Word Count: 2539
Summary: Missing scene from "Meaning"
Notes: Written for starhawk2005's birthday. She wanted House/Cuddy with forceful!House.
A/N: Thanks to my whole wonderful f-list for putting up with the whinging and whining and NOT saying (usually) "That's what you get for writing het."
Genuflection and ring-kissing to Beta Goddess Carol for helping me over-come serious self-doubt.
A Matter of Trust
House couldn’t just leave. Cuddy had refused his plea to give the patient a shot of cortisol, taken back her towel, and slammed down the window. He knew he should give up for now. He needed a shower and some sleep. In the morning, he could get the team working on finding proof for his theory. The kids had been slacking off too much lately while he was wowing coeds with his rad skateboard tricks.
He turned around and started doing lunges to stretch out his calves and alleviate the lactic acid burning in his legs.
He who turns and runs away… That was bullshit. House didn’t want to fight another day. He wanted to have it out with Cuddy right now. “This is as high as you get,” she’d said, knowing he wasn’t on drugs. He put two fingers to his carotid artery. His heart rate had dropped, but not much. He was still keyed up, probably from the run and the argument, and definitely from the sight of Cuddy in her nightgown. Even though he’d been too busy explaining the epiphany about Addison’s disease to summon a leer suitable to the occasion, his body had certainly registered the vision.
The sheer fabric let him almost feel the soft fullness of her body in a complete reversal of the “look, but don’t touch” sign of her work attire. He imagined the warm smoothness of her skin under his fingers and felt an emphatic reaction inside his running shorts.
How long had they been dancing around each other? So long that it had started when they were Greg and Lisa, moving in different circles at the University of Michigan, never getting past eye contact and passing greetings in the quad.
After “wasting” five years (according to his father) trying to decide if his love of puzzles could be reconciled with his distaste for most of humanity, he had accepted a position in the Nephrology department of PPTH where Lisa Cuddy was already making her way up the administrative ladder. The attraction had been obvious as the welcoming handshake lasted a fraction of a second too long and his eyes went directly to her cleavage.
“Did I bang you at Michigan?” he asked, causing the eyebrows of the incumbent hospital administrator to attempt their own shuttle launch.
“Not that I remember,” she shot back without a hint of wistfulness.
Within days they had become House and Cuddy, locked into their respective roles as obstacle and thorn. Cuddy was seeing the latest in a long line of Mr. Not Quite Rights. House had walked into a strip club looking for a laugh and come out with a constitutional lawyer named Stacy Roberts. The flirting could go on as long as both parties agreed to believe it was all a joke, until House went golfing with the new oncologist and Stacy got a call from Dr. Wilson saying she needed to get to the hospital right away.
With Stacy out of the picture and a large chunk of muscle out of his leg, House had focused his frustrations on Cuddy. Her low-cut blouses taunted him. She starred in his fantasies, usually performing some acrobatic feat that was no longer part of his sexual repertoire. She indulged his inappropriate behavior as though making an accommodation for his disability, but there were moments, maybe just glimpses, when their eyes met in the middle of a bristling fight about a patient and he thought, right now…right now, it could happen.
When she’d asked him to help with her fertility shots, House had been nearly awestruck by the rounded perfection of her ass. He’d been tempted to spin her around and fuck her legless, but the moment passed and sanity ruled the day.
Not this time, he thought, walking around the house to Cuddy’s front door. The ketamine had changed everything. He could perform the entire Kama Sutra if necessary (unless it wasn’t working, said a voice in his head. La la la, not listening, he replied. He rubbed a hand over his chin, realizing how grubby and grungy he was. Too bad, Cuddy. This is it.
She’d moved her key. He found the new fake rock in twenty seconds. His dick had hardened during his jog down memory lane and was now standing at full attention. If this didn’t work out he’d be whacking off on Cuddy’s front lawn.
He hadn’t formulated a game plan past the door. Maybe he’d visit the bathroom for a much-needed shower or just head straight for her bedroom and surprise the hell out of her. Maybe she’d scream with fear until she melted into his arms because she’d wanted him all along and was giving him permission for the cortisol to boot. OK, maybe not.
He did not expect to find her standing in the living room, arms folded, with an expression somewhere between “Are you out of your mind?” and “What took you so long?” Her mouth was already forming the word “House”. He dropped the key, paying no attention to where it landed, and grabbed her by the shoulders. Apparently she wasn’t expecting that. Probably still thought of him as a cripple, even though she knew better.
Cuddy’s body stiffened, instead of any cinematic melting he might have envisioned. He wondered if she’d actually knee him in the groin or just shake herself out of his grasp and start calling the cops. Then her hands came up around his neck, fingers cradling the back of his neck. Her mouth opened in invitation before he could force his way between her lips. He let her win their tongues’ battle for possession because why fight when she was driving him crazy with little forays under his upper lip and minty assaults against the roof of his mouth?
His hands slid downwards against the slippery fabric of her nightgown. He pulled her even closer, pressing her into his hardness. A low groan came out of her body and vibrated against his teeth. He felt himself groaning back. Their sounds made a crazy harmony together that ended when she pulled away for breath.
“OK,” she said, answering a question that House hadn’t bothered asking.
He tried to shut his brain up. He finally had Cuddy in his arms. The tits he’d mocked and ogled and caressed in his wettest dreams were pressed against his chest. The nipples hardened the way he always thought they would if he ever got this close. She had a hand in his hair, pulling him even closer.
Not pulling; stroking. Like a mother soothing a child. He didn’t want her affection or approval. He wanted her on her knees. He wanted Lisa Cuddy sucking his cock, because now he could stand over her while she did it. Now he had back what she’d helped to take away. House hadn’t realized how angry he was until he found himself pushing her down more forcefully than he’d ever done to anyone. He’d always been a bastard, but never that kind.
By rights, she should have stood her ground and belted him a good one to the chops. Instead she let him push her down and pull her face into his crotch. At least she had deep-pile carpet.
He was so aroused that the lightest touch of the shorts as she pulled them down his legs caused a tremor to go through his body. He couldn’t hide the need in the sound that came out when her hand wrapped around him. Acrylic nails teased down the shaft, making him even harder. For six years all his sexual feelings had been filtered through the pain and the drugs he took to numb it. He re-introduced himself to unadulterated sensation. Lips. Mouth. Touching him there. Like that.
And then he felt it. A smile. Cuddy was smiling against his cock, completely in control of the situation.
He gasped again as she did something with her tongue right against the tip that made him wonder if two healthy legs would be enough to keep him up when the time came. He didn’t want to. Not yet.
Maybe he really did think with his dick and she could read his mind that way. She let him go with a deliberately lewd slurp and let him help her back on to her feet.
“If I’d known you were that good, I would have banged you in college.”
“I was lousy in college. Puked the first time I tried to…”
“That’s not such a big turn-on.”
“Doesn’t look like you need one,” she said dryly, but with that edge of huskiness that made every word out of her mouth a turn-on, even when she was chewing him out. His running shorts were down around his ankles and his dick was standing straight up, clamoring for attention. “You really are a teenager.”
“Let’s go,” he said through clenched teeth. He didn’t think he could wait much longer.
“Aren’t you going to carry me?” she teased, actually batting her eyelashes. He couldn’t tell if she was mocking him or not.
Get over it. If you want swooning, fuck Cameron.
He pulled her back to him and turned her around. The nightgown fell away from her body; a flick of the straps and she was completely naked. He stepped out of the shorts. Nothing between any part of them but his t-shirt. His hands cradled her, each finger alive to the heat and texture of her skin. He bent his head to taste the trace of perfume still on her neck. Her gasp echoed in his cock as it pushed against her buttocks. Shower dreams were coming true without the shampoo.
His hands protested when he told them to move from a home they never wanted to leave, but he reminded them that she was more than a pair of knockers. There was a soft expanse of stomach to explore, thighs to knead, and molten slickness to be found between her legs. She arched back against him, whimpering.
He brushed his cheek against hers and she pushed back, letting his beard scrape her skin. His fingers played a gentle tune against her clit and he felt the resulting wave of pleasure move through her body everywhere they touched. One finger inside her, just to remind her that he did have some control over the situation. His other hand curled around the sculpted smoothness of her hipbone.
“Greg,” she sighed, as close to surrender as he could expect. He didn’t say her name, but he thought it. They were finally Greg and Lisa again.
Her bedroom was close but the couch was closer. Too close. It would be too easy to push her forward and bend her over. He’d seen her ass during the injections, but this was different. No skirt or high heels, no desk or title for her to hide behind. Just the beautiful, taut roundness for him to memorize with his eyes and hands and even his lips. He’d never be able to do what Wilson recommended professionally, but tonight he’d press his lips and tongue there. Make her squirm and giggle like a child, maybe even a naughty child.
Anger still hovered in the back of his mind. Now that she’d shown vulnerability, he needed to see how far he could take the control she’d given him. His hand was still rounded against one curve until he flattened it. The first was barely a pat. A warm-up exercise. The second was a tap with barely enough force to make an impression. Then a definite hit. Something he could feel and hear. Her body twitched backwards, asking what was going on. This, Lisa. Harder. This is for the surgery. Harder. This is for every time you’ve bitched me out since then. Harder. Louder. Hard enough to make her white skin red. This is for how much I…
“You son of a bitch!”
She pushed backwards and turned around to slap him. He didn’t see it coming. Only felt the tingle on his cheek and the pain when she dug her nails in. Pain. He remembered pain. Six years of it.
He pushed her down on to the couch and pinned her there, letting her struggle and letting her know it wouldn’t do any good. He forced the kiss this time, reminding her this was his party and he’d…but her hand was on him again. Wrapping, stroking, helping as she wrapped her legs around him and pulled him into her.
Fucking. His mind engorged itself with the beauty and harshness of the word. No more hookers tiptoeing around his disability or Stacy dragging her baggage through his bedroom on her way to the next drama. Just a hard cock in-- oh-my-god so wet, so fucking tight, and wet, and those legs and tits and her ass and she was kissing him wherever she could reach. His legs bending with no pain. Fucking her harder and faster. Her voice gasping his name, hungry for what he could finally give her. So good. So fucking good. Finally good enough that he could make his mind stop thinking. That good.
House opened his eyes wondering if that had been one of his better fantasies or one of his worse ones. He was lying on a couch in a living room. Lisa’s eyes were moist, the way they’d been when she thanked him for giving her the hormone shots. He noticed that she was dressed in jeans and t-shirt. He wasn’t going to find out if the new and improved House could go twice in one night.
“I’ll drive you home,” she said softly.
“You can get dressed while you’re at it.”
Dressed meant retrieving the running shorts that still adorned her living room floor. The desperate need to piss gave him the opportunity for some bathroom snooping. He saw a home pregnancy kit and a basal temperature chart on the wall, reminding him that there had been no protection during their couch-capade.
He tried to brush off the concern along with the twinge he felt in his thigh when he bent over to put his shorts back on. Lisa wouldn’t deliberately get herself knocked up by an unwilling donor – would she? – and his leg was fine. Not used to being a super-stud. Out of practice. He didn’t even bother stealing an ibuprofen from her vast supply of headache remedies.
The ride to his apartment was quiet, giving him too much time to think about why she’d finally let it happen. He knew why he’d done it, but her motivations remained locked behind her cloudy blue eyes as she parked.
He kept his eyes open long enough to see hers close before he kissed her. One hand caressed her cheek, knowing that when he took his lips away she’d be Cuddy and he’d be House. He was going to spend tomorrow and every day after arguing with her about something.
“Goodnight, House,” she whispered when it finally ended.
He watched her drive away and rubbed his thigh as he walked up the front steps to his apartment, trying to ignore the twinge in his leg along with any regrets.