Unprotected, 4
Title: Unprotected, 4
Pairing: House/Cuddy established..
Warning: Explicit content in this chapter. It is always safe to assume some angst.
Summary: Control issues, they haz ‘ em. But they do have a way of working through them.
Comments welcome.
Cuddy was not the sentimental type of mother who saved every memento and cherished every first, but these evenings at home alone with Rachel were carving their own place in her heart. She’d pictured single motherhood as a series of challenges that would require nerve, energy, ferocity; she’d stocked up on clear-eyed determination and endurance. She never reckoned on equal portions of fanciful stories and fruit-scented bubble bath, on Disney princesses and stuffed animals.
Rachel scooted back onto her bed, admiring her new pedicure. “I mean,” she said gravely, “if it makes sense that a piggy goes to market, it also makes sense that it could stay home. So, that’s fine. And that little piggy who went ‘wee wee wee’ all the way home, I understand him best of all because he was just doing what piggies do. And the one who had none - well, that’s sad, but it isn’t weird. But that piggy who ate roast beef. Why would a pig, eat part of a cow?”
Cuddy sat down on the edge of the bed and smoothed the covers. She was trying to provide the consistent nighttime routine that the school counselor - and her mother, and Julia, and it seemed as though every parenting book ever written -- recommended. It was well established in the literature that children without proper sleep habits were more likely to be aggressive and distractible.
“It’s just a nursery rhyme, Rachel.”
“I’ll text House and ask him.”
It had been House’s idea to give Rachel, who could scarcely remember to keep her glasses on her head, an outrageously expensive smartphone - supposedly as a safety measure, so she could have at her fingertips a way to contact any of the dozen people in her intricate network of chauffeurs, parental substitutes, and paid caregivers.
“He may not answer, Sweetie,” Cuddy warned tolerantly. “He’s probably concentrating on his poker game. But if you promise to go right to sleep, okay.”
Rachel seized her phone from the charger on the nightstand and found her contact list: MOM, HOUSE, FSU, WILSON, CHASE, MRS ELKIN, COACH COS, NANA, AUNT JULIA, EMMA.
Well, at least Cuddy rated the top of the list. Resigned, she spelled out the message and let Rachel painstakingly key it in and hit “send.”
“Can you show me how to use the camera? I want to take a picture of my blue sparkly toes.”
“Fine, but then it’s lights out for good.”
She was getting Rachel settled under the yellow and plaid pink comforter, when a familiar ping! announced a message:
bcs he was hungry, duh. pigs r omnivores. go to bed.
“What’s an omnivore? How do you spell ‘pretty’?”
“P-R-“
“One t or two?”
“Two.” Cuddy let her impatience out in a short huff. “Rachel.”
It could be worse, she supposed. According to the private therapist the school had referred her to, many children Rachel’s age were still spending part of one to three nights every week in their parents’ beds.
Thankfully, House put the kibosh on that practice the one time the subject arose, during a thunderstorm when Rachel was four.
“This bed is the one place I have you all to myself,” he’d said, without a trace of irritation or compromise. “I’m not sharing you here.” Without another word he’d hoisted Rachel over his shoulder and carried her, giggling, back to her own bed.
Rachel beamed down at her beloved new gadget, and sent another, two-word, text, proudly attaching the picture all by herself. The response came back immediately:
pretty resourceful. now GO TO BED.
Just after midnight, House came plundering into the master bathroom, where Cuddy was soaking in the Jacuzzi, up to her neck in soap bubbles, a glass of white wine on the tiles beside her, reading The Spirited Child.
He scratched his bare chest, yawned, and rubbed the stubble on his cheeks, making a face at his reflection, squeezing his cheeks together and turning his face this way and that. It should have looked comical, but it was surprisingly endearing, and -- just a little -- sexy.
“I underestimated my newest duckling,” he groused, pumping some toothpaste onto his brush.
“By how much?”
“You don’t wanna know,” he mumbled around a mouthful of suds.
“Of course I do. If you don’t tell me I’m sure Kate will - publicly.”
House rinsed his mouth. “Two hundred and forty-eight dollars.”
Cuddy laughed and put her book down. “No backsies. You hired her, Genius, and you’re stuck with her. And I warn you, if you even try to make her so miserable that she quits, I’ll create a committee just to make you the chair of it.”
“I’m not going to get rid of her,” he scoffed, “until I get my money back.”
Cuddy stretched one leg out of the frothy bubbles. “You aren’t wearing a t-shirt, what’s that about? Did Stephens take you for the shirt off your back, too?”
“You,” he accused, “have been sticking your hand up under the arm of my t-shirt while I’m trying to sleep, fondling my manly muscles.”
“It tickles?”
“It annoys. And it stretches the fabric.”
“Sorry,” she lied. She made a little splash as she lifted the wineglass. He looked pensively at her calf, silky-smooth, shiny with soap. She twirled her ankle, arching her foot, stretching languidly back against the tub. She took a sip of wine and inhaled blissfully, the steam loosening her lungs. Stray bubbles pooled in her collarbone, dampening the hair at the nape of her neck, pinking her complexion.
“You missed a spot,” House noted, but his eyes had grown slightly hazy.
“Oh, damn.” Cuddy pursed her lips together, leaned forward, trailing her breasts over the surface of the scented bubbles, and retrieved her razor from the edge of the tub. She held it up invitingly, and moved in for the kill: “Get it for me?”
By way of answer, he folded his arms over his chest and smirked at her. She studied his face, looking for anger, but there was only arrogance, excitement, and the hint of a fragile smile.
“You really want to put an implement, a sharp object, in my hands and give me access to your tender, unmarked, skin?”
Cuddy lifted her head and jutted her chin out defiantly, planning her next move. How had he suddenly begun to take up so much space in this small room? “I’ll give you access to mine if you give me access to yours,” she dared.
When he gave her a disbelieving eye-roll, she added, “It’s not all about control, House.”
“Not all,” he agreed quietly. “Sometimes it’s about fun -- and control. Sometimes it’s about comfort -- and control. Sometimes, it’s about, claim -- and control. But control is always in there somewhere.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
“It might not, if you,” he pointed, “were even marginally capable of letting go, without being forced to. But since you’re you, it does.”
“Me!?” Why did she talk to him, try to seduce him, when she knew he was only going to aggravate her? “You forget, I’ve been tracking your porn preferences for years.”
“There is a fine line for you, between horny and pissed off,” he informed her curtly.
“Guess which side of that line I’m on now?”
“It’s interesting,” he allowed. “A little kinky, but interesting.”
“I’m not having this discussion with you. The testosterone buildup is poisoning your brain.”
“You bite. You scratch, you bruise, you smack, you pull my hair. And not because you’re fighting me -- because you, Lisa Cuddy, are fighting you. You remember what happened, the last time we had a three-week dry spell?”
“Vaguely. It was over in twenty minutes,” she answered haughtily.
House pulled his head back. “You didn’t complain.”
“Because it was a perfectly adequate twenty minutes.”
“I’m thinking long-term celibacy might just relax your apparently exacting standards,” he threatened.
“We’ll never know, will we?”
House did some serious thinking. “Dry off, and come to bed,” he said, with a cold look in his eyes that short-circuited her ability to strategize. “Don’t bother dressing.”
“Where are you going?”
“To dose up on my pain meds.”
When House entered the bedroom again he wasn’t the least bit surprised to find Cuddy sitting on the bed, wearing one of his favorite t-shirts and a truly hideous pair of yoga pants.
“Damn it, Woman. You really cannot do what I tell you to do, to save your life, can you?” he asked, nuzzling her neck. He punctuated that with a smack, and then a caress of her buttock. Without pausing to savor the soft massage that she was applying to his neck and shoulders, he loosely pinned her hands together up over her head.
She squirmed and rocked her hips upward. “That’s just priceless, coming from you.”
He refused to be baited by this, and took the opportunity to roughly pull the yoga pants down to her knees.
They were now beyond familiar with one another’s bodies, the others’ physical thresholds and pleasure points well known. They’d mapped one another so thoroughly and explored one another so frequently that, when desire or need flared in either of them, sexual satisfaction was - under constraints of age, chronic pain, and long term opiate and alcohol abuse, and except for that one time, which did not count - more or less a given.
But, as in chess, or boxing, the erratic moods and emotional impulses that so intrigued, maddened, and occasionally bewildered him, added layers of complexity, bringing an element of unpredictability. There might be limited positions, maneuvers, strategies, but there was no end to the permutations of lavish generosity, demand, playfulness, passion, fierceness, that they brought to each bout.
House couldn’t fully explain it logically, and for dread of inflaming Cuddy’s crazy ego would never state it aloud, but the very thing that introduced so much conflict and challenge into daily life with the woman, was a big part of what made him keep making his way, panting and drooling, back to her like this.
“Mind if I take my pants off the rest of the way?”
“I prefer you not move,” he answered softly, but with finality, and went in for a hard bruising kiss against her collarbone.
He could sense her almost frantic reaction to being constrained slowly subside, washed through and then overcome with a lustful, expectant contentment. Her impotent struggle to free her hands or legs stilled, her arms and trunk relaxed, and she only strained her neck to redirect the kisses toward a spot near her jugular.
“Good,” he murmured, as that singular act of trust shot warmth straight down to his groin. He scraped his teeth against the hollow of her throat and down between her breasts, eliciting an inarticulate moan, and let his imagination launch itself toward the other sounds he knew he could make her make, the other ministrations that could force them out. His fingers tracing her more placid fingers, lingering on the gold band, he drew back and allowed himself a long and sensuous examination of the spitfire, the package of fiery energy and conflicting needs that comprised his wife, now under his body, and under his control. His.
Releasing her hands he drew a long fingertip across her forehead, brushing the brows, angling a knuckle down along the jawbone, and finally, with elaborate care, touched her lips. Cuddy watched, entranced, and made a low humming noise. She looked as though she virtually ached to lick, to kiss, to bite, to suck, to devour; just looking at her, his own mind was practically vibrating with hunger, all concentrated on that beautiful, skilled lipsticked little mouth of hers.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he shook his head. “Not this time.”
“You’re turning down a good fluffing? There’s no pleasing some people,” she teased.
He gave her a slow, sardonic, smile. “I have, as you were all too quick to point out earlier, limited energies. It would be better if I did not have to waste any on subduing you. Onto your stomach. Now.”
“Bossy much? I’m tired,” she mumbled unenthusiastically.
“How fortunate, that what I have in mind requires very little exertion from you, then.”
She stiffened her shoulders reflexively, and somewhat fearfully, when House took off his pajamas, tugged the shirt off over her head and reached for the bedside table drawer, but she let out a breath of relief and pleasure when he warmed his hands together and smeared massage oil in long strokes along her back. For several minutes he ran his hands down her shoulders to her buttocks and up again, appreciating the lovely sight of the little ripples and shivers moving along her spine.
“Ouch,” she mumbled into the pillow. “Take it easy.”
“If you trust me, it won’t hurt.”
He alternated between strong kneading moves and rhythmic and delicate rolls and stretches, sending frictional heat through the tight tendons and ligaments.
His hands moved in slow intentional circles around the rounded buttocks before slipping between her thighs again, prompting her to struggle against her clothing as she tried to spread her legs wider in invitation.
“Niiiiice,” he drawled, and trailed his fingers around her labia, and along the folds, feeling his penis filling, his scrotum becoming hot and heavy, watching with approval as fine tremors made a quick dance across the planes of her body.
He pressed an oiled finger into her, taking his time, making sure to miss not a single centimeter of her complicated, intricate, sexual core. Rolling his thumb over her clit, he added another finger, and then another, fucking her with them, relishing the increasingly erotically contented noises she was making.
“House,” she breathed. “House, please.”
That inspired him. He pushed the pants down completely, reached again for the oil, and positioned himself down between her now widespread legs, resting his weight on his forearms on either side of her. He pressed himself forward, placing his cock into the cleft of that shapely, imminently spankable ass.
True to her nature, immediately she tried to push back against him. She whined, low in her throat, when his bulk kept her prone, at his mercy. He nibbled at the delicate shell of her ear, gliding his cock up and along the cleft of her ass again and again, doing those slow, modified, tantalizing, modified pushups.
"On your knees," he ordered quietly, and broke the contact with reluctance.
She complied, hands splayed on the mattress, tensing as if bracing for a rough pounding. House took in the sight of her from the rear, her ass thrust upward slightly, brushing his fingertips along her flanks, then petting the triangle of hair, stroking the split of her ass with the side of one flattened hand. Unable to resist it any longer, he touched himself, cupping both balls in the curl of his other hand.
Wrapping an arm around her, he established a slow even tempo, one hand on his own cock and another cupping her breast. When he let his hand go back to her pussy, Cuddy tried to push back brutally, tried to urge him to quicken the pace, but House anchored her in place by the hips, eliciting some deliciously desperate sounds.
They both felt his cock against her growing harder as she started to plead, and that proved his point, but House was too distracted with his own burning body, and the one that was quickly losing control beneath him, to care about winning the argument. Heat was coiling up in his stomach; sparks of his oncoming climax were already rolling up his spine, his testicles beginning to contract.
In the effort of continuing to breathe, Cuddy -- safe, secure, overwhelmed, invaded, Cuddy -- bent forward and rested her head on her crossed arms. That posture of surrender, and the fact that even over the imploring of her own body she didn’t touch herself, instead gripping the mattress and clenching the sheets with her fists, was what tipped him over the edge.
He always had had a weird thing about her fists.
He flopped down on his back and stretched his legs. “Finish,” he commanded gently.
Cuddy, head thrown back, eyes closed and mouth open, her hands falling to her crotch, needed no further encouragement. A few moments later she orgasmed and fell into his waiting arms.
“Call that one a tie?” she offered, following him to the shower.
House wrapped his hands around her arms and kept her on her feet as she almost slipped on the wet tiles. “In your dreams, Beautiful.”
And in his, too.
Part 5: Of chickens, home to roost.
Pairing: House/Cuddy established..
Warning: Explicit content in this chapter. It is always safe to assume some angst.
Summary: Control issues, they haz ‘ em. But they do have a way of working through them.
Comments welcome.
Cuddy was not the sentimental type of mother who saved every memento and cherished every first, but these evenings at home alone with Rachel were carving their own place in her heart. She’d pictured single motherhood as a series of challenges that would require nerve, energy, ferocity; she’d stocked up on clear-eyed determination and endurance. She never reckoned on equal portions of fanciful stories and fruit-scented bubble bath, on Disney princesses and stuffed animals.
Rachel scooted back onto her bed, admiring her new pedicure. “I mean,” she said gravely, “if it makes sense that a piggy goes to market, it also makes sense that it could stay home. So, that’s fine. And that little piggy who went ‘wee wee wee’ all the way home, I understand him best of all because he was just doing what piggies do. And the one who had none - well, that’s sad, but it isn’t weird. But that piggy who ate roast beef. Why would a pig, eat part of a cow?”
Cuddy sat down on the edge of the bed and smoothed the covers. She was trying to provide the consistent nighttime routine that the school counselor - and her mother, and Julia, and it seemed as though every parenting book ever written -- recommended. It was well established in the literature that children without proper sleep habits were more likely to be aggressive and distractible.
“It’s just a nursery rhyme, Rachel.”
“I’ll text House and ask him.”
It had been House’s idea to give Rachel, who could scarcely remember to keep her glasses on her head, an outrageously expensive smartphone - supposedly as a safety measure, so she could have at her fingertips a way to contact any of the dozen people in her intricate network of chauffeurs, parental substitutes, and paid caregivers.
“He may not answer, Sweetie,” Cuddy warned tolerantly. “He’s probably concentrating on his poker game. But if you promise to go right to sleep, okay.”
Rachel seized her phone from the charger on the nightstand and found her contact list: MOM, HOUSE, FSU, WILSON, CHASE, MRS ELKIN, COACH COS, NANA, AUNT JULIA, EMMA.
Well, at least Cuddy rated the top of the list. Resigned, she spelled out the message and let Rachel painstakingly key it in and hit “send.”
“Can you show me how to use the camera? I want to take a picture of my blue sparkly toes.”
“Fine, but then it’s lights out for good.”
She was getting Rachel settled under the yellow and plaid pink comforter, when a familiar ping! announced a message:
bcs he was hungry, duh. pigs r omnivores. go to bed.
“What’s an omnivore? How do you spell ‘pretty’?”
“P-R-“
“One t or two?”
“Two.” Cuddy let her impatience out in a short huff. “Rachel.”
It could be worse, she supposed. According to the private therapist the school had referred her to, many children Rachel’s age were still spending part of one to three nights every week in their parents’ beds.
Thankfully, House put the kibosh on that practice the one time the subject arose, during a thunderstorm when Rachel was four.
“This bed is the one place I have you all to myself,” he’d said, without a trace of irritation or compromise. “I’m not sharing you here.” Without another word he’d hoisted Rachel over his shoulder and carried her, giggling, back to her own bed.
Rachel beamed down at her beloved new gadget, and sent another, two-word, text, proudly attaching the picture all by herself. The response came back immediately:
pretty resourceful. now GO TO BED.
Just after midnight, House came plundering into the master bathroom, where Cuddy was soaking in the Jacuzzi, up to her neck in soap bubbles, a glass of white wine on the tiles beside her, reading The Spirited Child.
He scratched his bare chest, yawned, and rubbed the stubble on his cheeks, making a face at his reflection, squeezing his cheeks together and turning his face this way and that. It should have looked comical, but it was surprisingly endearing, and -- just a little -- sexy.
“I underestimated my newest duckling,” he groused, pumping some toothpaste onto his brush.
“By how much?”
“You don’t wanna know,” he mumbled around a mouthful of suds.
“Of course I do. If you don’t tell me I’m sure Kate will - publicly.”
House rinsed his mouth. “Two hundred and forty-eight dollars.”
Cuddy laughed and put her book down. “No backsies. You hired her, Genius, and you’re stuck with her. And I warn you, if you even try to make her so miserable that she quits, I’ll create a committee just to make you the chair of it.”
“I’m not going to get rid of her,” he scoffed, “until I get my money back.”
Cuddy stretched one leg out of the frothy bubbles. “You aren’t wearing a t-shirt, what’s that about? Did Stephens take you for the shirt off your back, too?”
“You,” he accused, “have been sticking your hand up under the arm of my t-shirt while I’m trying to sleep, fondling my manly muscles.”
“It tickles?”
“It annoys. And it stretches the fabric.”
“Sorry,” she lied. She made a little splash as she lifted the wineglass. He looked pensively at her calf, silky-smooth, shiny with soap. She twirled her ankle, arching her foot, stretching languidly back against the tub. She took a sip of wine and inhaled blissfully, the steam loosening her lungs. Stray bubbles pooled in her collarbone, dampening the hair at the nape of her neck, pinking her complexion.
“You missed a spot,” House noted, but his eyes had grown slightly hazy.
“Oh, damn.” Cuddy pursed her lips together, leaned forward, trailing her breasts over the surface of the scented bubbles, and retrieved her razor from the edge of the tub. She held it up invitingly, and moved in for the kill: “Get it for me?”
By way of answer, he folded his arms over his chest and smirked at her. She studied his face, looking for anger, but there was only arrogance, excitement, and the hint of a fragile smile.
“You really want to put an implement, a sharp object, in my hands and give me access to your tender, unmarked, skin?”
Cuddy lifted her head and jutted her chin out defiantly, planning her next move. How had he suddenly begun to take up so much space in this small room? “I’ll give you access to mine if you give me access to yours,” she dared.
When he gave her a disbelieving eye-roll, she added, “It’s not all about control, House.”
“Not all,” he agreed quietly. “Sometimes it’s about fun -- and control. Sometimes it’s about comfort -- and control. Sometimes, it’s about, claim -- and control. But control is always in there somewhere.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
“It might not, if you,” he pointed, “were even marginally capable of letting go, without being forced to. But since you’re you, it does.”
“Me!?” Why did she talk to him, try to seduce him, when she knew he was only going to aggravate her? “You forget, I’ve been tracking your porn preferences for years.”
“There is a fine line for you, between horny and pissed off,” he informed her curtly.
“Guess which side of that line I’m on now?”
“It’s interesting,” he allowed. “A little kinky, but interesting.”
“I’m not having this discussion with you. The testosterone buildup is poisoning your brain.”
“You bite. You scratch, you bruise, you smack, you pull my hair. And not because you’re fighting me -- because you, Lisa Cuddy, are fighting you. You remember what happened, the last time we had a three-week dry spell?”
“Vaguely. It was over in twenty minutes,” she answered haughtily.
House pulled his head back. “You didn’t complain.”
“Because it was a perfectly adequate twenty minutes.”
“I’m thinking long-term celibacy might just relax your apparently exacting standards,” he threatened.
“We’ll never know, will we?”
House did some serious thinking. “Dry off, and come to bed,” he said, with a cold look in his eyes that short-circuited her ability to strategize. “Don’t bother dressing.”
“Where are you going?”
“To dose up on my pain meds.”
When House entered the bedroom again he wasn’t the least bit surprised to find Cuddy sitting on the bed, wearing one of his favorite t-shirts and a truly hideous pair of yoga pants.
“Damn it, Woman. You really cannot do what I tell you to do, to save your life, can you?” he asked, nuzzling her neck. He punctuated that with a smack, and then a caress of her buttock. Without pausing to savor the soft massage that she was applying to his neck and shoulders, he loosely pinned her hands together up over her head.
She squirmed and rocked her hips upward. “That’s just priceless, coming from you.”
He refused to be baited by this, and took the opportunity to roughly pull the yoga pants down to her knees.
They were now beyond familiar with one another’s bodies, the others’ physical thresholds and pleasure points well known. They’d mapped one another so thoroughly and explored one another so frequently that, when desire or need flared in either of them, sexual satisfaction was - under constraints of age, chronic pain, and long term opiate and alcohol abuse, and except for that one time, which did not count - more or less a given.
But, as in chess, or boxing, the erratic moods and emotional impulses that so intrigued, maddened, and occasionally bewildered him, added layers of complexity, bringing an element of unpredictability. There might be limited positions, maneuvers, strategies, but there was no end to the permutations of lavish generosity, demand, playfulness, passion, fierceness, that they brought to each bout.
House couldn’t fully explain it logically, and for dread of inflaming Cuddy’s crazy ego would never state it aloud, but the very thing that introduced so much conflict and challenge into daily life with the woman, was a big part of what made him keep making his way, panting and drooling, back to her like this.
“Mind if I take my pants off the rest of the way?”
“I prefer you not move,” he answered softly, but with finality, and went in for a hard bruising kiss against her collarbone.
He could sense her almost frantic reaction to being constrained slowly subside, washed through and then overcome with a lustful, expectant contentment. Her impotent struggle to free her hands or legs stilled, her arms and trunk relaxed, and she only strained her neck to redirect the kisses toward a spot near her jugular.
“Good,” he murmured, as that singular act of trust shot warmth straight down to his groin. He scraped his teeth against the hollow of her throat and down between her breasts, eliciting an inarticulate moan, and let his imagination launch itself toward the other sounds he knew he could make her make, the other ministrations that could force them out. His fingers tracing her more placid fingers, lingering on the gold band, he drew back and allowed himself a long and sensuous examination of the spitfire, the package of fiery energy and conflicting needs that comprised his wife, now under his body, and under his control. His.
Releasing her hands he drew a long fingertip across her forehead, brushing the brows, angling a knuckle down along the jawbone, and finally, with elaborate care, touched her lips. Cuddy watched, entranced, and made a low humming noise. She looked as though she virtually ached to lick, to kiss, to bite, to suck, to devour; just looking at her, his own mind was practically vibrating with hunger, all concentrated on that beautiful, skilled lipsticked little mouth of hers.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he shook his head. “Not this time.”
“You’re turning down a good fluffing? There’s no pleasing some people,” she teased.
He gave her a slow, sardonic, smile. “I have, as you were all too quick to point out earlier, limited energies. It would be better if I did not have to waste any on subduing you. Onto your stomach. Now.”
“Bossy much? I’m tired,” she mumbled unenthusiastically.
“How fortunate, that what I have in mind requires very little exertion from you, then.”
She stiffened her shoulders reflexively, and somewhat fearfully, when House took off his pajamas, tugged the shirt off over her head and reached for the bedside table drawer, but she let out a breath of relief and pleasure when he warmed his hands together and smeared massage oil in long strokes along her back. For several minutes he ran his hands down her shoulders to her buttocks and up again, appreciating the lovely sight of the little ripples and shivers moving along her spine.
“Ouch,” she mumbled into the pillow. “Take it easy.”
“If you trust me, it won’t hurt.”
He alternated between strong kneading moves and rhythmic and delicate rolls and stretches, sending frictional heat through the tight tendons and ligaments.
His hands moved in slow intentional circles around the rounded buttocks before slipping between her thighs again, prompting her to struggle against her clothing as she tried to spread her legs wider in invitation.
“Niiiiice,” he drawled, and trailed his fingers around her labia, and along the folds, feeling his penis filling, his scrotum becoming hot and heavy, watching with approval as fine tremors made a quick dance across the planes of her body.
He pressed an oiled finger into her, taking his time, making sure to miss not a single centimeter of her complicated, intricate, sexual core. Rolling his thumb over her clit, he added another finger, and then another, fucking her with them, relishing the increasingly erotically contented noises she was making.
“House,” she breathed. “House, please.”
That inspired him. He pushed the pants down completely, reached again for the oil, and positioned himself down between her now widespread legs, resting his weight on his forearms on either side of her. He pressed himself forward, placing his cock into the cleft of that shapely, imminently spankable ass.
True to her nature, immediately she tried to push back against him. She whined, low in her throat, when his bulk kept her prone, at his mercy. He nibbled at the delicate shell of her ear, gliding his cock up and along the cleft of her ass again and again, doing those slow, modified, tantalizing, modified pushups.
"On your knees," he ordered quietly, and broke the contact with reluctance.
She complied, hands splayed on the mattress, tensing as if bracing for a rough pounding. House took in the sight of her from the rear, her ass thrust upward slightly, brushing his fingertips along her flanks, then petting the triangle of hair, stroking the split of her ass with the side of one flattened hand. Unable to resist it any longer, he touched himself, cupping both balls in the curl of his other hand.
Wrapping an arm around her, he established a slow even tempo, one hand on his own cock and another cupping her breast. When he let his hand go back to her pussy, Cuddy tried to push back brutally, tried to urge him to quicken the pace, but House anchored her in place by the hips, eliciting some deliciously desperate sounds.
They both felt his cock against her growing harder as she started to plead, and that proved his point, but House was too distracted with his own burning body, and the one that was quickly losing control beneath him, to care about winning the argument. Heat was coiling up in his stomach; sparks of his oncoming climax were already rolling up his spine, his testicles beginning to contract.
In the effort of continuing to breathe, Cuddy -- safe, secure, overwhelmed, invaded, Cuddy -- bent forward and rested her head on her crossed arms. That posture of surrender, and the fact that even over the imploring of her own body she didn’t touch herself, instead gripping the mattress and clenching the sheets with her fists, was what tipped him over the edge.
He always had had a weird thing about her fists.
He flopped down on his back and stretched his legs. “Finish,” he commanded gently.
Cuddy, head thrown back, eyes closed and mouth open, her hands falling to her crotch, needed no further encouragement. A few moments later she orgasmed and fell into his waiting arms.
“Call that one a tie?” she offered, following him to the shower.
House wrapped his hands around her arms and kept her on her feet as she almost slipped on the wet tiles. “In your dreams, Beautiful.”
And in his, too.
Part 5: Of chickens, home to roost.