Fanfiction: It's Kink But You Don't Ever Tell Her
Five Ways You Never Slept With Gregory House (Part Four): It's Kink But You Don't Ever Tell Her
Summary: You had never realized how the belt and straps that hold up your stockings could feel like some kind of light bondage gear when you've got House looming behind you. You are tethered to your own clothing, but you might as well be tied to House, the way you're feeling: caught, all breathless anticipation and lace.
Timeline: between WYD? and No Reason, pregnancy arc
A/N: Happy Smut Tuesday, my lovelies! You get more pregnancy arc fic, as angelfirenze requested sexy underwear and this was the best way I could work it in. Enjoy! Maybe this will help ease the ache of hiatus. Title is from the song "Pink" by whoever it is, because that line caught my ear when I was watching lissie_pissie's video.
Disclaimer: House M.D. and all related characters are property of Heel and Toe Films, Shore Z Productions and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with NBC Universal Television Studio. I make no money from writing this and no infringement is intended, just deep admiration and a need to fill in some blanks.
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You fidget in the car, planning your day of seeing patients and doing the paperwork that means your hospital will run smoothly a little while longer, trying not to think about the injections. It's not the needle prick that has you spooked, although you do have a nice sore spot on your ass that has you shifting in your chair at board meetings. No, what's got you worried is House, who is being entirely reasonable about the injections and hasn't said a word about Mozart guy in days. You're due for a lecture accompanied by the subtle caress of the alcohol pad (even from that you can tell his hands are amazing) and that would probably be okay if you hadn't ripped your pantyhose this morning. You were in a hurry, you've had to wear a lot of skirts lately because of the injections, you tore a magnificent run in your last pair of clean hose, toes to knee. It's a law of the universe, you suspect, that a woman's need for hosiery is inversely proportional to how many clean stockings she has left.
Desperate times, desperate measures: you rolled on your thigh-highs and fished for the ridiculous bit of lace that passes for a garter belt. It's not as if you haven't worn the stockings with garters to work before. You do it at least every couple of weeks, or when it looks like House is going to be particularly difficult. The feel of lace against your upper thighs is somehow a boost to your confidence and knowing that you look incredible under your clothes gives you an edge when you're arguing with House. On the other hand, now he has a reason to be under your clothes, and the protocol is for twice daily injections, so even running to the store won't help because you've got a board meeting that you're probably going to be late for and then he'll be lounging against your desk with the needle, making mad science look unfortunately sexy. No chance to hit up the lingerie section of Target or grab the extra clothes from your office closet.
You wish you'd just gone bare-legged to work and screw professionalism, but it was difficult enough to convince the world that women are good Dean material, and you'd rather not give anyone ammunition to use against you. Vexed, you wrench your car into the parking lot and click off to the meeting, trying to work up a buffer of indignation against seeing House. It doesn't work: all through the meeting you keep imagining the look on his face when you lift your skirt over lingerie worthy of a can-can girl. The pattern of the lace stretched over your skin and the tension of the garters distract you. Fortunately, it's not a particularly important meeting, but you're still furious with yourself when you leave for letting your personal life interfere with your hospital. House has always been able to do this to you; he draws you away from your responsiblities, and you hate that about yourself, but he manages to fix things too, so you've all survived with your jobs intact. You smile at the others, but your mouth feels too tight and you almost stomp as you head for your office, brushing off Wilson's concern because Wilson forgives and you don't have the time to deal with him.
All the blinds of your office are drawn when you get there, and you scowl. House has kept your secret, but he's also kept his sense of drama. The nurses will have watched him cover all the windows as he waits in your office alone. You hope they chalk it up to House being House, all subversive mystery, instead of imagining that the two of you are having some wild secret affair, which you suppose is closer to the truth but not close enough to be any comfort. With House it's always damned if you do, damned if you don't, and some days you think you might as well do, but you haven't yet.
You compose yourself in the foyer, glad for the moment that you've lost yet another assistant, and open your office door with an affected nonchalance. He is sitting in your chair facing the windows like some evil genius in a movie. You roll your eyes at his adolescent sense of drama.
"I could smell you coming, Clarice," he says.
"You can't mix Bond villains and Silence of the Lambs," you snap. "Can we get this over with?"
"Bad morning?" He swivels the chair around and looks you over deliberately. You glare at him and try not to blush. By now you should be immune to his flirting, but he still manages to flummox you with the way he doesn't even pretend not to be undressing you with his eyes. He gets up and limps around your desk, examining your breasts as he approaches. "Bend over."
You do, your nostrils flaring in annoyance as you lift your skirt carefully to your hip, trying not to wrinkle it. You can almost feel his eyes traveling up your calf, your thigh, and then he half-whistles, quiet and appreciative. At least his estimation of your clothing doesn't seem to have included undergarments quite this scandalous, and that gives you a brief sense of satisfaction. But he doesn't touch you with the swab for several long minutes, and you wait gripping the edge of the desk with one hand and hiking your skirt with the other while he stares at you. You're getting more and more angry and then more and more turned on by his complete distraction, because the longer he stands silent behind you, the more the air begins to crackle. He touches the tip of one finger to your ass, running his nail under the garter to move it a bit, and you shiver. His hands are warm.
You expect a joke, something like "It isn't my birthday" or a quip about Doctor Partypants, because he's never let you forget anything you did in college, but he says nothing. House the professional, except that he's been staring at your ass for what feels like ages, and you can feel the warmth of his body as he leans closer. Finally you hear the rip of the sterile packet and then he's rubbing the swab over your skin, taking his time about it. The edges of the little swab graze the edges of the garters and you shiver again. The alcohol is cold and his fingertips are hot through the cloth and the movement tickles. You had never realized how the belt and straps that hold up your stockings could feel like some kind of light bondage gear when you've got House looming behind you. You are tethered to your own clothing, but you might as well be tied to House, the way you're feeling: caught, all breathless anticipation and lace.
The prick of the needle is swift and you gasp, not expecting it, which you suspect pleases House. He presses his thumb to the mark afterwards and you can feel the pulse between your legs. You're suddenly aware of the space between your thighs, the way you're braced against the injection. He drags his thumb over the curve of your ass, tracing the gluteal muscle, and slides his finger under the garter again, moving it back into place. But his finger lingers, moving underneath the slender strap, up to the edge of the belt around your hips and then back down to the lacy top of the stocking. You'd forgotten that the backs of your thighs are ticklish, but it's all you can do not to squirm and arch against his fingers. Your knuckles are turning pale from the force of your grip, but you fight your desire. Gregory House accepts only unconditional surrender and you have things to do.
"House," you say, trying for stern and coming up with something much closer to pleading. His fingers dip inside your stocking, his palm a little rough against the inside of your thigh. The heel of his hand is against the lace of your underwear - you were pleased that if you had to wear the garter belt, at least you matched all over. You can't stop yourself from moving a little against his hand, just brushing his wrist, and you bite your lip to keep from moaning. He pulls his hand slowly out of your stocking and then lifts the other side of your skirt and runs both palms down the outsides of your thighs under the garters.
"Please," you say, and stop is supposed to come next but you end up swallowing the extra syllable because it doesn't seem that important. He is going to stretch your stockings but you've stopped caring because his hands are on the fronts of your thighs, moving up, and he snaps a garter against your skin with one thumb and the slight pain is almost pleasurable.
"I thought this was supposed to be my favor to you," he says, and you're so glad to hear him say something, and so startled that you step back and accidentally grind your ass into his groin. "Lacy underwear - what are you trying to talk me into this time?"
"Just trying to keep you interested," you manage, but it feels like your brain is only working at half speed. He's hard against you and it feels good. You want him. You want him to want you and he does and it's so gratifying that all this seduction wasn't just for show. He wants you to only have thighs for him. He holds you against him, his big hands on your thighs pressing you back, and he frees one hand and pushes it up under your shirt to cup your breast.
"Cuddy," he says in a new sexy voice you didn't know he possessed, and you want to say yes yes yes. The hand on your thigh has moved: his fingers are exploring your panties and the apparently fascinating surfaces underneath, given the attention he's paying them, and you are well and truly seduced. When he pushes two fingers into you slowly and deliberately, you gasp again. You're not sure if he's trying to play The Who between your legs or not, but you're about to sing from how good it feels. He's thrusting gently against your ass, his fingers probing inside you, his palm over your breast. The hormone injections have kicked your libido into overdrive as it is: you didn't need much encouragement and House is, God, you can't remember a time you didn't want to fuck him. When you're happy, you want him in your bed. When you're angry, you want him up against a wall. He owes you atonement for a thousand crimes. You would gladly have him pay in kisses, the lingering kind that would require him to devote intense attention to very specific areas of your body. You know he has the capacity for laser-precision focus over a long span of time if you can only get him interested.
He's interested now.
You can tell because he's kissing the back of your neck and using his teeth, nibbling at your shoulder where the open collar of your shirt leaves the skin bare. He's almost fierce about it and you're glad to urge him on, rolling your hips into his palm and against his thighs. His thumb rubs over your nipple. His fingers are still pushing inside you, your pleasure so sharp it's nearly metallic, but you want more.
"House," you say helplessly, and he understands as if you worked out this code years in advance; he makes a thousand different interpretations of the way you say his name. He turns you around, holding you as close as possible.
"Much as I liked that view," he says conversationally, as if he's not pushing your panties down your thighs, "this one's better." He pushes you up on to the desk so you're sitting on the edge and slides his way down your body, undoing your shirt buttons as he goes and kissing a line of heat down your stomach. He's face to face with your garters as he unsnaps them to pull your panties down and then does them up again carefully, nuzzling at the insides of your thighs as he works on your clothing, pulling at the edges of things with his teeth and his nimble fingers.
"Christ, Cuddy, I'm never going to be able to sit through a meeting again knowing you might be wearing something like this underneath all those suits." His fingers dance from your ankles to your ass and little whimpers are coming from your throat against your will. He pushes your skirt up, his lips browsing over the crease of your thigh, and your whole body is tingling. Your toes curl in your shoes. The prickle of his stubble is maddening in the best way and you shift against his cheeks and chin, hands on the edge of the desk again even paler than before. He slides one hand up and down the back of your thigh and teases your curls with the other, pressing a long and thorough kiss to your clit so that you sigh and push one hand into his hair. You shouldn't be doing this here and you shouldn't be doing it with him of all people, but you've fought against it for too long to care anymore.
You drag him up with one hand under his chin, and he nips at your stomach and breasts as he passes. Then you're kissing him with all the morning's fury and twenty years of pent-up sexual tension. His tongue plunders your mouth. If you had any secrets from him before, you don't now. That was always a problem. House knows you. You've probably never had a secret from him.
"You're overanalyzing," he says, drawing back for a long breath. You reach for the button on his pants.
"Make me stop thinking," you challenge, pulling down his zipper and pushing his jeans and his boxers off his hips.
"This is what they mean by job satisfaction," he tells you, pulling you close but not quite close enough. You arch your back, trying to push your hips into his, but he holds you off and you only succeed in exposing your breasts to him. He bends you back and devotes his attention to teasing your nipples to an almost painful hardness. "More demands for sex. Fewer clinic hours."
"I am not demanding sex," you hiss. "This is mutual. This is not some favor. I don't need you." Your hips betray you, canting towards him; you want him so much that the space between your hip bones aches. You curl your toes so that your shoes clatter to the carpet and you run your toes up his leg, reaching out to take him in your hand, and he lets you stroke him, his eyes half-shut. "I don't need you and you don't need me. I could kick you out any time."
"I bet I could make you beg," he says, patented House-brand smug, and you're so mad that he's always right. You keep touching him, running your fingers over him, trying to justify the way he's touching you by touching him back, but you're distracted by the rattle of pleasure through your body and you lose your grip on him. He breathes across your breasts and slips one hand between your legs to graze your curls, tracing a spiral pattern. "Just because it's mutual doesn't mean you don't need me." The pressure of his fingertips increases, the caress nearly rough, and then lightens to almost nothing. His thighs are pressed to yours and he shifts so that your garters rub against the sensitive spots on your hipbones. Your mind won't form sentences anymore. "Say it, Lisa," he insists. You whimper as he scrapes one cheek gently over the tops of your breasts and then looks into your eyes. "Tell me. Cuddy, tell me you need me too."
You think there's something to remark on there, but you can't quite process it. He strokes his thumb across your clit. You just want to give him what he wants, though you're not sure when this got so serious, because his eyes say that this isn't just a power trip: he needs to hear that you need him, and the heat of his mouth hovering over your breasts is a good incentive to tell him what he already knows. He always knows.
"Need you," you get out, breathing between the movements of his fingers because your body stops functioning properly when he's touching you. "House. Greg."
"You haven't called me that in a long time," he says, and kisses you, pulling you against him. You push one hand between your bodies as you lean into his mouth and you guide him so that he slips right in. It hurts a little at first: you haven't had sex in a long time. But then you stretch to accomodate him the way you always have when it wasn't sexual and everything fits and it's so goddamn right that you want to shout about it. You're half off the desk, braced against it but sliding against him, and he moves and keeps kissing you and he's fucking you in your office and you hadn't known you wanted that but you know now. Oh, the things you know now, like the way he hums in his throat as he kisses you, and the way his ass tenses as you grab him and pull his hips into yours, and the way his busy hands play over your breasts even though you were sure there wasn't that much room between the two of you. Twenty years of teasing and three minutes of sex and you're tipping over the edge, your head rolling as your back arches so that he kisses your throat instead of your mouth. The medical details of orgasm - neurotransmitters, pleasure centers, muscle spasms - flash through your mind and go up in smoke, because there's nothing in any textbook to explain how he feels inside you, how you feel against him.
"Greeeg," you say on a rising note, trying to be quiet about it because the nurses' station is really so close, and he thrusts into you hard, cradling your head with one hand as he brings his mouth to yours. The clever fingertips of his other hand are busy finding what feels like an ember between your legs.
"Let go, Lise," he says with his mouth so close to yours that you feel the words more than hear them.
And you do. Your body is a short fuse catching on a long flame. You are a roman candle, seventeen separate explosions at once, your office filled with sparks of different colors. He moans and shivers into you, against you, and you hope that he sees the purple flare and the bright gold in the dim light of your shuttered office the same way that you see them.
He sighs against your throat. You kiss his forehead. "You need me," you tell him, and he shrugs but doesn't deny it. "Who else can stand you?" you ask, facetious: he is loved beyond what he suspects or accepts.
"Only crazy people," he murmurs against the underside of your jaw. "And hard-up hospital administrators with control issues and baby envy. I will never understand why a babe like you isn't getting banged on a regular basis. You've got the accessories for it." He runs a hand under your garters and kisses your breasts. "These and those."
"Go do your job," you say. You are smiling, triumphant, sweet and lazy with afterglow. He pulls away slowly, reluctantly. He limps into your bathroom and you hear the sound of water running. You reach for a tissue and wipe the moisture from your thighs, your knees still shaking. You should find your shoes. You should find your underwear. House is still in the vicinity and his presence skews your priorities; what you want to do is curl up on your couch for half an hour or so against the length of his body, or better yet, the two of you in his yellow chair. You wonder when he last had sex. Probably with Stacy, according to the the last bit of girly gossip you heard from her or Wilson, though House jokes about his hookers. You imagine that this was more fun and less trouble than either married women or hired ones.
"You know," he says, limping back out into your office with his clothes arranged again, "the protocol calls for twice daily injections." He emphasizes "injections" with a salacious twist to the word and a gleam in his eyes.
"Don't even make that joke," you say. "Or else this will never be a repeated experience. It shouldn't be anyway."
"Come on, Cuddy," he coaxes. "You want sperm. You have access to my medical records - nice clean genes, smarts, decent hair. I want to see your underwear again and I like the way you squeak when I grab your ass." He picks up your panties and dangles them in front of you until you take them. "Plus I've seen the way that you look at my chair."
"Go do your job," you repeat, but the impact of your command is probably lessened by the fact that you hook your foot behind his thigh and drag him close for a long fierce kiss. He leans in, pressing you back against the desk, and reaches behind you for his cane.
"I will see you later," he promises. There is a whole world of conversations you'll never have in the way he tips his head and looks at you for a moment and then smiles and leaves. You go into the bathroom and dress yourself, smiling when you see your flushed face in the mirror, smoothing down your hair. Then you go to your desk to start the good work of making people healthy, and you're humming as you review the schedules. It is an unusual, often difficult life you've chosen, but for the moment, you are utterly satisfied to be this very woman, living this way.
Summary: You had never realized how the belt and straps that hold up your stockings could feel like some kind of light bondage gear when you've got House looming behind you. You are tethered to your own clothing, but you might as well be tied to House, the way you're feeling: caught, all breathless anticipation and lace.
Timeline: between WYD? and No Reason, pregnancy arc
A/N: Happy Smut Tuesday, my lovelies! You get more pregnancy arc fic, as angelfirenze requested sexy underwear and this was the best way I could work it in. Enjoy! Maybe this will help ease the ache of hiatus. Title is from the song "Pink" by whoever it is, because that line caught my ear when I was watching lissie_pissie's video.
Disclaimer: House M.D. and all related characters are property of Heel and Toe Films, Shore Z Productions and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with NBC Universal Television Studio. I make no money from writing this and no infringement is intended, just deep admiration and a need to fill in some blanks.
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You fidget in the car, planning your day of seeing patients and doing the paperwork that means your hospital will run smoothly a little while longer, trying not to think about the injections. It's not the needle prick that has you spooked, although you do have a nice sore spot on your ass that has you shifting in your chair at board meetings. No, what's got you worried is House, who is being entirely reasonable about the injections and hasn't said a word about Mozart guy in days. You're due for a lecture accompanied by the subtle caress of the alcohol pad (even from that you can tell his hands are amazing) and that would probably be okay if you hadn't ripped your pantyhose this morning. You were in a hurry, you've had to wear a lot of skirts lately because of the injections, you tore a magnificent run in your last pair of clean hose, toes to knee. It's a law of the universe, you suspect, that a woman's need for hosiery is inversely proportional to how many clean stockings she has left.
Desperate times, desperate measures: you rolled on your thigh-highs and fished for the ridiculous bit of lace that passes for a garter belt. It's not as if you haven't worn the stockings with garters to work before. You do it at least every couple of weeks, or when it looks like House is going to be particularly difficult. The feel of lace against your upper thighs is somehow a boost to your confidence and knowing that you look incredible under your clothes gives you an edge when you're arguing with House. On the other hand, now he has a reason to be under your clothes, and the protocol is for twice daily injections, so even running to the store won't help because you've got a board meeting that you're probably going to be late for and then he'll be lounging against your desk with the needle, making mad science look unfortunately sexy. No chance to hit up the lingerie section of Target or grab the extra clothes from your office closet.
You wish you'd just gone bare-legged to work and screw professionalism, but it was difficult enough to convince the world that women are good Dean material, and you'd rather not give anyone ammunition to use against you. Vexed, you wrench your car into the parking lot and click off to the meeting, trying to work up a buffer of indignation against seeing House. It doesn't work: all through the meeting you keep imagining the look on his face when you lift your skirt over lingerie worthy of a can-can girl. The pattern of the lace stretched over your skin and the tension of the garters distract you. Fortunately, it's not a particularly important meeting, but you're still furious with yourself when you leave for letting your personal life interfere with your hospital. House has always been able to do this to you; he draws you away from your responsiblities, and you hate that about yourself, but he manages to fix things too, so you've all survived with your jobs intact. You smile at the others, but your mouth feels too tight and you almost stomp as you head for your office, brushing off Wilson's concern because Wilson forgives and you don't have the time to deal with him.
All the blinds of your office are drawn when you get there, and you scowl. House has kept your secret, but he's also kept his sense of drama. The nurses will have watched him cover all the windows as he waits in your office alone. You hope they chalk it up to House being House, all subversive mystery, instead of imagining that the two of you are having some wild secret affair, which you suppose is closer to the truth but not close enough to be any comfort. With House it's always damned if you do, damned if you don't, and some days you think you might as well do, but you haven't yet.
You compose yourself in the foyer, glad for the moment that you've lost yet another assistant, and open your office door with an affected nonchalance. He is sitting in your chair facing the windows like some evil genius in a movie. You roll your eyes at his adolescent sense of drama.
"I could smell you coming, Clarice," he says.
"You can't mix Bond villains and Silence of the Lambs," you snap. "Can we get this over with?"
"Bad morning?" He swivels the chair around and looks you over deliberately. You glare at him and try not to blush. By now you should be immune to his flirting, but he still manages to flummox you with the way he doesn't even pretend not to be undressing you with his eyes. He gets up and limps around your desk, examining your breasts as he approaches. "Bend over."
You do, your nostrils flaring in annoyance as you lift your skirt carefully to your hip, trying not to wrinkle it. You can almost feel his eyes traveling up your calf, your thigh, and then he half-whistles, quiet and appreciative. At least his estimation of your clothing doesn't seem to have included undergarments quite this scandalous, and that gives you a brief sense of satisfaction. But he doesn't touch you with the swab for several long minutes, and you wait gripping the edge of the desk with one hand and hiking your skirt with the other while he stares at you. You're getting more and more angry and then more and more turned on by his complete distraction, because the longer he stands silent behind you, the more the air begins to crackle. He touches the tip of one finger to your ass, running his nail under the garter to move it a bit, and you shiver. His hands are warm.
You expect a joke, something like "It isn't my birthday" or a quip about Doctor Partypants, because he's never let you forget anything you did in college, but he says nothing. House the professional, except that he's been staring at your ass for what feels like ages, and you can feel the warmth of his body as he leans closer. Finally you hear the rip of the sterile packet and then he's rubbing the swab over your skin, taking his time about it. The edges of the little swab graze the edges of the garters and you shiver again. The alcohol is cold and his fingertips are hot through the cloth and the movement tickles. You had never realized how the belt and straps that hold up your stockings could feel like some kind of light bondage gear when you've got House looming behind you. You are tethered to your own clothing, but you might as well be tied to House, the way you're feeling: caught, all breathless anticipation and lace.
The prick of the needle is swift and you gasp, not expecting it, which you suspect pleases House. He presses his thumb to the mark afterwards and you can feel the pulse between your legs. You're suddenly aware of the space between your thighs, the way you're braced against the injection. He drags his thumb over the curve of your ass, tracing the gluteal muscle, and slides his finger under the garter again, moving it back into place. But his finger lingers, moving underneath the slender strap, up to the edge of the belt around your hips and then back down to the lacy top of the stocking. You'd forgotten that the backs of your thighs are ticklish, but it's all you can do not to squirm and arch against his fingers. Your knuckles are turning pale from the force of your grip, but you fight your desire. Gregory House accepts only unconditional surrender and you have things to do.
"House," you say, trying for stern and coming up with something much closer to pleading. His fingers dip inside your stocking, his palm a little rough against the inside of your thigh. The heel of his hand is against the lace of your underwear - you were pleased that if you had to wear the garter belt, at least you matched all over. You can't stop yourself from moving a little against his hand, just brushing his wrist, and you bite your lip to keep from moaning. He pulls his hand slowly out of your stocking and then lifts the other side of your skirt and runs both palms down the outsides of your thighs under the garters.
"Please," you say, and stop is supposed to come next but you end up swallowing the extra syllable because it doesn't seem that important. He is going to stretch your stockings but you've stopped caring because his hands are on the fronts of your thighs, moving up, and he snaps a garter against your skin with one thumb and the slight pain is almost pleasurable.
"I thought this was supposed to be my favor to you," he says, and you're so glad to hear him say something, and so startled that you step back and accidentally grind your ass into his groin. "Lacy underwear - what are you trying to talk me into this time?"
"Just trying to keep you interested," you manage, but it feels like your brain is only working at half speed. He's hard against you and it feels good. You want him. You want him to want you and he does and it's so gratifying that all this seduction wasn't just for show. He wants you to only have thighs for him. He holds you against him, his big hands on your thighs pressing you back, and he frees one hand and pushes it up under your shirt to cup your breast.
"Cuddy," he says in a new sexy voice you didn't know he possessed, and you want to say yes yes yes. The hand on your thigh has moved: his fingers are exploring your panties and the apparently fascinating surfaces underneath, given the attention he's paying them, and you are well and truly seduced. When he pushes two fingers into you slowly and deliberately, you gasp again. You're not sure if he's trying to play The Who between your legs or not, but you're about to sing from how good it feels. He's thrusting gently against your ass, his fingers probing inside you, his palm over your breast. The hormone injections have kicked your libido into overdrive as it is: you didn't need much encouragement and House is, God, you can't remember a time you didn't want to fuck him. When you're happy, you want him in your bed. When you're angry, you want him up against a wall. He owes you atonement for a thousand crimes. You would gladly have him pay in kisses, the lingering kind that would require him to devote intense attention to very specific areas of your body. You know he has the capacity for laser-precision focus over a long span of time if you can only get him interested.
He's interested now.
You can tell because he's kissing the back of your neck and using his teeth, nibbling at your shoulder where the open collar of your shirt leaves the skin bare. He's almost fierce about it and you're glad to urge him on, rolling your hips into his palm and against his thighs. His thumb rubs over your nipple. His fingers are still pushing inside you, your pleasure so sharp it's nearly metallic, but you want more.
"House," you say helplessly, and he understands as if you worked out this code years in advance; he makes a thousand different interpretations of the way you say his name. He turns you around, holding you as close as possible.
"Much as I liked that view," he says conversationally, as if he's not pushing your panties down your thighs, "this one's better." He pushes you up on to the desk so you're sitting on the edge and slides his way down your body, undoing your shirt buttons as he goes and kissing a line of heat down your stomach. He's face to face with your garters as he unsnaps them to pull your panties down and then does them up again carefully, nuzzling at the insides of your thighs as he works on your clothing, pulling at the edges of things with his teeth and his nimble fingers.
"Christ, Cuddy, I'm never going to be able to sit through a meeting again knowing you might be wearing something like this underneath all those suits." His fingers dance from your ankles to your ass and little whimpers are coming from your throat against your will. He pushes your skirt up, his lips browsing over the crease of your thigh, and your whole body is tingling. Your toes curl in your shoes. The prickle of his stubble is maddening in the best way and you shift against his cheeks and chin, hands on the edge of the desk again even paler than before. He slides one hand up and down the back of your thigh and teases your curls with the other, pressing a long and thorough kiss to your clit so that you sigh and push one hand into his hair. You shouldn't be doing this here and you shouldn't be doing it with him of all people, but you've fought against it for too long to care anymore.
You drag him up with one hand under his chin, and he nips at your stomach and breasts as he passes. Then you're kissing him with all the morning's fury and twenty years of pent-up sexual tension. His tongue plunders your mouth. If you had any secrets from him before, you don't now. That was always a problem. House knows you. You've probably never had a secret from him.
"You're overanalyzing," he says, drawing back for a long breath. You reach for the button on his pants.
"Make me stop thinking," you challenge, pulling down his zipper and pushing his jeans and his boxers off his hips.
"This is what they mean by job satisfaction," he tells you, pulling you close but not quite close enough. You arch your back, trying to push your hips into his, but he holds you off and you only succeed in exposing your breasts to him. He bends you back and devotes his attention to teasing your nipples to an almost painful hardness. "More demands for sex. Fewer clinic hours."
"I am not demanding sex," you hiss. "This is mutual. This is not some favor. I don't need you." Your hips betray you, canting towards him; you want him so much that the space between your hip bones aches. You curl your toes so that your shoes clatter to the carpet and you run your toes up his leg, reaching out to take him in your hand, and he lets you stroke him, his eyes half-shut. "I don't need you and you don't need me. I could kick you out any time."
"I bet I could make you beg," he says, patented House-brand smug, and you're so mad that he's always right. You keep touching him, running your fingers over him, trying to justify the way he's touching you by touching him back, but you're distracted by the rattle of pleasure through your body and you lose your grip on him. He breathes across your breasts and slips one hand between your legs to graze your curls, tracing a spiral pattern. "Just because it's mutual doesn't mean you don't need me." The pressure of his fingertips increases, the caress nearly rough, and then lightens to almost nothing. His thighs are pressed to yours and he shifts so that your garters rub against the sensitive spots on your hipbones. Your mind won't form sentences anymore. "Say it, Lisa," he insists. You whimper as he scrapes one cheek gently over the tops of your breasts and then looks into your eyes. "Tell me. Cuddy, tell me you need me too."
You think there's something to remark on there, but you can't quite process it. He strokes his thumb across your clit. You just want to give him what he wants, though you're not sure when this got so serious, because his eyes say that this isn't just a power trip: he needs to hear that you need him, and the heat of his mouth hovering over your breasts is a good incentive to tell him what he already knows. He always knows.
"Need you," you get out, breathing between the movements of his fingers because your body stops functioning properly when he's touching you. "House. Greg."
"You haven't called me that in a long time," he says, and kisses you, pulling you against him. You push one hand between your bodies as you lean into his mouth and you guide him so that he slips right in. It hurts a little at first: you haven't had sex in a long time. But then you stretch to accomodate him the way you always have when it wasn't sexual and everything fits and it's so goddamn right that you want to shout about it. You're half off the desk, braced against it but sliding against him, and he moves and keeps kissing you and he's fucking you in your office and you hadn't known you wanted that but you know now. Oh, the things you know now, like the way he hums in his throat as he kisses you, and the way his ass tenses as you grab him and pull his hips into yours, and the way his busy hands play over your breasts even though you were sure there wasn't that much room between the two of you. Twenty years of teasing and three minutes of sex and you're tipping over the edge, your head rolling as your back arches so that he kisses your throat instead of your mouth. The medical details of orgasm - neurotransmitters, pleasure centers, muscle spasms - flash through your mind and go up in smoke, because there's nothing in any textbook to explain how he feels inside you, how you feel against him.
"Greeeg," you say on a rising note, trying to be quiet about it because the nurses' station is really so close, and he thrusts into you hard, cradling your head with one hand as he brings his mouth to yours. The clever fingertips of his other hand are busy finding what feels like an ember between your legs.
"Let go, Lise," he says with his mouth so close to yours that you feel the words more than hear them.
And you do. Your body is a short fuse catching on a long flame. You are a roman candle, seventeen separate explosions at once, your office filled with sparks of different colors. He moans and shivers into you, against you, and you hope that he sees the purple flare and the bright gold in the dim light of your shuttered office the same way that you see them.
He sighs against your throat. You kiss his forehead. "You need me," you tell him, and he shrugs but doesn't deny it. "Who else can stand you?" you ask, facetious: he is loved beyond what he suspects or accepts.
"Only crazy people," he murmurs against the underside of your jaw. "And hard-up hospital administrators with control issues and baby envy. I will never understand why a babe like you isn't getting banged on a regular basis. You've got the accessories for it." He runs a hand under your garters and kisses your breasts. "These and those."
"Go do your job," you say. You are smiling, triumphant, sweet and lazy with afterglow. He pulls away slowly, reluctantly. He limps into your bathroom and you hear the sound of water running. You reach for a tissue and wipe the moisture from your thighs, your knees still shaking. You should find your shoes. You should find your underwear. House is still in the vicinity and his presence skews your priorities; what you want to do is curl up on your couch for half an hour or so against the length of his body, or better yet, the two of you in his yellow chair. You wonder when he last had sex. Probably with Stacy, according to the the last bit of girly gossip you heard from her or Wilson, though House jokes about his hookers. You imagine that this was more fun and less trouble than either married women or hired ones.
"You know," he says, limping back out into your office with his clothes arranged again, "the protocol calls for twice daily injections." He emphasizes "injections" with a salacious twist to the word and a gleam in his eyes.
"Don't even make that joke," you say. "Or else this will never be a repeated experience. It shouldn't be anyway."
"Come on, Cuddy," he coaxes. "You want sperm. You have access to my medical records - nice clean genes, smarts, decent hair. I want to see your underwear again and I like the way you squeak when I grab your ass." He picks up your panties and dangles them in front of you until you take them. "Plus I've seen the way that you look at my chair."
"Go do your job," you repeat, but the impact of your command is probably lessened by the fact that you hook your foot behind his thigh and drag him close for a long fierce kiss. He leans in, pressing you back against the desk, and reaches behind you for his cane.
"I will see you later," he promises. There is a whole world of conversations you'll never have in the way he tips his head and looks at you for a moment and then smiles and leaves. You go into the bathroom and dress yourself, smiling when you see your flushed face in the mirror, smoothing down your hair. Then you go to your desk to start the good work of making people healthy, and you're humming as you review the schedules. It is an unusual, often difficult life you've chosen, but for the moment, you are utterly satisfied to be this very woman, living this way.