Work Text:
Stretched Out On My Bed
It's different from the fantasy.
For a second, Cuddy's frozen, her blood surging with adrenaline, because this was never supposed to be real. She doesn't move to cover up, though, maybe because of something in his eyes, maybe because these crazy dreams about him always leave her empty when they're over, and now that he's here, that doesn't have to happen. It's too late, anyway; he's seen her, not naked, but sprawling post-orgasmic with her fingers still wet with her come. And he's not looking away. Cuddy takes a breath, feeling shaky with what should be embarrassment but throbs through her like arousal instead.
"I wish I could say this was an unexpected surprise," she says. The vibrator is still purring between her thighs, but the tingle isn't localized: watching him watch her nudges her back into overdrive and her whole body has been waiting for him for too long.
House's eyes glint. Cuddy breathes again under his scrutiny, fighting not to squirm, because any move she makes will break the mood. He's wearing less than she imagined, no button down, no blazer, jeans with holes in the knees. She likes the way the sleeves of his t-shirt are snug around his biceps. His hand on his cane tightens when he looks her over, and his lips part just enough to show how quickly he's breathing. She wants him to fuck her, harder and deeper than she ever could with the vibrator.
"Need a consult," he says, his voice dark and so intimate that she shivers. Every part of her is yearning towards him, her skin singing in anticipation of his touch. She wants to close her eyes, go back to the fantasy where it's safe to say anything. If she does, she'll lose him. Right now that's not an option. She meets his eyes.
"Symptoms?" she demands.
He tilts his head, his eyes narrowing slightly at the challenge in her voice. He prowls closer, until she can't tilt her head any farther back to look at him, and she rolls to her side as he sits on the bed. "Hyperpnea and tachycardia," he says. "Dilated pupils." He discards his cane and lays a hand on her on her chest, above the line of the lace. His palm is cool. His fingers, moving lower, are like the slow trickle of ice-water against her sun-hot skin, sending out a spray of goosebumps. "Nearly febrile," he says, his voice lowering to a husky growl.
Cuddy breathes in, shuddering and slow, fighting to keep her eyes on his. Her heartbeat pounds beneath his hand. Her nipples are tight against the soft scratch of lace and she wants him, so badly, to pull the fabric away from her breasts and touch her, taste her. "What tests have you run?" she asks, because even if it's real it's still her fantasy, her game. She's never had to worry about House playing along. And this time she's not willing to stop and wonder if he'll raise the stakes too far.
"This," he says, and leans down, until she can feel the heat of his breath on her collarbone. Anticipation fills her, rising on the tide of her earlier orgasms, and she whimpers before he even touches her. Saving face doesn't matter, not when his fingers are trembling where they're resting just above the curve of her breast, not when her body's burning with liquid fire, moving out from her cunt until she feels like every part of her is expanding. Moving outwards, moving into House's hand and breath, and when his mouth closes on her nipple, Cuddy cries out. She's too sensitive, and his tongue is hot and wet against her, teasing through lace, all texture and tentative exploration.
"House..." she moans, threading her fingers through the thin strands of his hair. The rough scrape of his stubble only adds to the sensation pouring through her, and she pulls him closer. He's sliding the slip up until it catches under her breasts, and he strokes her stomach with his fingertips. Her clit pulses with desire, with the same rhythm as her heartbeat, quick and fluttering. His kisses run lower, until he's licking the line of sweat under her breasts, evidence of how he'd found her, thoroughly fucked but not filled. It's not enough, it's not nearly enough, until he finds her nipple with his fingers and pinches, almost too hard and almost sweet. Cuddy gasps and feels her inner muscles clench, still too empty, but she comes again anyway, quick and sharp, memory and passion and surprise. House lifts his head slowly, and she has time to think that his position must be awkward, but she doesn't; she's too busy focusing on his hands, how the dart of pleasure from her breasts blazes between her thighs.
"The patient's responding well," he says, mischief lighting his eyes, but not doing anything to hide how badly he wants her. He wants her.
"For now," she answers, but the teasing doesn't touch him, so she kisses him instead.
Maybe it's stupidly sentimental, but she can't help thinking of the last time they did this. Time is the operative word, because it feels like so long ago that maybe she was an entirely different person when it happened. She feels older and softer where he's older and harder, their edges meeting and melding. Before, she was young enough to think she could take what she wanted from him and pull away without consequence. Now, the kiss has the flavour of a thousand encounters, clashes and arguments and, so rare, the quiet moments, like twilight, that never last.
He's pulling harder at the slip, now, trying to get it off over her breasts, and she thinks she hears him mutter "Fuck," into her shoulder as she lifts her arms to let him strip her entirely naked. She can't help giving half a laugh and whispering, "Wouldn't want this restricting blood flow."
She sits up, still kissing him, holding him lightly until she can reach behind him to pull at the hem of his t-shirt. She lets her knuckles graze his back as she draws it up, so that she can feel the firm warmth of muscle and the bumps of his ribs. When it's off, she slides a hand down his stomach, following the light dusting of hair, feeling the tension in his abs. She rubs him over his jeans and it's his turn to grunt and turn his face to the side. He's hard, and he grabs her hand to press it down over his erection. Cuddy tastes the side of his neck, inhaling the sweat-sharp smell of him, salty and clean, while she teases him over the denim, massaging firmly enough that he'll feel it.
He says, "Cuddy," hoarse and desperate, and squeezes her wrist.
"Have you got a diagnosis?" she asks, flicking open the button of his fly. She eases his zipper open and presses her hand inside.
House lets out a breath of laughter, and she can feel his reluctant smile against her temple. "I think the consult's made it clear," he says, she hmms, amused. For a moment, his whole body goes still, except his thumb, brushing over the bone of her wrist. Then: "Treatment could be dangerous."
One last out, and she doesn't want it. "When," she asks, warm and tantalizing and slow, "has that ever stopped you before?"
Never, they both know, when it comes to his practice. Always, when it's about them, the possibility of them. But House crossed the line the moment he stepped into her bedroom tonight, and she thinks he knows it. Cuddy moves her hands inside the waistband of his jeans, reaching around his waist, finding his ass, and pushes the material down over his hips. For a moment it's awkward, because she's uncertain about his leg, but when her wrist brushes his erection he catches his breath, she realises she doesn't have to worry. Not now. She tugs at him until his jeans and boxer-briefs thump to the floor. Then he's on top of her, and the weight of him is so welcome; he's heavy, but it's better than absence and nothing but her own hand between her legs. It's real, his cock hot and rigid against her belly, and he's breathing hard into her shoulder. It's real, and she wants him to fuck her, she wants it so badly that she's already pressing her hips up, small needy thrusts that press her clit against him. She's still high on her own arousal, and she's close, again, and she's almost astounded at how good it feels now, not to tip over the edge but to ride her desire, soaring upwards with every movement.
"House," she says, and she cups his face with one hand, until she can kiss him again. He kisses her back, intense and reckless, like everything he's done tonight. God, it's so good, what he's doing, and she touches him everywhere she can reach, running her hands down his back. "Fuck me," she whispers into his mouth, and she feels more than hears his answer, her name.
Then: he's there, and he slides into her. She's so wet, and so open, and she's waited so long, that she barely hears his groan over her own. She aches, already, from the vibrator, from the overplay of muscles, but it's perfect; she squeezes down on him, to feel just how real he is, how responsive. House groans, and his shoulders bunch and move under her hands. She wraps her foot around his calf, slides her hands to clasp his ass, and pulls him to her, wonderfully near, undoubtedly present.
She's already so ready that it doesn't seem to take any time at all; the grind of House's groin against her clit, the sleek movement of his cock on her g-spot, and she crests. She can't quite tell if she's calling House's name into his ear, or only in her mind, but he keeps going, and her orgasm is like a tide, overwhelming and spreading through her entire body. This is what she needed, what she wanted, pleasure without regrets, shared and heightened and complete. A moment later, or an eternity, House's thrusts turn harder and ragged. When he comes, hot and convulsing, Cuddy wraps herself around him as tightly as she can, clinging to him, wanting it to last.
"Fuck, Cuddy." House's breath heaves against her neck, and he collapses, half on top of her and half beside, his cock sliding out of her. A minute passes, while he stays close and she holds him, not clutching but touching only, reassuring herself that he is there. After a minute, he reaches off the side of the bed and fishes through his jeans pocket for his pills, swallowing one. Her muscles are warm, tired, and she wants him next to her. Filling space that's been empty for too long. Cuddy closes her eyes, feeling the tug of sleep, wondering how long the game will go. Maybe it's too easy to have regrets, or second thoughts, when she doesn't even know why he chose tonight to come into her room as if he knew what she was thinking, fantasy made real.
"Did you get the diagnosis right?" she asks, because she needs to, but she's still hiding behind the game.
"Not sure yet." His face tugs into a smile, and he lies down next to her. "Calls for observation," he says. "Never know when you might need another dose."
end