Fic: The Long Ride Home, House/Cuddy, M
Title: The Long Ride Home
Pairing: House/Cuddy
Rating: M
Spoilers: up to and including 7.01 'Now What?'
Disclaimer: Not mine! No profit! All characters remain the property of David Shore et al.
Summary: Set between the Day Of Sex and the return to the hospital (not sure if I'm taking timeline liberties or not!) Just consider this a smutty interlude before 7.02
This is written for the lovely london_fan , in aid of help_pakistan . Many thanks to januarynineteen for giving it the once over :)
Last night's HuLi (if you missed it in the episode FLAIL): Land Mines, NC17
The patience, the restraint, lasts all of one day.
He lingers in his apartment, aimlessly surfing (though not for porn, not when he has something to save himself for) and playing computer games that he can't quite focus on. There's no threat to his high scores tonight, not while he's watching the clock tick past seven when Cuddy's Blackberry said she'd be home, without her family or blandly attractive nanny around. Tomorrow they rejoin the real world, back in the hospital where he has no intention of keeping secrets.
Shrugging on his leather jacket, House tries not to break into a limping run all the way to the street. His bike is cool in the early fall air, and he can feel the chill even through the thick denim of his jeans. Revving the engine is an outlet for the nagging impatience, just another part of his addictive programming. Replace one drug with another but some won't hurt him, not at first anyway.
He restrains himself from smashing the speed limit (too much) and doesn't run any reds because getting pulled over by a cop is not the way this night needs to end. It's a hangover from the days of Tritter's one-man vendetta, or maybe it's a little responsibility at last. House isn't particularly impressed with either conclusion, his own thoughts seeming louder inside the shell provided by the helmet, and not for the first time he wishes his brain came with a mute function.
Maybe he's getting predictable in his old age, because he doesn't get a chance to kick out the stand before Cuddy is jogging across the immaculate lawn towards him. That she expected him is pretty cool, he hopes, anyway. Panic rises in his throat, the acidic worry he hasn't felt since asking Cathy Lawrence to junior prom, but the rejection he fears isn't forthcoming. He's resting the helmet on the handlebars, ready to turn the key when she stops smiling long enough to speak.
"I, uh, don't think you should park out here."
She's skittish, the newness of this still palpable between them. He knows from experience how easy it would be to crush it, like catching a moth in his fist and squeezing. What's surprising, and not a little scary, is that he doesn't want to. So instead of the belligerent refusal that comes as naturally as breathing, he asks why.
"The neighbors. It's just, until recently, Lucas has been parked out here a lot. And I don't want them to think--"
"--that you've turned pro?"
House waggles his eyebrows a little, extra careful to make sure that the joke lands. He's relieved when Cuddy relaxes into a little grin, smacking him on the arm in a way that might even be playful.
"If I open the garage, will you park in there, please?"
If it's a test, he has no intention of failing, so he shrugs in agreement. For a moment, he'd wondered whether she'd make him park around the block and walk back, but thankfully Cuddy worries more about his bum leg than he does.
The garage door slides up with barely a noise, the kind of sleek efficiency that Cuddy insists on surrounding herself with. She's waiting inside, remote in her hand, stunning even in the weak light of the energy saving bulb that isn't really enough to illuminate the space. Her Lexus sits silently to one side, and it never struck him as weird before that Cuddy's always been living in places much too big for one person for almost as long as he's known her. She's future and planning and optimism, while he's present and chaos and enough negativity to power the Eastern seaboard.
It occurs to him again that this can't possibly work, and then he lets himself drink in the sight of her in that low-cut top and his arguments seem a little less valid.
He could wheel the bike in, if he felt like it, but he guns the engine and drives it up the sweeping blank space that comprises the driveway. Cuddy doesn't flinch when he stops barely a foot in front of her, kicking the stand out and hanging the helmet on a handle as he prepares to slide off onto solid ground.
House stops in his tracks when Cuddy steps forward, placing a hand on the now-silent engine block and there's a thoughtful expression on her face that usually drives him crazy. Whether in the good or bad way is down to what she's actually thinking about, and for the sake of his newly reawakened libido, he hopes it's not going to be a lecture on how dangerous a bike can be.
"I've never understood the appeal of these things. What's wrong with a nice convertible?"
The door into the kitchen is open, spilling out warm light and the promise of Cuddy’s bedroom beyond. The crackle of the baby monitor, just radio static, can be heard from where the ever-vigilant Cuddy has no doubt left it on the counter. He can’t quite get used to the idea of her kid as a permanent fixture, though House supposes that if they do keep stumbling along, it’s another adjustment he’ll have to make.
“You made me give that back to the mobsters, remember?”
There’s a half-smile at the memory, tempered by the frown of remembering all that came with it: Vogler, sacrifice and another round of public humiliation for defending House. For dating him now, House isn’t entirely sure that Cuddy isn’t the one who needs an all-expenses-paid trip to Mayfield.
"Still, I don't get the fascination."
Cuddy's still running her hand over the warmed metal as she says it, and House sighs in exasperation.
"Of course you don't get it. C'mere."
He's feeling stronger since the crash site, despite the dull roar in his lower back and his thigh, because he's been able to prove to himself that there's still so much he can do. Because nobody cut off his leg, and he didn't die from complications, and maybe, just maybe, the two women he blamed did save his life after all. That any of it might have been worth saving is still a new concept to him, fragile in the weak light of possibility, of euphoria that doesn't come from a prescription pad.
So House grabs Cuddy by those child-bearing hips that won't bear children. She's tiny under his huge hands, years of self-denial and crushing workouts keeping her already slender frame to its absolute minimum. He lifts her bodily off the smooth concrete of the garage floor, dumping her unceremoniously in front of him on the seat, leaving her sitting side-saddle and flustered.
"House!"
Not the waspish tones that follow him down hospital corridors, but warm and teasing like she sounded in bed. She isn't really annoyed, and for all the genuine outrage he's provoked over the years, it's one area in which he can truly tell the difference. House presses a swift kiss to the top of her head as she leans slightly towards him, the smooth strands of her hair snagging momentarily on his stubble. She smells of shampoo and the other girl stuff that litters her bedroom and bathroom like an alchemist's lab. Not overwhelmingly, because it's the end of the day and Cuddy never does anything to excess. It will all have been perfectly measured and blended, as though she's back in Chemistry labs and measuring in pipettes and test tubes with the utmost precision.
Her hands grasp the collar of his jacket, and for a moment he worries that she might want to throttle him after all. House knows he's deliciously off-balance, with defences down and that sickening kind of distraction that makes him sing under his breath without realizing. But his initial suspicions are proved correct when Cuddy draws him into a searing kiss.
And hey, if that gets his own personal motor running, who is House to object?
The urgency is still there; the mutual belief that any minute now one of them will say or do something to cause a spectacular implosion is as present as the lust. It might even be what gets them going in the first place, but House is already too turned on to care about the why. Hot chick making out with him and the promise of more is plenty of reason why, after all.
“Not here--“
She begins, but Cuddy pulls her knees up to her chest, turning both to face him and then straddle the bike in the process. House shifts back a bit, voluntarily riding bitch for the first and last time. Well, it's not like he plans on going anywhere just yet, so the concession doesn't cost him anything and it gives him plenty of space to get his hands on his two favourite parts of Cuddy.
“Nothing wrong with right here,” House can feel the smirk pulling on his lips as he talks. It isn’t even intentional most of the time.
For her part, she has the presence of mind to hit the button to close the garage door, before tossing the remote off to the side somewhere. House follows her lead, shrugging off his jacket and then tugging her sweater up over her head. Though the air around them has the frigid chill of a fall evening, House is confident they can keep each other warm. He wonders if this is some kind of intervention on Cuddy's part, if she wants to keep sex out of her home for as long as possible, but what does he care?
He certainly cares a lot less when his rough kisses over her collarbone provoke a response that involves her fingers deftly undoing his belt. House groans against her shoulder, a simple skimming touch from her across the most interested part of his anatomy almost enough to undo him. Cuddy chuckles at the power she holds over him, and it's a deep and resonant sound in her chest. There was a time when House thought he'd never make her laugh again, and perhaps now he takes that ability for granted a little bit less.
“Didn’t take long to change your mind,” he pants. Cuddy shrugs as though this quick and dirty need between them has always been acknowledged, like finally acting on it isn’t a huge deal.
“I’m unpredictable that way,” she replies. The self-sabotage forms on House’s tongue but thankfully dies before he lets himself point out just how predictable she is. Sometimes his smugness turns her on, he knows, but it’s not a risk he’s prepared to take.
Cuddy's skirt is already riding up her thighs to allow her to sit on the bike at all, so shoving it up past her hips is just the logical next step. House likes logic, because it works even when his conscious brain doesn't seem to any more, when it's short-circuited by the slight bounce of Cuddy's breasts in that lacy black bra. Logic says why futz around with her panties when a sharp tug at the flimsy waistband makes them so easy to tear off? She smacks his chest at that, but leans back to allow him to finish the job anyway.
Throwing the scraps of lace on the floor, House wonders again about whether this is going to end with a painful and short trip for them both to the concrete floor. He reasons that with both his feet on the ground, the kickstand and the workbench next to him that he can lean on, they might just be okay. Unless Cuddy tries anything too fancy, but she seems to be in a very direct frame of mind.
In a concession to being a gentleman, he pulls off his t-shirt and bundles it on to the dashboard as an impromptu pillow. Cuddy takes the suggestion silently, smiling as she leans back further. Their breathing is harsh now in the quiet space, and it's not quite panting, but it's not far away.
She lifts an eyebrow at him as his hands skim absent-mindedly over her torso.
“What, exactly, are you waiting for?”
He takes a stab at being the responsible one, trying it on for size though it's never fit before.
"What, bed is too boring for you already? You're screwing a cripple, remember?"
The flutter of guilt is unmistakeable, and House curses himself for it. Cuddy is about to reconsider, he can practically see the words forming on her lips, so he shakes his head to correct the mistake.
"Well, if you insist--"
He undoes his jeans and rocks forward slightly as a statement of intent. It's not the most uncomfortable way of doing this, not really. Cuddy seems grateful for the reprieve, and mutters something about not waking Rachel. Maybe she's not ready for this to be real enough to happen under her own roof, in somewhere as permanent as her bedroom. Hell, Lucas probably still has his stuff scattered about the house; it's not like Cuddy's had time to throw it all in a moving crate for him yet.
Cuddy rocks her hips in response and House is reminded that thinking about the past is really, really stupid. She's wet enough that he can feel it through the thin cotton of his boxers, even from glancing contact, and the fact that she really does want him that much is still pretty mind-blowing. Putting his fingers to better use, House traces a path over each hipbone, provoking a hiss from Cuddy that confirms how sensitive the skin is there. He knows the science of it, but a body as hot as Cuddy's never fails to amaze him on some primeval level.
He's been halfway to hard since he first laid eyes on her tonight, and it doesn't take long to get all the way there as she shifts against him. Trying to hold out, trying to tease or play it cool is completely beyond him now, and the vulnerability should probably scare him more than it does. Although the fact remains that she has seen him at his worst, at his weakest, and she's still here regardless.
Not wanting to drag anything out, not when Cuddy is flushed and bright-eyed like this, he lets his index finger slide down between her folds.
"God, about time." She says, and he looks at her through suddenly heavy eyes.
"You really want to interfere right now?" It's cocky to assume she'll shut up and let him do whatever the hell he wants, but he's never been able to help his arrogance. Not even when he's wrong to call her bluff.
"If you don't shut up and fuck me, I'll do it myself."
Which... is not an unpleasant though. He's certainly fantasized about watching her get herself off, it's been a feature of his thoughts in the shower more often than he can count (and he can count pretty high, thank you very much). It jolts straight to his painfully erect dick though, and the challenge is very much accepted. Finesse is probably off the table with the setting, but he plunges two long fingers inside her and it doesn't seem to affect his style points. Cuddy breathes out heavily, the "yes" perfectly audible and he knows it won't take much to get her off.
Tonight, he wants to get there with her. He pulls the condom from his pocket, tearing the foil with his teeth. Rolling it on with his free hand, he increases the pace of his stroking fingers inside her, dragging his fingertips over and over the little ridges he already knows exactly where to find.
“You ready?” he asks, though the answer is obvious. “Fuck.”
It’s a simple statement of how incredible it feels to replace his fingers with his dick. He offers a silent vote of thanks to Dr. Alfred Kegel, because the way Cuddy’s squeezing around him is enough to make even a sane man lose his mind. In moments like this all her Type A, have-it-all superwoman antics really pay off, and he thinks she might just be perfect (including all her imperfections, of course).
They come close to toppling as he tries a few experimental thrusts, his undone jeans hampering the smoothness of his moves. Cuddy reaches out an instinctive hand for the workbench, and the precarious rocking stops. She places her other hand on his shoulder, a sign of faith that he’ll keep them both from falling.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers, and he doesn’t dare think about what that means.
With one hand, he uses the handlebars to steady them, and it gives him the little bit of leverage he was lacking. It takes the pressure off his bad leg, and he’s pumping in and out without any conscious rhythm as the first signs of orgasm come hurtling into view. Cuddy isn’t far behind, and with some careful circling of his thumb, it’s not long before she’s clenching around him.
It goes bright, and black and hazy all at once; he’s coming like he might never stop. He does, because he’s over fifty and only human, but for a moment he’d forgotten all of that. His reward is the glow on Cuddy’s skin, the lazy and predatory smile she turns on him, saying thanks for doing it right. Her nails have scraped across the skin of his shoulder, and it’s going to sting in the shower, in the good way.
They laugh softly, realizing how ridiculous they must look. Warning pangs shoot up House’s lower back, and he pulls out with some reluctance. Cuddy sighs, and it’s the best sound she’s made all night: pure satisfaction.
“I needed that,” she confesses, and House tries not to panic at the word ‘need’.
“Beats playing Boggle, that’s for damn sure.”
She groans, swatting at his chest as she pulls herself back into a sitting position. Cuddy moves a little gingerly as she gets off the bike, not quite looking at the temporary stain left on the strip of leather. Pulling her skirt down, she gathers up the discarded clothing without a word, and House is left to feel awkward. There’s some crumpled up paper in his pocket that he uses to dispose of the condom, at least for now, and he tucks himself back into his jeans, ready to be kicked out into the night. Cuddy is watching him when he looks back at her, something soft about her face.
“You’re staying, right?”
He wants to ask about all the reasons why he shouldn’t, point out that he probably doesn’t have a second round left in him, but she interrupts his excuses before he can make them.
“To sleep, I mean. Early start tomorrow.”
House accepts his jacket that she’s retrieved from the floor, adding it to the t-shirt he hasn’t put back on yet. Not sure what else to say, he shrugs in agreement.
He gets off the bike, which he now finds even cooler than he did when he first bought it, and lets her lead him by the hand into the main house. The plan is already forming to sneak out before sunrise, because arriving at the hospital together is probably a step too far even now.
If he’s not careful, he could get used to this. Last night's HuLi (if you missed it in the episode FLAIL): Land Mines, NC17
Pairing: House/Cuddy
Rating: M
Spoilers: up to and including 7.01 'Now What?'
Disclaimer: Not mine! No profit! All characters remain the property of David Shore et al.
Summary: Set between the Day Of Sex and the return to the hospital (not sure if I'm taking timeline liberties or not!) Just consider this a smutty interlude before 7.02
This is written for the lovely london_fan , in aid of help_pakistan . Many thanks to januarynineteen for giving it the once over :)
Last night's HuLi (if you missed it in the episode FLAIL): Land Mines, NC17
The patience, the restraint, lasts all of one day.
He lingers in his apartment, aimlessly surfing (though not for porn, not when he has something to save himself for) and playing computer games that he can't quite focus on. There's no threat to his high scores tonight, not while he's watching the clock tick past seven when Cuddy's Blackberry said she'd be home, without her family or blandly attractive nanny around. Tomorrow they rejoin the real world, back in the hospital where he has no intention of keeping secrets.
Shrugging on his leather jacket, House tries not to break into a limping run all the way to the street. His bike is cool in the early fall air, and he can feel the chill even through the thick denim of his jeans. Revving the engine is an outlet for the nagging impatience, just another part of his addictive programming. Replace one drug with another but some won't hurt him, not at first anyway.
He restrains himself from smashing the speed limit (too much) and doesn't run any reds because getting pulled over by a cop is not the way this night needs to end. It's a hangover from the days of Tritter's one-man vendetta, or maybe it's a little responsibility at last. House isn't particularly impressed with either conclusion, his own thoughts seeming louder inside the shell provided by the helmet, and not for the first time he wishes his brain came with a mute function.
Maybe he's getting predictable in his old age, because he doesn't get a chance to kick out the stand before Cuddy is jogging across the immaculate lawn towards him. That she expected him is pretty cool, he hopes, anyway. Panic rises in his throat, the acidic worry he hasn't felt since asking Cathy Lawrence to junior prom, but the rejection he fears isn't forthcoming. He's resting the helmet on the handlebars, ready to turn the key when she stops smiling long enough to speak.
"I, uh, don't think you should park out here."
She's skittish, the newness of this still palpable between them. He knows from experience how easy it would be to crush it, like catching a moth in his fist and squeezing. What's surprising, and not a little scary, is that he doesn't want to. So instead of the belligerent refusal that comes as naturally as breathing, he asks why.
"The neighbors. It's just, until recently, Lucas has been parked out here a lot. And I don't want them to think--"
"--that you've turned pro?"
House waggles his eyebrows a little, extra careful to make sure that the joke lands. He's relieved when Cuddy relaxes into a little grin, smacking him on the arm in a way that might even be playful.
"If I open the garage, will you park in there, please?"
If it's a test, he has no intention of failing, so he shrugs in agreement. For a moment, he'd wondered whether she'd make him park around the block and walk back, but thankfully Cuddy worries more about his bum leg than he does.
The garage door slides up with barely a noise, the kind of sleek efficiency that Cuddy insists on surrounding herself with. She's waiting inside, remote in her hand, stunning even in the weak light of the energy saving bulb that isn't really enough to illuminate the space. Her Lexus sits silently to one side, and it never struck him as weird before that Cuddy's always been living in places much too big for one person for almost as long as he's known her. She's future and planning and optimism, while he's present and chaos and enough negativity to power the Eastern seaboard.
It occurs to him again that this can't possibly work, and then he lets himself drink in the sight of her in that low-cut top and his arguments seem a little less valid.
He could wheel the bike in, if he felt like it, but he guns the engine and drives it up the sweeping blank space that comprises the driveway. Cuddy doesn't flinch when he stops barely a foot in front of her, kicking the stand out and hanging the helmet on a handle as he prepares to slide off onto solid ground.
House stops in his tracks when Cuddy steps forward, placing a hand on the now-silent engine block and there's a thoughtful expression on her face that usually drives him crazy. Whether in the good or bad way is down to what she's actually thinking about, and for the sake of his newly reawakened libido, he hopes it's not going to be a lecture on how dangerous a bike can be.
"I've never understood the appeal of these things. What's wrong with a nice convertible?"
The door into the kitchen is open, spilling out warm light and the promise of Cuddy’s bedroom beyond. The crackle of the baby monitor, just radio static, can be heard from where the ever-vigilant Cuddy has no doubt left it on the counter. He can’t quite get used to the idea of her kid as a permanent fixture, though House supposes that if they do keep stumbling along, it’s another adjustment he’ll have to make.
“You made me give that back to the mobsters, remember?”
There’s a half-smile at the memory, tempered by the frown of remembering all that came with it: Vogler, sacrifice and another round of public humiliation for defending House. For dating him now, House isn’t entirely sure that Cuddy isn’t the one who needs an all-expenses-paid trip to Mayfield.
"Still, I don't get the fascination."
Cuddy's still running her hand over the warmed metal as she says it, and House sighs in exasperation.
"Of course you don't get it. C'mere."
He's feeling stronger since the crash site, despite the dull roar in his lower back and his thigh, because he's been able to prove to himself that there's still so much he can do. Because nobody cut off his leg, and he didn't die from complications, and maybe, just maybe, the two women he blamed did save his life after all. That any of it might have been worth saving is still a new concept to him, fragile in the weak light of possibility, of euphoria that doesn't come from a prescription pad.
So House grabs Cuddy by those child-bearing hips that won't bear children. She's tiny under his huge hands, years of self-denial and crushing workouts keeping her already slender frame to its absolute minimum. He lifts her bodily off the smooth concrete of the garage floor, dumping her unceremoniously in front of him on the seat, leaving her sitting side-saddle and flustered.
"House!"
Not the waspish tones that follow him down hospital corridors, but warm and teasing like she sounded in bed. She isn't really annoyed, and for all the genuine outrage he's provoked over the years, it's one area in which he can truly tell the difference. House presses a swift kiss to the top of her head as she leans slightly towards him, the smooth strands of her hair snagging momentarily on his stubble. She smells of shampoo and the other girl stuff that litters her bedroom and bathroom like an alchemist's lab. Not overwhelmingly, because it's the end of the day and Cuddy never does anything to excess. It will all have been perfectly measured and blended, as though she's back in Chemistry labs and measuring in pipettes and test tubes with the utmost precision.
Her hands grasp the collar of his jacket, and for a moment he worries that she might want to throttle him after all. House knows he's deliciously off-balance, with defences down and that sickening kind of distraction that makes him sing under his breath without realizing. But his initial suspicions are proved correct when Cuddy draws him into a searing kiss.
And hey, if that gets his own personal motor running, who is House to object?
The urgency is still there; the mutual belief that any minute now one of them will say or do something to cause a spectacular implosion is as present as the lust. It might even be what gets them going in the first place, but House is already too turned on to care about the why. Hot chick making out with him and the promise of more is plenty of reason why, after all.
“Not here--“
She begins, but Cuddy pulls her knees up to her chest, turning both to face him and then straddle the bike in the process. House shifts back a bit, voluntarily riding bitch for the first and last time. Well, it's not like he plans on going anywhere just yet, so the concession doesn't cost him anything and it gives him plenty of space to get his hands on his two favourite parts of Cuddy.
“Nothing wrong with right here,” House can feel the smirk pulling on his lips as he talks. It isn’t even intentional most of the time.
For her part, she has the presence of mind to hit the button to close the garage door, before tossing the remote off to the side somewhere. House follows her lead, shrugging off his jacket and then tugging her sweater up over her head. Though the air around them has the frigid chill of a fall evening, House is confident they can keep each other warm. He wonders if this is some kind of intervention on Cuddy's part, if she wants to keep sex out of her home for as long as possible, but what does he care?
He certainly cares a lot less when his rough kisses over her collarbone provoke a response that involves her fingers deftly undoing his belt. House groans against her shoulder, a simple skimming touch from her across the most interested part of his anatomy almost enough to undo him. Cuddy chuckles at the power she holds over him, and it's a deep and resonant sound in her chest. There was a time when House thought he'd never make her laugh again, and perhaps now he takes that ability for granted a little bit less.
“Didn’t take long to change your mind,” he pants. Cuddy shrugs as though this quick and dirty need between them has always been acknowledged, like finally acting on it isn’t a huge deal.
“I’m unpredictable that way,” she replies. The self-sabotage forms on House’s tongue but thankfully dies before he lets himself point out just how predictable she is. Sometimes his smugness turns her on, he knows, but it’s not a risk he’s prepared to take.
Cuddy's skirt is already riding up her thighs to allow her to sit on the bike at all, so shoving it up past her hips is just the logical next step. House likes logic, because it works even when his conscious brain doesn't seem to any more, when it's short-circuited by the slight bounce of Cuddy's breasts in that lacy black bra. Logic says why futz around with her panties when a sharp tug at the flimsy waistband makes them so easy to tear off? She smacks his chest at that, but leans back to allow him to finish the job anyway.
Throwing the scraps of lace on the floor, House wonders again about whether this is going to end with a painful and short trip for them both to the concrete floor. He reasons that with both his feet on the ground, the kickstand and the workbench next to him that he can lean on, they might just be okay. Unless Cuddy tries anything too fancy, but she seems to be in a very direct frame of mind.
In a concession to being a gentleman, he pulls off his t-shirt and bundles it on to the dashboard as an impromptu pillow. Cuddy takes the suggestion silently, smiling as she leans back further. Their breathing is harsh now in the quiet space, and it's not quite panting, but it's not far away.
She lifts an eyebrow at him as his hands skim absent-mindedly over her torso.
“What, exactly, are you waiting for?”
He takes a stab at being the responsible one, trying it on for size though it's never fit before.
"What, bed is too boring for you already? You're screwing a cripple, remember?"
The flutter of guilt is unmistakeable, and House curses himself for it. Cuddy is about to reconsider, he can practically see the words forming on her lips, so he shakes his head to correct the mistake.
"Well, if you insist--"
He undoes his jeans and rocks forward slightly as a statement of intent. It's not the most uncomfortable way of doing this, not really. Cuddy seems grateful for the reprieve, and mutters something about not waking Rachel. Maybe she's not ready for this to be real enough to happen under her own roof, in somewhere as permanent as her bedroom. Hell, Lucas probably still has his stuff scattered about the house; it's not like Cuddy's had time to throw it all in a moving crate for him yet.
Cuddy rocks her hips in response and House is reminded that thinking about the past is really, really stupid. She's wet enough that he can feel it through the thin cotton of his boxers, even from glancing contact, and the fact that she really does want him that much is still pretty mind-blowing. Putting his fingers to better use, House traces a path over each hipbone, provoking a hiss from Cuddy that confirms how sensitive the skin is there. He knows the science of it, but a body as hot as Cuddy's never fails to amaze him on some primeval level.
He's been halfway to hard since he first laid eyes on her tonight, and it doesn't take long to get all the way there as she shifts against him. Trying to hold out, trying to tease or play it cool is completely beyond him now, and the vulnerability should probably scare him more than it does. Although the fact remains that she has seen him at his worst, at his weakest, and she's still here regardless.
Not wanting to drag anything out, not when Cuddy is flushed and bright-eyed like this, he lets his index finger slide down between her folds.
"God, about time." She says, and he looks at her through suddenly heavy eyes.
"You really want to interfere right now?" It's cocky to assume she'll shut up and let him do whatever the hell he wants, but he's never been able to help his arrogance. Not even when he's wrong to call her bluff.
"If you don't shut up and fuck me, I'll do it myself."
Which... is not an unpleasant though. He's certainly fantasized about watching her get herself off, it's been a feature of his thoughts in the shower more often than he can count (and he can count pretty high, thank you very much). It jolts straight to his painfully erect dick though, and the challenge is very much accepted. Finesse is probably off the table with the setting, but he plunges two long fingers inside her and it doesn't seem to affect his style points. Cuddy breathes out heavily, the "yes" perfectly audible and he knows it won't take much to get her off.
Tonight, he wants to get there with her. He pulls the condom from his pocket, tearing the foil with his teeth. Rolling it on with his free hand, he increases the pace of his stroking fingers inside her, dragging his fingertips over and over the little ridges he already knows exactly where to find.
“You ready?” he asks, though the answer is obvious. “Fuck.”
It’s a simple statement of how incredible it feels to replace his fingers with his dick. He offers a silent vote of thanks to Dr. Alfred Kegel, because the way Cuddy’s squeezing around him is enough to make even a sane man lose his mind. In moments like this all her Type A, have-it-all superwoman antics really pay off, and he thinks she might just be perfect (including all her imperfections, of course).
They come close to toppling as he tries a few experimental thrusts, his undone jeans hampering the smoothness of his moves. Cuddy reaches out an instinctive hand for the workbench, and the precarious rocking stops. She places her other hand on his shoulder, a sign of faith that he’ll keep them both from falling.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers, and he doesn’t dare think about what that means.
With one hand, he uses the handlebars to steady them, and it gives him the little bit of leverage he was lacking. It takes the pressure off his bad leg, and he’s pumping in and out without any conscious rhythm as the first signs of orgasm come hurtling into view. Cuddy isn’t far behind, and with some careful circling of his thumb, it’s not long before she’s clenching around him.
It goes bright, and black and hazy all at once; he’s coming like he might never stop. He does, because he’s over fifty and only human, but for a moment he’d forgotten all of that. His reward is the glow on Cuddy’s skin, the lazy and predatory smile she turns on him, saying thanks for doing it right. Her nails have scraped across the skin of his shoulder, and it’s going to sting in the shower, in the good way.
They laugh softly, realizing how ridiculous they must look. Warning pangs shoot up House’s lower back, and he pulls out with some reluctance. Cuddy sighs, and it’s the best sound she’s made all night: pure satisfaction.
“I needed that,” she confesses, and House tries not to panic at the word ‘need’.
“Beats playing Boggle, that’s for damn sure.”
She groans, swatting at his chest as she pulls herself back into a sitting position. Cuddy moves a little gingerly as she gets off the bike, not quite looking at the temporary stain left on the strip of leather. Pulling her skirt down, she gathers up the discarded clothing without a word, and House is left to feel awkward. There’s some crumpled up paper in his pocket that he uses to dispose of the condom, at least for now, and he tucks himself back into his jeans, ready to be kicked out into the night. Cuddy is watching him when he looks back at her, something soft about her face.
“You’re staying, right?”
He wants to ask about all the reasons why he shouldn’t, point out that he probably doesn’t have a second round left in him, but she interrupts his excuses before he can make them.
“To sleep, I mean. Early start tomorrow.”
House accepts his jacket that she’s retrieved from the floor, adding it to the t-shirt he hasn’t put back on yet. Not sure what else to say, he shrugs in agreement.
He gets off the bike, which he now finds even cooler than he did when he first bought it, and lets her lead him by the hand into the main house. The plan is already forming to sneak out before sunrise, because arriving at the hospital together is probably a step too far even now.
If he’s not careful, he could get used to this. Last night's HuLi (if you missed it in the episode FLAIL): Land Mines, NC17