I wrote femmeslash!!!
Title: Your Reflection and Mine
Pairing: Cuddy/Stacy
Summary: Written for get_house_laid prompt 143: A shopping spree leads to sex in the changing room. Takes place a few months after House's infarction.
Rating: NC17.
A/N: First time writing all out smut AND femmeslash. Two cherries popped in one fell swoop. Go me.
You walk with her slowly through the crowded streets of the Palmer Square Market in Princeton. Two months before Christmas, and the early shoppers are out in force on this cool autumn day. You hold an ice cream cone, and Stacy holds a cigarette. It’s been that kind of day.
It was your idea to go shopping. Stacy had called in a near state of desperation; she was going crazy, Greg was fighting with her all the time now, she couldn’t handle it, had to get out of the house, he’d broken three plates this week, just threw them against the wall and watched the pieces shatter. You met her here, at the upscale shopping district, offering coffee and consolations, because there’s not much more you can give in the way of comfort.
“Can we sit?” Stacy asks. You nod and follow her to a nearby bench. You sit in silence a while, watching families and couples walking past, bags clutched in hands. Stacy smokes her cigarette as you finish your ice cream, then ball the wrapper up and toss it in the trashcan.
“Nice shot,” Stacy remarks.
“Thanks. I’ve been practicing with drafts of my last article.” You’ve been too busy to put much work into it, actually, but the words sound good.
“We’re not going to survive this,” Stacy says suddenly, after a moment’s silence.
You don’t need to ask what she's talking about. A reassurance comes to the tip of your tongue, but you can’t bring yourself to say it. Stacy looks over, sees your expression.
“It’s true. He won’t forgive me.” Stacy says the words lightly, but the expression on her face is caught between a smile and a grimace. “He hardly even looks at me anymore. The only time we actually talk is when we’re fighting. And if I touch him, he flinches.”
She drops the cigarette onto the cobbles and grinds it under her toe.
“I’m sorry,” you say quietly. It’s all you can say.
“Not your fault. Don’t ever think it is,” she says, flashing a brief smile, this one genuine. “You saved his life.”
“So did you. House is an ass if he can’t see that.”
Stacy doesn’t look at you, just starts digging in her purse. Presumably for her cigarettes. “I never knew how lonely I could get with another person around,” she says.
“Stacy-”
“Oh, god.” Stacy suddenly drops her bag and leans forward, letting her head fall into her hands. “Listen to me whine. I’m sorry, Lisa. I promised myself I wouldn’t burden you with all this, I just-”
“Oh, stop that,” you say. You slide closer to Stacy on the bench and rub her back, feeling the hard points of the woman’s shoulder blades and spine beneath the fabric of her jacket.
“Lisa,” she says. She sits up, and you end up with your arm around her, and Stacy’s face only a few inches from your own. She looks older than she did a few months ago, but you suppose you all do.
“Do you think I could spend the night at your house?” Stacy asks. “I wouldn’t ask, it’s just-“
“Yes. The spare bedroom’s cramped, but it’s all right.” On impulse, you hug the other woman. “We’ll buy some wine, make popcorn, watch Titanic, and have a sleepover.”
Stacy snorts. “I’ll paint your toenails and we can trade gossip.”
You laugh, and Stacy pulls away and discreetly wipes at her eyes.
“I’ll call James. Ask if he can stay with Greg. He won’t mind.” You wonder who she means, Wilson or House, but decide not to ask.
You both slow to a stop in front of the store, whose sign reads Lace Silhouettes. In case a potential shopper is too thick to figure out what kind of goods they sell, there is also a stylized silhouette of a female form, clad in skimpy underwear.
“You want to go in?” you ask, inclining your head. Is it insensitive to ask a woman in a dying relationship if she wants to go into a lingerie store?
Stacy shrugs, that hint of a smile on her mouth again. “Sure. Maybe I could get Greg to look at me if I started walking around in skimpy negligees.”
“He’d probably appreciate a naughty nurse’s uniform more,” you say, smiling. You open the door and hold it for Stacy. “Or nipple tassels. After you.”
You follow her into the store, waving off the eager saleswoman who greets you, and start sorting through the racks.
Stacy whistles after a moment, and pulls out a dark red bustier.
“Hot,” she comments appreciatively, and you briefly see the woman you first met two years ago, her sardonic sense of humor filled with innuendos that made you laugh at the same time they made you fight down a blush.
“Very nice,” you agree.
“Not really my color. I bet it’d look good on you, though.”
You raise an eyebrow, then take the hanger and looked at the bustier. It’s a deep, rich red, almost burgundy, made of silk, with black embroidery and lace scalloping the edges. It's in your size, you notice.
“I’d never wear it. I haven’t gotten laid since I got my med degree, feels like.”
Stacy mock-glares at you. “This is comfort shopping, remember? We’re supposed to buy things we don’t need, in order to distract us from reality.”
You heave a heavy, put upon sigh. “Well, if it’ll make you happy...”
“We can tell everyone that I twisted your arm.”
You shop for another twenty minutes, then make your way to the counter to ask for a changing room.
“I’m afraid we only have one at the moment,” the clerk says. “We’re remodeling at the end of the month to make room for another, but at the moment…”
“That’s fine,” Stacy says, then turns to you. “Do you mind sharing?”
You do, but can’t think of any reason for your reservations. It’s just Stacy, so why do you feel self-conscious? You nod, and the saleswoman leads you to the changing room.
It’s small, about the size of a large bathroom. The walls are painted a rich cream color, with dark red curtains hanging on the wall. Light comes from two floor lamps, and there is a small, cushioned chair that tries too hard to look antique.
You face the wall as you undress, too aware of the small space and of the warm body behind you. It reminds you of being a teenager and changing for gym in the girl’s locker room, the warmth and humidity from the bodies surrounding you, the snatches of overheard conversation and quick, inevitable glances at the other girls. Both awkward and intimate at the same time. You glance at the full length mirror against the door, and catch a quick flash of pale skin and dark hair as Stacy pulls off her shirt. Then you notice that Stacy is watching you, a small smile on her face and her eyebrow quirked up. You blush and turn your eyes back to the wall.
You unhook your bra and pull on the bustier Stacy picked out, struggling with the small metal hooks in the back.
“Want me to get that?”
Stacy’s hands, cool skin and long nails, brush against your naked back, raise goosebumps on your skin. You nod and suck in slightly as she fastens the bottom hooks, then pushes your hair off your shoulders to get at the ones in the top.
“There.” Stacy’s voice is soft, and close enough so that you can feel the other woman’s breath against your skin. She doesn’t step back, as you expected, but instead puts her hands on your shoulders and turns you to face the mirror.
You realize your eyes are closed and open them.
In the mirror, you see the two of you. Stacy stands behind and slightly to the left of you, both of her hands still on your bare shoulders. She is still in her heels, towering over you by four or five inches. It reinforces the strange feeling of being young again, when your body was still achingly new and awkward to move in.
“I was right,” Stacy says, smiling again. She shifts forward again, and pulls your hair back from your shoulders, exposing the thin skin of your chest and collarbones. “That looks amazing.”
You can’t help but look at the other woman in the mirror. Stacy has left her shirt off and hasn’t bothered changing out of her bra, plain black cotton, and into one of the ones they’d brought in. She still wears her slacks, slung low on her hips. The dim yellow light in the room makes her skin seem less pale.
Then Stacy trails her fingers forward, onto your chest. You worry she’ll feel your heart racing.
“Your skirt,” Stacy says, her voice low. “Doesn’t match. You should take it off.”
You are aware that your breath is coming too fast, and try to still yourself, try to get back into control. “Stacy-“
The other woman trails her fingers lower, to the beginning swell of your breast, then hesitates. “Can I?”
You can’t answer, your voice catches in your throat. This is Stacy, your friend, your friend in a relationship with a broken, angry man. A broken angry man who has been your patient, no less.
You know what she is asking, and that if you say no, Stacy will stop. You’ll get dressed, go back outside, and maybe Stacy will still stay at your house, or maybe she’ll go back home. Nothing much would change, until House finally drives her away. Stacy is right; they won’t survive this.
So maybe, really, there’s no harm in this. You don’t admit how much you suddenly want her, have wanted her.
“Please?” Stacy asks. Her hands are cool, soothing against your flushed skin. You can feel the other woman behind you, the occasional brush of skin, warm breath moving your hair. The smell of cigarettes clings to her, mingled with perfume.
You look in her eyes in the mirror, see nervousness matched with desire. You remember Stacy saying that House flinched when she touches him now, and wonder how long it has been since...
In the mirror, you see your reflection nod. Stacy’s smiles.
The hand continues its way down, fingertips brushing against cloth and skin, until it reaches the zipper on your skirt. Her other hand comes around, and she unfastens the clasp, slides the zipper down, and pushes the fabric off your hips. It puddles onto the floor at your feet, and you step gingerly out of it. Stacy splays her hands on your legs, thumbs on inner thighs, perpetually cool fingers against heated skin. Stacy steps forward, pressing against you from behind.
“Lisa, can I-“
You nod again before Stacy even finishes the sentence. You watch in the mirror as one hand moves up, long manicured fingers dipping into you top. A thumb rubs circles around your nipple.
You wonder briefly what to do with your hands, settle for placing one over Stacy’s, the one on your thigh, and gently inching it over. You shut your eyes again when the other woman takes the hint, and you feel cautious pressure from one thin finger stroking down the center line of your underwear.
“Is this okay?” Stacy asks.
You nod because you still can’t speak, and the finger moves, rubbing cautious circles against your clit. You lean your head back, letting it fall against Stacy’s shoulder. Your breath catches as her hand slips inside your underwear, pressing harder. Your hips move of their own accord, pushing forward in the slow rhythm that Stacy has set.
A small moan, half a sigh, falls from your lips, and Stacy covers your mouth with her own. “Shh,” she says, and kisses you. You curl your hand in Stacy’s hair and breathe in the other woman’s scent, taste smoke and strawberry lip balm on her lips.
The hand moves lower, and fingers curl inside you, reaching, while Stacy’s thumb rubs tighter, faster concentric circles on your clit. You feel energy, like a contained earthquake, pool low in your belly. Stacy pushes harder into you, rubs faster, fingers searching for - there. You swallow another moan, and come, shuddering, almost losing balance. Stacy runs her hand across your breasts, neck, stomach, hips, thighs, any bare skin that she can reach, and all the while she is still flexing and reaching her fingers inside you.
After riding out the last of the aftershocks, you slump backwards.
“Wow,” you say breathlessly, drawing the word out. Stacy snorts, then kisses your neck, the sensitive spot below the ear.
“Thank you,” Stacy whispers. You shiver, then twist in the embrace so you are facing the other woman.
“You can thank me in a minute,” you say, fully aware of how cheesy the line is. Something out of a bad movie. Stacy laughs again, quietly, her eyebrow quirked up in amusement.
“A minute, huh?” Her voice is a challenge, and you decide to rise to it.
“You can time me, if you like.” You push all the lingerie you two collected off the faux-Victorian chair, then motion for Stacy to sit on it. Stacy does, and you kneel in front of her, running your hands up her thighs to the soft skin of her belly and breasts. You lean forward and kiss a path from her mouth down her neck and chest. You pull her bra down to get to her nipples, fasten your mouth around one and nip gently. You rub a thumb down the inseam of her slacks, and she moves against you. You pop open the button of her pants, slide the zipper down, and Stacy lifts her hips to let you first pull her slacks and then underwear off her thighs.
You lean forward, pushing Stacy’s legs apart, lick and kiss your way up her thigh. You look up to find Stacy watching you, lids half closed. You smile at her, then reach up, tugging at the strap of her bra. The other woman reaches around and unhooks it, lets it fall from her fingers to the floor.
You freeze, one hand cupped around her breast, at the unexpected knock on the door.
“Are you doing all right in there?” It’s the saleswoman. She has a horrible sense of timing, and you look up at Stacy.
“We’re fine, thank you.” Stacy’s voice is curt, so normal and even you would never guess there's another person kneeling between her legs.
“Let me know if you need anything, okay?”
You have to fight down a giggle, because this reminds you far too much of being sixteen, naked in bed with your best friend with your mother on the other side of the door, asking worriedly if you’re all right, she’d heard thumping (which had been Maggie’s flailing hand connecting with the wall. She’d had the most sensitive nipples of any woman you’ve ever known.). It comes out as a small puff of air against Stacy’s skin, and the other woman gasps a little. You smile at her glare, drag your nails against her skin, and delicately lick the crease of her thigh.
“Yes, thank you,” Stacy calls through the door. You press your thumb against her clit on the last word, and it comes out a little uneven. She glares at you again, and you have to smother another giggle.
Bitch, she mouths, but her eyes are wide and there’s a smile on her face that you’ve never seen before. Even silent, the word sounds like an endearment. Like encouragement.
That in mind, you bend forward, hands easily spreading her legs further apart. You lick lightly at her, tasting iron and salt and clean rain. It’s been ages since you did this, but you look up and see her biting her lip, watching you like you’re the most beautiful and fascinating thing in the world, so you figure you can’t be doing too bad. You press forward harder with your mouth, tease her clit with your tongue and lips. You push a finger into her, then add another at her whispered, “More.”
You curl your fingers forward inside her, touch warm muscle that is as smooth as wet satin. Your other hand holds the warm weight of her breast, squeezes her nipple between two of your fingers. Her hands comb through your hair, push it back from your face so she can watch you. Her other hand reaches down, scratches lightly at your back and then moves forward into the bustier, cupping your breast.
You moan lightly, you can’t help it and can’t possibly care if the clerk hears you at this point. Stacy gasps, her hand tugs lightly at your hair. There’s a small burst of wetness against your lips, and you look up to see her throw her head back, spine arching, biting her lip viciously. Breath hisses out from between her clenched teeth, and beneath your hand, you feel her heart racing.
You lick once more, long and slow, just to see her shudder, and then withdraw your fingers. You wipe your mouth, place a kiss on her thigh, then lean back, savoring the sight of Stacy naked, legs spread, a light sheen of sweat on her chest and stomach and upper lip. A small moment of panic creeps up on you suddenly; this is your friend, and you just went down on her in the changing room of a lingerie store, and ohgod House will kill you if he ever finds out-
You push it away. You can keep secrets, even from a prying bastard like House. As for the rest of it…
Stacy smiles at you, still tired but happier then you’ve seen her in months.
“That was more than sixty seconds,” she says, and you laugh.
You both get dressed, and gather up the hangers that lay scattered on the floor. On impulse, you decide to buy the bustier. Maybe you will have a chance to wear it again sometime.
The clerk glares at you as you hand over your credit card. You smile and wish her a pleasant evening when she hands you your bag.
“Geez, Lisa. Just rub it in her face, why don’t you?” Stacy says when you’re outside. Her voice is relaxed, teasing.
“She wants to rub her face in it, that’s her business,” you reply, and smile when Stacy giggles.
Stacy surprises you by slipping her cold hand into your warm one. “Thank you,” she murmurs. You squeeze her hand in response, and together, you walk down the street, arms swinging, footsteps in synch, giggling and leaning against each other. To all the world, the two of you could be teenagers on their way to a sleepover.
Pairing: Cuddy/Stacy
Summary: Written for get_house_laid prompt 143: A shopping spree leads to sex in the changing room. Takes place a few months after House's infarction.
Rating: NC17.
A/N: First time writing all out smut AND femmeslash. Two cherries popped in one fell swoop. Go me.
You walk with her slowly through the crowded streets of the Palmer Square Market in Princeton. Two months before Christmas, and the early shoppers are out in force on this cool autumn day. You hold an ice cream cone, and Stacy holds a cigarette. It’s been that kind of day.
It was your idea to go shopping. Stacy had called in a near state of desperation; she was going crazy, Greg was fighting with her all the time now, she couldn’t handle it, had to get out of the house, he’d broken three plates this week, just threw them against the wall and watched the pieces shatter. You met her here, at the upscale shopping district, offering coffee and consolations, because there’s not much more you can give in the way of comfort.
“Can we sit?” Stacy asks. You nod and follow her to a nearby bench. You sit in silence a while, watching families and couples walking past, bags clutched in hands. Stacy smokes her cigarette as you finish your ice cream, then ball the wrapper up and toss it in the trashcan.
“Nice shot,” Stacy remarks.
“Thanks. I’ve been practicing with drafts of my last article.” You’ve been too busy to put much work into it, actually, but the words sound good.
“We’re not going to survive this,” Stacy says suddenly, after a moment’s silence.
You don’t need to ask what she's talking about. A reassurance comes to the tip of your tongue, but you can’t bring yourself to say it. Stacy looks over, sees your expression.
“It’s true. He won’t forgive me.” Stacy says the words lightly, but the expression on her face is caught between a smile and a grimace. “He hardly even looks at me anymore. The only time we actually talk is when we’re fighting. And if I touch him, he flinches.”
She drops the cigarette onto the cobbles and grinds it under her toe.
“I’m sorry,” you say quietly. It’s all you can say.
“Not your fault. Don’t ever think it is,” she says, flashing a brief smile, this one genuine. “You saved his life.”
“So did you. House is an ass if he can’t see that.”
Stacy doesn’t look at you, just starts digging in her purse. Presumably for her cigarettes. “I never knew how lonely I could get with another person around,” she says.
“Stacy-”
“Oh, god.” Stacy suddenly drops her bag and leans forward, letting her head fall into her hands. “Listen to me whine. I’m sorry, Lisa. I promised myself I wouldn’t burden you with all this, I just-”
“Oh, stop that,” you say. You slide closer to Stacy on the bench and rub her back, feeling the hard points of the woman’s shoulder blades and spine beneath the fabric of her jacket.
“Lisa,” she says. She sits up, and you end up with your arm around her, and Stacy’s face only a few inches from your own. She looks older than she did a few months ago, but you suppose you all do.
“Do you think I could spend the night at your house?” Stacy asks. “I wouldn’t ask, it’s just-“
“Yes. The spare bedroom’s cramped, but it’s all right.” On impulse, you hug the other woman. “We’ll buy some wine, make popcorn, watch Titanic, and have a sleepover.”
Stacy snorts. “I’ll paint your toenails and we can trade gossip.”
You laugh, and Stacy pulls away and discreetly wipes at her eyes.
“I’ll call James. Ask if he can stay with Greg. He won’t mind.” You wonder who she means, Wilson or House, but decide not to ask.
You both slow to a stop in front of the store, whose sign reads Lace Silhouettes. In case a potential shopper is too thick to figure out what kind of goods they sell, there is also a stylized silhouette of a female form, clad in skimpy underwear.
“You want to go in?” you ask, inclining your head. Is it insensitive to ask a woman in a dying relationship if she wants to go into a lingerie store?
Stacy shrugs, that hint of a smile on her mouth again. “Sure. Maybe I could get Greg to look at me if I started walking around in skimpy negligees.”
“He’d probably appreciate a naughty nurse’s uniform more,” you say, smiling. You open the door and hold it for Stacy. “Or nipple tassels. After you.”
You follow her into the store, waving off the eager saleswoman who greets you, and start sorting through the racks.
Stacy whistles after a moment, and pulls out a dark red bustier.
“Hot,” she comments appreciatively, and you briefly see the woman you first met two years ago, her sardonic sense of humor filled with innuendos that made you laugh at the same time they made you fight down a blush.
“Very nice,” you agree.
“Not really my color. I bet it’d look good on you, though.”
You raise an eyebrow, then take the hanger and looked at the bustier. It’s a deep, rich red, almost burgundy, made of silk, with black embroidery and lace scalloping the edges. It's in your size, you notice.
“I’d never wear it. I haven’t gotten laid since I got my med degree, feels like.”
Stacy mock-glares at you. “This is comfort shopping, remember? We’re supposed to buy things we don’t need, in order to distract us from reality.”
You heave a heavy, put upon sigh. “Well, if it’ll make you happy...”
“We can tell everyone that I twisted your arm.”
You shop for another twenty minutes, then make your way to the counter to ask for a changing room.
“I’m afraid we only have one at the moment,” the clerk says. “We’re remodeling at the end of the month to make room for another, but at the moment…”
“That’s fine,” Stacy says, then turns to you. “Do you mind sharing?”
You do, but can’t think of any reason for your reservations. It’s just Stacy, so why do you feel self-conscious? You nod, and the saleswoman leads you to the changing room.
It’s small, about the size of a large bathroom. The walls are painted a rich cream color, with dark red curtains hanging on the wall. Light comes from two floor lamps, and there is a small, cushioned chair that tries too hard to look antique.
You face the wall as you undress, too aware of the small space and of the warm body behind you. It reminds you of being a teenager and changing for gym in the girl’s locker room, the warmth and humidity from the bodies surrounding you, the snatches of overheard conversation and quick, inevitable glances at the other girls. Both awkward and intimate at the same time. You glance at the full length mirror against the door, and catch a quick flash of pale skin and dark hair as Stacy pulls off her shirt. Then you notice that Stacy is watching you, a small smile on her face and her eyebrow quirked up. You blush and turn your eyes back to the wall.
You unhook your bra and pull on the bustier Stacy picked out, struggling with the small metal hooks in the back.
“Want me to get that?”
Stacy’s hands, cool skin and long nails, brush against your naked back, raise goosebumps on your skin. You nod and suck in slightly as she fastens the bottom hooks, then pushes your hair off your shoulders to get at the ones in the top.
“There.” Stacy’s voice is soft, and close enough so that you can feel the other woman’s breath against your skin. She doesn’t step back, as you expected, but instead puts her hands on your shoulders and turns you to face the mirror.
You realize your eyes are closed and open them.
In the mirror, you see the two of you. Stacy stands behind and slightly to the left of you, both of her hands still on your bare shoulders. She is still in her heels, towering over you by four or five inches. It reinforces the strange feeling of being young again, when your body was still achingly new and awkward to move in.
“I was right,” Stacy says, smiling again. She shifts forward again, and pulls your hair back from your shoulders, exposing the thin skin of your chest and collarbones. “That looks amazing.”
You can’t help but look at the other woman in the mirror. Stacy has left her shirt off and hasn’t bothered changing out of her bra, plain black cotton, and into one of the ones they’d brought in. She still wears her slacks, slung low on her hips. The dim yellow light in the room makes her skin seem less pale.
Then Stacy trails her fingers forward, onto your chest. You worry she’ll feel your heart racing.
“Your skirt,” Stacy says, her voice low. “Doesn’t match. You should take it off.”
You are aware that your breath is coming too fast, and try to still yourself, try to get back into control. “Stacy-“
The other woman trails her fingers lower, to the beginning swell of your breast, then hesitates. “Can I?”
You can’t answer, your voice catches in your throat. This is Stacy, your friend, your friend in a relationship with a broken, angry man. A broken angry man who has been your patient, no less.
You know what she is asking, and that if you say no, Stacy will stop. You’ll get dressed, go back outside, and maybe Stacy will still stay at your house, or maybe she’ll go back home. Nothing much would change, until House finally drives her away. Stacy is right; they won’t survive this.
So maybe, really, there’s no harm in this. You don’t admit how much you suddenly want her, have wanted her.
“Please?” Stacy asks. Her hands are cool, soothing against your flushed skin. You can feel the other woman behind you, the occasional brush of skin, warm breath moving your hair. The smell of cigarettes clings to her, mingled with perfume.
You look in her eyes in the mirror, see nervousness matched with desire. You remember Stacy saying that House flinched when she touches him now, and wonder how long it has been since...
In the mirror, you see your reflection nod. Stacy’s smiles.
The hand continues its way down, fingertips brushing against cloth and skin, until it reaches the zipper on your skirt. Her other hand comes around, and she unfastens the clasp, slides the zipper down, and pushes the fabric off your hips. It puddles onto the floor at your feet, and you step gingerly out of it. Stacy splays her hands on your legs, thumbs on inner thighs, perpetually cool fingers against heated skin. Stacy steps forward, pressing against you from behind.
“Lisa, can I-“
You nod again before Stacy even finishes the sentence. You watch in the mirror as one hand moves up, long manicured fingers dipping into you top. A thumb rubs circles around your nipple.
You wonder briefly what to do with your hands, settle for placing one over Stacy’s, the one on your thigh, and gently inching it over. You shut your eyes again when the other woman takes the hint, and you feel cautious pressure from one thin finger stroking down the center line of your underwear.
“Is this okay?” Stacy asks.
You nod because you still can’t speak, and the finger moves, rubbing cautious circles against your clit. You lean your head back, letting it fall against Stacy’s shoulder. Your breath catches as her hand slips inside your underwear, pressing harder. Your hips move of their own accord, pushing forward in the slow rhythm that Stacy has set.
A small moan, half a sigh, falls from your lips, and Stacy covers your mouth with her own. “Shh,” she says, and kisses you. You curl your hand in Stacy’s hair and breathe in the other woman’s scent, taste smoke and strawberry lip balm on her lips.
The hand moves lower, and fingers curl inside you, reaching, while Stacy’s thumb rubs tighter, faster concentric circles on your clit. You feel energy, like a contained earthquake, pool low in your belly. Stacy pushes harder into you, rubs faster, fingers searching for - there. You swallow another moan, and come, shuddering, almost losing balance. Stacy runs her hand across your breasts, neck, stomach, hips, thighs, any bare skin that she can reach, and all the while she is still flexing and reaching her fingers inside you.
After riding out the last of the aftershocks, you slump backwards.
“Wow,” you say breathlessly, drawing the word out. Stacy snorts, then kisses your neck, the sensitive spot below the ear.
“Thank you,” Stacy whispers. You shiver, then twist in the embrace so you are facing the other woman.
“You can thank me in a minute,” you say, fully aware of how cheesy the line is. Something out of a bad movie. Stacy laughs again, quietly, her eyebrow quirked up in amusement.
“A minute, huh?” Her voice is a challenge, and you decide to rise to it.
“You can time me, if you like.” You push all the lingerie you two collected off the faux-Victorian chair, then motion for Stacy to sit on it. Stacy does, and you kneel in front of her, running your hands up her thighs to the soft skin of her belly and breasts. You lean forward and kiss a path from her mouth down her neck and chest. You pull her bra down to get to her nipples, fasten your mouth around one and nip gently. You rub a thumb down the inseam of her slacks, and she moves against you. You pop open the button of her pants, slide the zipper down, and Stacy lifts her hips to let you first pull her slacks and then underwear off her thighs.
You lean forward, pushing Stacy’s legs apart, lick and kiss your way up her thigh. You look up to find Stacy watching you, lids half closed. You smile at her, then reach up, tugging at the strap of her bra. The other woman reaches around and unhooks it, lets it fall from her fingers to the floor.
You freeze, one hand cupped around her breast, at the unexpected knock on the door.
“Are you doing all right in there?” It’s the saleswoman. She has a horrible sense of timing, and you look up at Stacy.
“We’re fine, thank you.” Stacy’s voice is curt, so normal and even you would never guess there's another person kneeling between her legs.
“Let me know if you need anything, okay?”
You have to fight down a giggle, because this reminds you far too much of being sixteen, naked in bed with your best friend with your mother on the other side of the door, asking worriedly if you’re all right, she’d heard thumping (which had been Maggie’s flailing hand connecting with the wall. She’d had the most sensitive nipples of any woman you’ve ever known.). It comes out as a small puff of air against Stacy’s skin, and the other woman gasps a little. You smile at her glare, drag your nails against her skin, and delicately lick the crease of her thigh.
“Yes, thank you,” Stacy calls through the door. You press your thumb against her clit on the last word, and it comes out a little uneven. She glares at you again, and you have to smother another giggle.
Bitch, she mouths, but her eyes are wide and there’s a smile on her face that you’ve never seen before. Even silent, the word sounds like an endearment. Like encouragement.
That in mind, you bend forward, hands easily spreading her legs further apart. You lick lightly at her, tasting iron and salt and clean rain. It’s been ages since you did this, but you look up and see her biting her lip, watching you like you’re the most beautiful and fascinating thing in the world, so you figure you can’t be doing too bad. You press forward harder with your mouth, tease her clit with your tongue and lips. You push a finger into her, then add another at her whispered, “More.”
You curl your fingers forward inside her, touch warm muscle that is as smooth as wet satin. Your other hand holds the warm weight of her breast, squeezes her nipple between two of your fingers. Her hands comb through your hair, push it back from your face so she can watch you. Her other hand reaches down, scratches lightly at your back and then moves forward into the bustier, cupping your breast.
You moan lightly, you can’t help it and can’t possibly care if the clerk hears you at this point. Stacy gasps, her hand tugs lightly at your hair. There’s a small burst of wetness against your lips, and you look up to see her throw her head back, spine arching, biting her lip viciously. Breath hisses out from between her clenched teeth, and beneath your hand, you feel her heart racing.
You lick once more, long and slow, just to see her shudder, and then withdraw your fingers. You wipe your mouth, place a kiss on her thigh, then lean back, savoring the sight of Stacy naked, legs spread, a light sheen of sweat on her chest and stomach and upper lip. A small moment of panic creeps up on you suddenly; this is your friend, and you just went down on her in the changing room of a lingerie store, and ohgod House will kill you if he ever finds out-
You push it away. You can keep secrets, even from a prying bastard like House. As for the rest of it…
Stacy smiles at you, still tired but happier then you’ve seen her in months.
“That was more than sixty seconds,” she says, and you laugh.
You both get dressed, and gather up the hangers that lay scattered on the floor. On impulse, you decide to buy the bustier. Maybe you will have a chance to wear it again sometime.
The clerk glares at you as you hand over your credit card. You smile and wish her a pleasant evening when she hands you your bag.
“Geez, Lisa. Just rub it in her face, why don’t you?” Stacy says when you’re outside. Her voice is relaxed, teasing.
“She wants to rub her face in it, that’s her business,” you reply, and smile when Stacy giggles.
Stacy surprises you by slipping her cold hand into your warm one. “Thank you,” she murmurs. You squeeze her hand in response, and together, you walk down the street, arms swinging, footsteps in synch, giggling and leaning against each other. To all the world, the two of you could be teenagers on their way to a sleepover.