Coming To Terms, Chapter 2B
Title: Coming to Terms, Chapter 2/10
Fandom: House, MD
Pairings: House/Cuddy, Wilson friendship
Warnings: This is one of the later chapters with explicit content.
Summary: In the weeks following "Help Me", House, Wilson and Cuddy all have some adjustments to make.
Disclaimer: Seriously? You do know I am not David Shore, right?
She felt some of the tension withdraw as they kissed - all right, she cringed inwardly, as they made out like teenagers -- and his gaze moved to some spot south of her clavicle.
He moved his leg, and an awareness of the heat of him - evidence of him, of the solid immutable fact of him - shot up her torso in a slow, sexual burn. Where the hell had that come from, and how had he - how had they - managed to keep it stoked, half-smothered, controlled - all this time? Already, it was rising off their skins, scorching the oxygen, as his hand dropped to her thigh.
“Relax,” he commanded. “I’m not going to eat you. Yet.”
That sounded incredibly promising -- or would have, anyway, if she had been listening to a word he said. Unfortunately his sudden lack of initiative was making it hard to pay attention. If he did not move that hand from her thigh and touch her someplace else - someplace better, someplace warmer, someplace nicer, like one of those tight, aching places he was forever staring at and which was now virtually screaming to be touched - she was going to spontaneously combust, just disappear into a shower of sparks and ash of wanting, right here on this couch.
She grasped his face in her hands, and it was like there was some kind of dragon inside of her, some beast of wings and flame that had no idea how stupid and dangerous this was, had no memory of how much she hated House, hated to need. Touch me, it was roaring in her ears, easing into her awareness as she wanted him to ease into her. Shut up and touch me.
He did; perhaps she’d said it out loud. His hand crept up her leg, fell to her buttocks, caressed the rounded part of her ass, the thumb stealing its deliberate way under her skirt and to the edge of her panties. He toyed with the border of lace and elastic, then his slid his hand up and around the waistband of her skirt, and tugged her blouse out of it. His palm feathered over her ribs.
She moved into him, lifting his hand to her breast. He held it still, cupping, watching her face, still not touching her bare skin, simply transferring his body heat to the already smoldering level of her own.
“Look at me,” he said softly.
The dragon didn’t want to let her; she felt exposed and vulnerable. She ducked her head and laid it on his chest, seeking refuge in the comfort of his heartbeat in her ear, and closed her eyes, looking for shielding, any defense at all against the terrible, overwhelming intimacy she knew was approaching.
His mouth found hers, direct and gently insistent. House - the same House who was all-in, one hundred percent committed to anything he did -- was tentative now, running his tongue over hers in a tantalizing whisper of a caress. His eyes on her were those of a starving man, but ever a contradiction, he kept his mouth open only a margin, tasting, savoring, not devouring, not greedy; feeding her, actually, drugging her, with these slow, generous kisses, until, brought to her boiling point, she leaned into the hand that was frustratingly unmoving against her breast, sank her fingers into the back of his neck and tore into his open lips.
His breathing accelerated, and he pressed dry kisses over her cheek, against her jaw. When he sucked the skin at her neck, his mouth open and hot, she swallowed a moan and clenched her thighs together, rocking into him in order to sustain a sweet flash of pleasure.
They both looked down at his hand on her breast, and then his mouth curled up into a smile, and her stomach clenched in dread and excitement, and then, slowly, god damn the man, excruciatingly slowly, his thumb swooped over the center of her breast, and she flushed and treated him to a frustrated little whimper.
The touch was muted by the bra, but even so, she felt blood burning in her veins.
“Relax,” he said again, his voice and expression serious. “I know that there are, conservative estimate, a hundred and twelve ways that I can destroy this. But I promise you, being a pig with you in bed is not going to be one of them. I’m going to do this right.”
She was not, had never been, the sort of woman that men made promises to. And “right”, as she perceived it this moment, was three layers of clothing away and twenty feet down the hall.
“Bed. Now,” she said, and delivered a kiss of her own. This one was a bit more demanding than she might have preferred to be if she were serious about maintaining her dignity, but she felt him grinning into it, rubbing his rough tongue over hers. She curled her fingers into his t-shirt in order to grasp at the hard muscles underneath the cotton, as sensible thoughts - they should talk about this, they should be sure about this, they probably shouldn’t do this - turned to smoke. Rattled by her own audacity, she yanked hard on the fistful of fabric, pulling him up. He took the hint, and they made their way to his bedroom together, anticipation making itself known in little surges of warmth between her legs.
He dropped his eyes to the buttons of her blouse, smiling smugly and batting her hands away when she reached up to undo them. “I’ve got this.”
She unzipped and stepped out of her skirt, as he deliberately unfastened the blouse buttons from the bottom up, then pushed it off her shoulders along with her bra straps. He limped forward a step, took her in his arms, and unfastened the bra behind her back. She felt him shudder, and closed her eyes as his beard scraped into the crook of her neck and nuzzled across her face. When she opened them again, he was gazing at her bare flesh, his eyes bright, and his pulse visible in the scar on his neck. She glanced down, just a bit nervously, at the stiff jut of her nipples.
“Wuhhuhhoe.” His eyes widened and he inhaled sharply. “That, is much better than my imagination.”
She laughed - it sounded low and sexy, even to her own ears; God only knew how he’d brought her to the point where she was arousing herself -- and nudged him backward onto the bed, his legs spread, his feet still on the floor. Her legs between his, careful of his ruined thigh, and achingly aware of his obvious erection, she leaned her arms on either side of his head on the bed. He brushed both thumbs across the tips of her nipples, and traced light circles around each areola.
“Don’t get pushy,” he warned, as she moved to unfasten his belt, “or I’ll stop.”
“Idle threat if I ever heard one,” she said, looking pointedly down at his hardness. “And if you stop - if you even think about stopping -- I’ll kill you. Slowly, painfully.”
“You’re already doing that." He lifted his ass up as she pulled off his jeans, and with two hands on his right thigh he drew up properly onto the bed.
She moved to lie beside him, needing to get closer, to press all of her soft parts into all of his hard ones, but he placed his palm on her shoulder and held her at bay.
“Slow down,” he said.
That would be a no, the dragon said. I don’t think so. You do not get to work me into this state of extreme agitation, for years -- years, -- you unconscionable flirt, and then tell me to slow down. You do not get to do that.
But Cuddy, who was tired and cautious and perhaps just a little too well socialized for her own good, acquiesced. House directed her movements, making sure she was nestled comfortably on her back, before he bowed his head down and planted a tender kiss at her collarbone, then the lobe of her ear, then her chin. Finally, with an exquisite, aching slowness that caused her mind to spin, he lowered his mouth to her breast.
She felt the shock of the touch of his tongue on her nipple all down her spine, and her back arched. He looped one long wiry arm behind her and supported her tightly, as with the other hand he squeezed, and then he latched his lips, and sucked.
His tongue worked the thick nub, lashing against it relentlessly, flicking, as the wet warmth and pressure of his mouth pinched and drew it in. When he shifted focus to the other breast, tasting and teasing it even as his free hand kept up its delicious assault on the now achingly lonely nipple of the one he’d just abandoned, she felt a coil of pleasure tighten, building unmercifully in her pelvis.
His mouth and hand so engaged, his eyes lifted to her face, and the erotic power of the clarity, the purposefulness, of his focus, combined with the swell and hollow of his cheeks as he sucked and the twitch of his thumb against her nipple as it bloomed, getting harder and redder, enveloped her imagination along with every sense. She was unable to see, to think about, to feel, anything else.
Until he slid his hand away from her nipple and moved it to the warm slickness between her legs.
He reached in between her tightly clenched thighs, pressing the heel of his calloused hand into the soft pad of flesh. She tilted her hips and spread her legs, and he pushed her panties aside with one knowing finger, finding just the right place, just the right rhythm, the right degree of friction. As she bucked her legs and let go, the scrape of his teeth and the sound of his moan pushed her irrevocably and deliriously over the edge.
He rode through the ripples of her orgasm and withdrew his mouth and hand gradually, waiting until the last shudders had died away before he lifted his head and let out one long, eloquent sigh. He settled back down beside her and pulled her into a loose embrace, as she reacquainted herself with her nervous system.
“House, “she said some minutes later, with dawning horror.
“Hmm?” There was still desire on his face, but now it was blended with drowsy contentment.
“Did I. Did I … scream?”
“Yes,” he said matter-of-factly. “Don’t worry about the neighbors; it’s four o’clock in the afternoon and they all work. They’d just be jealous anyway.”
“But you don’t want - I haven’t -- what about you?” Shame flushed her face. “I messed this up.” Jesus Christ, one time. “I’m not usually selfish like that, House, you have to believe me.”
“What? Selfish?” He rose onto his elbows. “Wait, you think your screaming turned me off? You’re an idiot.”
“You mean…?”
“Let’s just say, that was to our extreme mutual satisfaction.” He took her hand and placed it over the soaked front of his boxers. "And before you ask -- no, this is not a side effect. There is no problem with my staying power and everything is in working order, thank you."
“Oh.” Instead of feeling relieved, or even intrigued, she felt puzzled, embarrassed, and slightly more freaked out than ever.
He regarded her warily, as if she was confusing him again. “That’s never happened to you before, am I right?”
She didn’t know if he meant the screaming part, or the lover getting off on her orgasm part. Although the answer to both was a definite yes, damn it, you’re right, you’re always right, it’s your worst feature, and although he certainly seemed sincere enough, it sounded like a trick question.
She responded reflexively the way she always did to any question to which she didn’t have a ready answer: by getting highly pissed off.
“How unbearably, obnoxiously pleased with yourself are you going to be if I say yes?” she snapped.
“Pretty sure you just did. Is that really a problem?”
It boggled her mind a bit to think that just the sight and smell and taste and sound of her coming could bring him along, but she refused to be flattered by it; a hair trigger was symptomatic of adolescence, and like a teenager, he more or less had sex on the brain all the time.
“Not a problem. I just didn’t. I don’t want you to think I expect.” Her communications skills failed her.
“Cuddy,” he said reasonably, “you’re scaring me a little. How about neither one of us expects anything?"
Chapter 3 Chapter 4
Fandom: House, MD
Pairings: House/Cuddy, Wilson friendship
Warnings: This is one of the later chapters with explicit content.
Summary: In the weeks following "Help Me", House, Wilson and Cuddy all have some adjustments to make.
Disclaimer: Seriously? You do know I am not David Shore, right?
She felt some of the tension withdraw as they kissed - all right, she cringed inwardly, as they made out like teenagers -- and his gaze moved to some spot south of her clavicle.
He moved his leg, and an awareness of the heat of him - evidence of him, of the solid immutable fact of him - shot up her torso in a slow, sexual burn. Where the hell had that come from, and how had he - how had they - managed to keep it stoked, half-smothered, controlled - all this time? Already, it was rising off their skins, scorching the oxygen, as his hand dropped to her thigh.
“Relax,” he commanded. “I’m not going to eat you. Yet.”
That sounded incredibly promising -- or would have, anyway, if she had been listening to a word he said. Unfortunately his sudden lack of initiative was making it hard to pay attention. If he did not move that hand from her thigh and touch her someplace else - someplace better, someplace warmer, someplace nicer, like one of those tight, aching places he was forever staring at and which was now virtually screaming to be touched - she was going to spontaneously combust, just disappear into a shower of sparks and ash of wanting, right here on this couch.
She grasped his face in her hands, and it was like there was some kind of dragon inside of her, some beast of wings and flame that had no idea how stupid and dangerous this was, had no memory of how much she hated House, hated to need. Touch me, it was roaring in her ears, easing into her awareness as she wanted him to ease into her. Shut up and touch me.
He did; perhaps she’d said it out loud. His hand crept up her leg, fell to her buttocks, caressed the rounded part of her ass, the thumb stealing its deliberate way under her skirt and to the edge of her panties. He toyed with the border of lace and elastic, then his slid his hand up and around the waistband of her skirt, and tugged her blouse out of it. His palm feathered over her ribs.
She moved into him, lifting his hand to her breast. He held it still, cupping, watching her face, still not touching her bare skin, simply transferring his body heat to the already smoldering level of her own.
“Look at me,” he said softly.
The dragon didn’t want to let her; she felt exposed and vulnerable. She ducked her head and laid it on his chest, seeking refuge in the comfort of his heartbeat in her ear, and closed her eyes, looking for shielding, any defense at all against the terrible, overwhelming intimacy she knew was approaching.
His mouth found hers, direct and gently insistent. House - the same House who was all-in, one hundred percent committed to anything he did -- was tentative now, running his tongue over hers in a tantalizing whisper of a caress. His eyes on her were those of a starving man, but ever a contradiction, he kept his mouth open only a margin, tasting, savoring, not devouring, not greedy; feeding her, actually, drugging her, with these slow, generous kisses, until, brought to her boiling point, she leaned into the hand that was frustratingly unmoving against her breast, sank her fingers into the back of his neck and tore into his open lips.
His breathing accelerated, and he pressed dry kisses over her cheek, against her jaw. When he sucked the skin at her neck, his mouth open and hot, she swallowed a moan and clenched her thighs together, rocking into him in order to sustain a sweet flash of pleasure.
They both looked down at his hand on her breast, and then his mouth curled up into a smile, and her stomach clenched in dread and excitement, and then, slowly, god damn the man, excruciatingly slowly, his thumb swooped over the center of her breast, and she flushed and treated him to a frustrated little whimper.
The touch was muted by the bra, but even so, she felt blood burning in her veins.
“Relax,” he said again, his voice and expression serious. “I know that there are, conservative estimate, a hundred and twelve ways that I can destroy this. But I promise you, being a pig with you in bed is not going to be one of them. I’m going to do this right.”
She was not, had never been, the sort of woman that men made promises to. And “right”, as she perceived it this moment, was three layers of clothing away and twenty feet down the hall.
“Bed. Now,” she said, and delivered a kiss of her own. This one was a bit more demanding than she might have preferred to be if she were serious about maintaining her dignity, but she felt him grinning into it, rubbing his rough tongue over hers. She curled her fingers into his t-shirt in order to grasp at the hard muscles underneath the cotton, as sensible thoughts - they should talk about this, they should be sure about this, they probably shouldn’t do this - turned to smoke. Rattled by her own audacity, she yanked hard on the fistful of fabric, pulling him up. He took the hint, and they made their way to his bedroom together, anticipation making itself known in little surges of warmth between her legs.
He dropped his eyes to the buttons of her blouse, smiling smugly and batting her hands away when she reached up to undo them. “I’ve got this.”
She unzipped and stepped out of her skirt, as he deliberately unfastened the blouse buttons from the bottom up, then pushed it off her shoulders along with her bra straps. He limped forward a step, took her in his arms, and unfastened the bra behind her back. She felt him shudder, and closed her eyes as his beard scraped into the crook of her neck and nuzzled across her face. When she opened them again, he was gazing at her bare flesh, his eyes bright, and his pulse visible in the scar on his neck. She glanced down, just a bit nervously, at the stiff jut of her nipples.
“Wuhhuhhoe.” His eyes widened and he inhaled sharply. “That, is much better than my imagination.”
She laughed - it sounded low and sexy, even to her own ears; God only knew how he’d brought her to the point where she was arousing herself -- and nudged him backward onto the bed, his legs spread, his feet still on the floor. Her legs between his, careful of his ruined thigh, and achingly aware of his obvious erection, she leaned her arms on either side of his head on the bed. He brushed both thumbs across the tips of her nipples, and traced light circles around each areola.
“Don’t get pushy,” he warned, as she moved to unfasten his belt, “or I’ll stop.”
“Idle threat if I ever heard one,” she said, looking pointedly down at his hardness. “And if you stop - if you even think about stopping -- I’ll kill you. Slowly, painfully.”
“You’re already doing that." He lifted his ass up as she pulled off his jeans, and with two hands on his right thigh he drew up properly onto the bed.
She moved to lie beside him, needing to get closer, to press all of her soft parts into all of his hard ones, but he placed his palm on her shoulder and held her at bay.
“Slow down,” he said.
That would be a no, the dragon said. I don’t think so. You do not get to work me into this state of extreme agitation, for years -- years, -- you unconscionable flirt, and then tell me to slow down. You do not get to do that.
But Cuddy, who was tired and cautious and perhaps just a little too well socialized for her own good, acquiesced. House directed her movements, making sure she was nestled comfortably on her back, before he bowed his head down and planted a tender kiss at her collarbone, then the lobe of her ear, then her chin. Finally, with an exquisite, aching slowness that caused her mind to spin, he lowered his mouth to her breast.
She felt the shock of the touch of his tongue on her nipple all down her spine, and her back arched. He looped one long wiry arm behind her and supported her tightly, as with the other hand he squeezed, and then he latched his lips, and sucked.
His tongue worked the thick nub, lashing against it relentlessly, flicking, as the wet warmth and pressure of his mouth pinched and drew it in. When he shifted focus to the other breast, tasting and teasing it even as his free hand kept up its delicious assault on the now achingly lonely nipple of the one he’d just abandoned, she felt a coil of pleasure tighten, building unmercifully in her pelvis.
His mouth and hand so engaged, his eyes lifted to her face, and the erotic power of the clarity, the purposefulness, of his focus, combined with the swell and hollow of his cheeks as he sucked and the twitch of his thumb against her nipple as it bloomed, getting harder and redder, enveloped her imagination along with every sense. She was unable to see, to think about, to feel, anything else.
Until he slid his hand away from her nipple and moved it to the warm slickness between her legs.
He reached in between her tightly clenched thighs, pressing the heel of his calloused hand into the soft pad of flesh. She tilted her hips and spread her legs, and he pushed her panties aside with one knowing finger, finding just the right place, just the right rhythm, the right degree of friction. As she bucked her legs and let go, the scrape of his teeth and the sound of his moan pushed her irrevocably and deliriously over the edge.
He rode through the ripples of her orgasm and withdrew his mouth and hand gradually, waiting until the last shudders had died away before he lifted his head and let out one long, eloquent sigh. He settled back down beside her and pulled her into a loose embrace, as she reacquainted herself with her nervous system.
“House, “she said some minutes later, with dawning horror.
“Hmm?” There was still desire on his face, but now it was blended with drowsy contentment.
“Did I. Did I … scream?”
“Yes,” he said matter-of-factly. “Don’t worry about the neighbors; it’s four o’clock in the afternoon and they all work. They’d just be jealous anyway.”
“But you don’t want - I haven’t -- what about you?” Shame flushed her face. “I messed this up.” Jesus Christ, one time. “I’m not usually selfish like that, House, you have to believe me.”
“What? Selfish?” He rose onto his elbows. “Wait, you think your screaming turned me off? You’re an idiot.”
“You mean…?”
“Let’s just say, that was to our extreme mutual satisfaction.” He took her hand and placed it over the soaked front of his boxers. "And before you ask -- no, this is not a side effect. There is no problem with my staying power and everything is in working order, thank you."
“Oh.” Instead of feeling relieved, or even intrigued, she felt puzzled, embarrassed, and slightly more freaked out than ever.
He regarded her warily, as if she was confusing him again. “That’s never happened to you before, am I right?”
She didn’t know if he meant the screaming part, or the lover getting off on her orgasm part. Although the answer to both was a definite yes, damn it, you’re right, you’re always right, it’s your worst feature, and although he certainly seemed sincere enough, it sounded like a trick question.
She responded reflexively the way she always did to any question to which she didn’t have a ready answer: by getting highly pissed off.
“How unbearably, obnoxiously pleased with yourself are you going to be if I say yes?” she snapped.
“Pretty sure you just did. Is that really a problem?”
It boggled her mind a bit to think that just the sight and smell and taste and sound of her coming could bring him along, but she refused to be flattered by it; a hair trigger was symptomatic of adolescence, and like a teenager, he more or less had sex on the brain all the time.
“Not a problem. I just didn’t. I don’t want you to think I expect.” Her communications skills failed her.
“Cuddy,” he said reasonably, “you’re scaring me a little. How about neither one of us expects anything?"
Chapter 3 Chapter 4