him.
House lets his eyes close and kisses her back. Those exact words, and Cuddy's voice, husky with arousal, have been coming back to haunt him for days. It's crazy, but half the reason he's been making dominatrix jokes every time she comes into his office for the last week is that he was hoping she'd say exactly that, and then try to silence him with her lips and tongue and teeth. Maybe she knows it, too, because she hasn't said those two words to him even though there have been times when he knows she wants to. She finds his tongue with hers and sucks on it, playfully, and House pants into her mouth. His dick's more than halfway interested, now, and he runs his hands down over Cuddy's ass, almost low enough to slide his fingers under the edge of the robe.
"Wait," she says, and it's a command again. House knows the rules of the game now, and he thinks there are probably a thousand ways he could convince her to do things his way, but it's better somehow to let Cuddy take charge. The power he gives her lights her up like a flame, and there's nothing hotter than the look in her eyes when he forces himself to do what she says. He stops, and looks down at her, trying not to show anything, although she must already know that he's getting hard from where they're pressed together, his crotch against her stomach.
"Have you been jerking off this week?" she asks. She's breathing quickly, but her voice is perfectly in control. She's close enough that he can feel the vibrato in her throat against his shoulder when she speaks. She's spreading her legs, slowly and gradually, and if he wanted to take the bit between his teeth he could reach a single inch farther and run a finger up between her legs, touch the moisture that he's sure is gathering along the line between her labia and her inner thigh.
He doesn't. She's waiting for an answer. House swallows. He almost wants to close his eyes, because of the way she's watching him, but instead he meets her gaze and tells her the truth. "Yes."
Cuddy's eyes are very blue, like the summer sky in the desert. Egypt, he thinks, where the blue is so deep at times that it doesn't even seem like it could be real. Cuddy says, "Thinking about me?"
"Wilson, actually," House says, the joke coming from instinct, because he needs to get away somehow and he can't quite remember where he put his cane. Except, of course, that it's not really a joke, and it's Cuddy's voice that he hears, telling him what to do, how to act, to fuck Wilson until they both collapse and then it's Cuddy who slides a finger up his ass at the last moment, and she says, "Now, House," and she touches his prostate at the perfect instant and he comes, hard.
He's certain that he doesn't say any of that out loud, but somehow it seems like Cuddy knows it anyway. She's looking at him like she's filing away that thought for further examination, and she slides her hand down the zipper of his pants. "This is for Wilson?" she asks.
House does close his eyes this time, letting his head fall forward and frowning slightly in concentration. The way they're standing, his leg gives him no leverage to thrust, and she's deliberately stroking too lightly. "He's not the one whose ass I've got my hands on right now," he says, which should be admission enough.
"Did you ride the bike here like this?" Cuddy asks, amusement threading through her voice.
"I told you my sex toy is bigger than yours," House answers. He knows he sounds smug, but Cuddy's learned to read him better since last time. It's uncomfortable, and he's not sure exactly what he's showing without meaning to, but somehow that adds to his arousal, the build of adrenaline speeding his heart.
"Size doesn't matter," Cuddy says, and she tilts her head back to kiss him again. It's sloppy, this time, because he's got no room left to think of technique while she's cupping his cock through his pants and ghosting her fingernails along the inner seam. House groans, and then they're stumbling to her bedroom. He leans on her heavily, since right now the last thing he cares about is where he put his cane. Cuddy angles him towards the bed, and she grabs the hem of his t-shirt to pull it over his head. House gets rid of his shoes and socks. His pants are a bit more difficult, because of his leg and his growing erection, but he manages it, and when he looks up Cuddy is staring at him, one hand on the loosened knot of her robe.
"Take it off," he says. And then, because of the way she's smiling secretively, he only has to fight himself a little before he adds, "Please."
Cuddy steps closer and climbs on to the bed next to him, and House finally, finally gets to take off the damn robe that he's been dreaming about far too often. Getting Cuddy naked is like solving for an unknown and finding that the answer to the mystery only asks another question. She's beautiful, and it strikes him again like a revelation. He loves looking at her. He can pick out the places where her age shows, in the curve of her belly and the fine lines of her face; and the places where it's hidden, in the generous line of her breasts and the taut muscles of her thighs. There are places, too, where she's still as young as when he first met her. Her smile, and the way she moves. Her eyes.
"Like what you see?" Cuddy asks, with a hint of challenge. She's not going to let that go, but House knows--even if Cuddy doesn't, quite--that he's already caught in her web. He's made his promises by his discretion at work, and by showing up at her door again. Hoping. Like a moron, maybe, but hoping nonetheless.
"If I'm lying, I'm dying," he says, to needle her a bit, because this wouldn't be half as fun without the sparkle that her anger brings. She swats at him and he grins, and then he rolls to his side so that he can reach for her.
He wants her. That's always been true. It's even better now that he's seen her reactions, and he knows where to touch and where to tease. He catches her nipple in his mouth, torturing her a little by licking around it, then sliding his teeth past, almost a bite. Cuddy catches his shoulder and squeezes. "There," she says, and, gasping, "harder," and House smiles into her breast and sucks firmly.
"I love--your mouth," she says, moving under him, moaning. He hears the hesitation, and almost pauses. That's when she moves, a quick scissoring movement of her legs that rolls them over until she's on top, straddling him. He can feel how hot she is, how wet, and he runs his hands down her body, reaching, always reaching for her.
"No," Cuddy says, catching his hand. He wonders what the hell she wants this time, and if it's going to involve him not moving at all. He hates the idea completely, except for the part of himself that needs to let her fuck him senseless if that's what she wants, with her body or her toys. Anything, if he can watch her come like he did last time, pleasure suffusing her face and his name on her lips.
"What?" he asks, shifting beneath her, wanting to touch but waiting, waiting for her to tell him how.
Cuddy smiles, so satisfied with herself. "Time to put your mouth to better use."
"Fuck, Cuddy," he says, fighting back the heart attack that she's sure to give him one of these days, just by speaking to him in that tone of voice, that's half commanding and all desire. He props two pillows behind him so that his head and shoulders are supported, and then he raises an eyebrow at her. She's going to have to do the rest of the work. He hasn't done this in years--the memory of Stacy comes to his mind, but it's fleeting, and he pushes it away. This is new. He's breathing hard, already, and she hasn't even touched him since he stripped off his clothes. Cuddy's voice, and the way she wants him without bothering to hide it, are enough to get him going.
She kneels above him, her hands resting lightly on the headboard, her legs spread. House can smell her, the musky scent of sex, and he licks his lips. Her pubic hair is trimmed, and her labia glisten damply. She lowers herself down--he can feel the tension in her thighs beside his head--and then he touches her with his tongue, tasting her.
Cuddy's breath slides out of her body in a long, shuddering sigh. "Oh," she says, "fuck, oh."
House doesn't need orders to know what Cuddy wants. She's soft and swollen against his mouth, and he tongues her lightly, barely enough to feel. She's so sensitive already that the least contact leaves her breathless, clenching her fists on the headboard. He swallows, tasting salt, and then licks his way deeper. He finds her clit and circles his tongue around it, giving her the hint of sensation but never enough. She moves her hips against his face, slowly. Cuddy wants this to last. House wants to leave her trembling, blissful. Happy.
It's a desire that goes beyond a sweaty romp in the sheets. House doesn't know what that means, but he's thinking again of the light press of her body against his when he fell asleep in her bed the last time. House brushes his hands over her ass, lightly enough to tickle. "House--" she warns, and he firms his touch, drawing lines down to the crease of her ass, teasing softly as he goes.
He glides his hand along her labia. She's so wet, from her own moisture and from his mouth. He finds her cunt with his forefinger and presses inside, lazily, like he has all the time in the world. Cuddy relaxes around his finger, breathing out, moaning lightly. House reaches up as far as he can, then pushes in a second finger and presses forward. She's slick and tight around him, and she's starting to thrust against his fingers, against the sucking pressure of his mouth over her clit.
"Don't--stop--" she says raggedly, and House swirls his tongue again and keeps pressing rhythmically with his fingers. Cuddy quivers, her muscles starting to spasm around his fingers. She's everywhere around him, voice and body, and he doesn't stop, doesn't stop; he wishes he could see her face, but it's enough to feel her come, the clench of her cunt against his fingers, the way her breathing breaks into panting gasps and she says, "Fuck, your fingers, House," and then, after a last few thrusts, she collapses beside him and kisses him.
It's erotic as hell, kissing her while he can still taste her, thick and almost sweet, and House meets her lips hungrily. Her hands slide down his chest. She palms his nipples and he grunts softly. It's good, sending a sweet ache to his balls, but it's different. He's never known a woman who was so interested in his chest. His mouth, his fingers, his cock, yes; but Cuddy seems determined to find the particular parts of him that he's explored on his own, or with men: his nipples, his ass, his perineum. When she touches him there, avoiding his growing hard-on, House feels a bright shower of sparks, like fireworks, exploding somewhere near the base of his spine and shooting out to the rest of his body.
"I want you to fuck me," she tells him, a warm breath in his ear, and House hmms agreement into her throat, where he's kissing her, wondering if he'll leave marks that'll show tomorrow. Cuddy sits up a bit and reaches for the bedside table. House's erection has softened a bit in the meanwhile, while he was concentrating on more important matters, but one look at her face while she reaches for her little drawer of surprises seems to wake his dick right up. This time, it's not a dildo she shows him, but a bright blue cockring. "Are you ready, House?" she asks him sweetly, as if she isn't evil incarnate and probably some form of demon besides.
"I've left a letter to Wilson in my safety deposit box," he tells her. "He'll know I died fending off your scandalous advances."
"I'm sure he'll believe every word," Cuddy says. "I'll tell him you were thinking of him at the last."
"Only because I'd want him to know he never had a chance," House says. "Not even if you did have cancer."
Cuddy smiles wickedly. "Oh, I don't know. I might have to comfort him once you're gone."
"Any time," House says tightly, "would be fine." He's not going to last, thinking of Wilson fucking Cuddy, thinking of Cuddy tying Wilson up and making him beg. Fuck. "Wanton woman," he adds, when Cuddy brushes the cockring over his stomach, tantalizing.
"I'll start sewing that scarlet A on my tops tomorrow." She's calm and satisfied, and House can't help thinking it's mostly his fault. He lets his legs sprawl open when she reaches for him, stretching the cockring and sliding it down to the base of his penis. The pressure is perfect, and he breathes through it, getting used to the sensation. He's already harder, and Cuddy is stroking him firmly, the pleasure gathering heavily in his balls.
"You're disgustingly good at that," he says, trying to slow his breathing. His head tips back, and Cuddy grabs a condom from her bedside table and opens it, rolling it on in one long stroke. He expects her to straddle him again, but she moves up beside him and pulls him up until he's sitting.
"Like this," she says, moving to her hands and knees.
She doesn't ask if he's able. House checks in with his leg, but the prospect that Cuddy's offering seems to be overwhelming anything his pain receptors might be telling him, and he took a Vicodin less than an hour ago, while he was still banging on her door to be let in. He climbs to his knees, a little uncomfortably, but the sight of Cuddy's ass has all systems go. He lays his palm against her back, and positions himself behind her, most of his weight on his left side.
"Yes," Cuddy says, and House strokes into her, awkward and slanted but it's so fucking good that his leg, for once, doesn't matter. He's been holding back, thinking about her, waking up nights hard because of her. It's almost too much, the enfolding heat of her, still wet from his mouth. He leans into her, closing his eyes and dropping kisses along the line of her spine and the back of her neck. He can feel his orgasm approaching, and he groans. The cockring's tight, but he can't stop the building pleasure, and Cuddy's hips move to meet him. He glides his hand around her waist and reaches for her again. Her clit is still swollen, and he rubs against her until she's shuddering, jerking slightly in his arms.
Cuddy says, "House, now." The word's like magic, and House lets go, coming, until he feels bright and hot and limp. He wraps his arms around her stomach and rolls to his left side, holding her in front of him.
"Let me up," she says, after a moment.
"Never," he says, because he's pretty sure she likes it when he's contrary (it would explain so much), but he loosens his arms around her. She gets up, and slides the cockring and the condom off him--House winces, a bit, as the plastic catches against his skin; he's oversensitive, now--and then she disappears into the bathroom.
He's halfway asleep when she comes back and prods at him until he shifts over to make room for her in the bed. She pulls the covers up and twines her body next to his.
"This is getting to be a habit," he murmurs, not opening his eyes, but moving so that her head is comfortable against his shoulder.
"Twice is not a habit."
"I'm always ahead of the curve," he says, and not It could be.
Silence, for a moment, and then Cuddy asks, "So what do I win?"
"Hmm?" House is half-asleep, and he knows he's not up to his usual fighting weight. It's completely unfair to start demanding concessions after he's been cruelly used, wrung out, and left to recover from her evil wiles.
"You told me I could have your winnings," Cuddy says, and her voice is full of mischief.
House rubs her shoulder idly, his mind muzzy with sleep. "You've already got me," he says. He thinks he feels her smile, at that.
"That's not all I want," she answers. "One date. A play. And dinner. You're buying."
"Demanding," he says, but she's warm against his side and he can't think, so he says, "Fine," and this time her mouth moves against his throat in a kiss.
"You're not getting out of this," she promises, from somewhere far away.
House is reasonably certain that she's right; he was caught all along. The danger isn't that she knows it now. The only thing that worries him, he thinks, as he slides into sleep, is how good it feels to be trapped.
end