Work Text:
Lazy (II)
Warmth is the first thing Cuddy notices. Warmth, and a feeling of deep, satisfying comfort. Awareness soaks into her mind, a gradual sense that the world is perfectly balanced, perfectly aligned, and she is drifting at its center. She doesn't need to open her eyes to know that she is lying in a dappled pool of midmorning light, and that under the cool cotton sheets and the golden heat of the sun, she's wonderfully, deliciously naked. She extends her leg, simply to feel the smoothness of her own skin against the sheets. She stretches, then, tensing her calves and thighs and back, before relaxing and sliding down into a light doze. She can hear the rustle of leaves outside her bedroom window, the faraway drone of a lawnmower, and something tapping rhythmically a little closer by.
It's the tapping that draws her up again, out of vague dreams and a lingering memory of pleasure. Cuddy arches her back, luxuriating in the pleasant ache in her muscles that speaks of good exercise and better sleep. When she turns over, the sheets brush lightly against her nipples. She sighs, and smiles, and rolls her shoulders again. Her nipples tighten with bright silvery sensation, and the answering glow between her legs reminds her of last night. She decides she will wake up, after all, and lets her eyes slide open. The familiar lines of her bedroom shine in deep earth colours. A glance at the clock shows it's nearly eleven, and she was so tired last night that she doesn't even think of it as a waste of half her day off. She needed to sleep herself out, and now that she has, the world seems right again.
The floor is cool against the balls of her feet, and Cuddy shivers. She doesn't bother with her robe, and when she emerges from the bathroom, chilly, her bed is too tempting to pass up. She wriggles deeper into the remaining body heat. The tapping gets louder, and then her bedroom door is flung open by House's cane. House appears in the doorway, barely glancing at her, all his attention taken up by barking into the phone, "Run it again, Chase, and add a blood gas analysis. And stop flogging that hemolytic anemia idea, it's your pet theory, not your girlfriend!"
Cuddy watches him, and squeezes her thighs together slowly under the sheets. Desire, this early in the day, this close to sleep, feels like nostalgia: achy, and almost hurtful, and unbearably sweet. House is wearing last night's jeans and t-shirt, but his feet are bare, and Cuddy's heart gives a stupid little flutter in her chest at the sight. He paces the length of her bedroom, thumping the cane down with each step, apparently oblivious to whether she's awake or not. He's snapping into the cell about his patient's pulse ox readings and Chase's probable hygiene habits, but Cuddy knows he's aware of her. He must have heard her get up--may, in fact, have watched her sleep before he got up himself. She wishes she could have seen his face in that moment, when there was no one to playact for, when his eyes would have been sad and serious, his lips soft and parted absently as he studied her. Cuddy closes her eyes again and lets herself want him--lets herself love him, although that much she knows she'll never tell him--because it's spring, and it's Saturday, and the hospital hasn't called demanding her attention, which is something of a minor miracle.
"You're crazy if you think I'm coming in just because she's dying," House says. "Why do you think I hired underlings? Because of the simple joy I get from making applicants cry during interviews? Do your damn job and save her."
The phone snaps shut, and House mutters something about Chase's ass and the probable location of his digeridoo as he stalks out of the room. Cuddy leans over the edge of the bed enough to watch him go. She feels a twinge of concern for House's patient, but she knows from experience that if he thinks his puzzle is about to get interesting, he'll break off in the middle of pretty much anything to race to the hospital. When he stumps back into the room, the phone is gone and he's holding a mug of coffee. He stops in the doorway, takes a sip, and watches her over the rim of the mug.
"So you decided to join the land of the living. Took you long enough." House's voice is gruff, but he comes across the room and sets the steaming coffee on the bedside table as if he's never even considered hating domesticity in all its forms.
Cuddy smiles and sits up enough to take a sip of the coffee. The smell alone was enough to sweep the last bits of sleep out of the corners of her mind, and it's hot and fresh, the rich bitter taste nearly buried under an obscene amount of sugar and cream--House's special recipe. She wraps both hands around the mug, absorbing the heat through her fingertips, and takes another sip before she sets it down and slides down herself. From here, she can tip her head back and watch him standing over her. The sheets had fallen to her waist when she sat up, but she doesn't move to cover herself. House's eyes narrow, and Cuddy raises an eyebrow and lifts her hands above her head in a stretch that's pure invitation.
"Patient dying?" she asks.
"Only temporarily," he answers, without ever once looking away from her.
"Good to know." God, his eyes--Cuddy holds her breath as if that's all it will take to hold in the enormous, joyful feeling inside her. She feels like the first morning of summer, drowsy and hot and open. House's gaze is like his touch, exposing her more than she could ever be simply by being naked. She's got butterflies behind her breastbone, shivering, as if this is new somehow.
House sits on the bed next to her hip, leaning his cane against the bedside table. He bends over her, his left leg and his hands on either side of her carrying all his weight, and he leans in, so close that it's almost a kiss. Cuddy smiles against his mouth, and when she darts her tongue out to wet her lips she touches his. "Good morning," she whispers, and then he is kissing her, soft barely-there touches, and somewhere in the back of her mind Cuddy is astounded that her entire body can feel him when it's only their lips that are touching. House's lips are rough, but his tongue and his mouth are soft and warm, moving with something close to hesitation against her own. Cuddy closes her eyes and there's nothing except the prickle of House's stubble, the darting pleasure of the kiss. She looks up when House backs off for a moment, and she catches her breath at what she sees in his eyes. He's analysing her, so intently that Cuddy can't move, so tenderly that it's the last thing that she would do.
And she knows. He loves her.
It's strange, she thinks, the mixture of fear and wanting and slow satisfaction that moves through her, the way the entire morning is sharper and languid, like honey flowing. She touches his cheek and pulls him down again, and this time he touches her. His fingers brush her shoulder, like he's pushing away the spaghetti strap of a sundress, and then he cups her upper arm; his hand is large and hot and callused from the cane. Their kiss draws out and Cuddy sighs. She wants his hands on her breasts, his palms grazing her nipples. She wants his cock inside her, sliding up against her g-spot while the pleasure grows until it feels like it will last forever. She takes his hand in hers, moving it to where she wants it.
House shifts his mouth to her ear and whispers, "I've heard this rumour that my boss is completely insatiable."
"Maybe," Cuddy says, on a gasp, "she just appreciates a good work ethic."
House chuckles, right into the soft skin behind her ear. His hand drifts over her breast, circling her nipple before teasing over it lightly. Cuddy moans, breathing desire, until it feels like she's shining with it. She moves her hips, almost involuntarily. She's slippery and aching for him. House's breath hitches, and then his hand is gone. Cuddy frowns and opens her eyes, to see him skin out of his t-shirt and strip off his jeans. This is nowhere near new, and his scar is part of the familiar map of his body, along with his narrow torso and long legs. He's half-hard, and Cuddy smiles up at him. He smirks back, the seriousness of a moment ago erased. Cuddy rolls to her side and reaches for him, where she can take his cock by the base and close her mouth over the tip. His erection lengthens against her tongue, and he groans, his eyes sliding closed in an expression that's almost pain. He touches her shoulder, his hand tight, and Cuddy draws back and licks her lips. "House," she says. "Fuck me."
"Wicked harlot," he says, and maneuvers himself onto the bed next to her. It only takes him a moment to find a condom and roll it on, and then he reaches for her, sliding his hand between her legs. Cuddy bites her lip and tenses, arching into him. She's never felt so responsive. The line his fingertips draw, gliding along her labia, feels like it will awaken her entire body, bring every nerve alive. She's conscious of every breath she takes, of his chest hair rasping over her nipples, of the strangely delicate way his fingers touch her in long strokes that find every place she wants to feel him.
She gasps into his shoulder when he eases inside her, his fingers sliding circles around her clit. Her mind is impatient but her body says slow, slow and House seems to know what she wants because he pushes into her like he never wants to stop. His breathing's harsh, and his hand trembles a bit where he's still touching her, just where their bodies are joined. They're on their sides, and she wraps her leg around him to pull him closer. He grunts, but pushes harder, rocking into her. He's there, perfect, precise, and his cock inside her and his fingers on her clit are moving in two different rhythms, filling her with two different sensations. Cuddy presses her lips to his throat, and then bites him there, just at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. House says, "Fuck," and jerks, and then everything turns to pulses of light and heat.
It lasts, oh, it lasts, and Cuddy breathes, conscious of perfect seconds, perfect stillness. Her muscles quiver with aftershocks, and her breasts feel heavy and too sensitive.
"Satisfied?" House's voice rumbles somewhere above her.
"Still trying to get water-cooler gossip out of me?" she says against his chest.
"We have ways of making you talk," he says. He slips out of her, and there's a minute of coolness while he goes to the bathroom. When his warmth returns, she kisses him, because she can't tell him that she knows how he feels. His fingers find her again, and Cuddy moans. She's still high, flying, and it takes no time at all for him to bring her to orgasm again, as bright as stars. "Insatiable," he says, and then, "Gotta go."
"Stay," she murmurs, holding the wrist of the hand that was so recently bringing her off.
"Patient's dying," he whispers. "My boss would kill me if she knew."
She drifts on the dream-edge, watching him dress. This is all they have, stolen nights and Saturdays, but Cuddy can't resent that, not now, when sleep is pulling at her. House leaves her wrapped in sheets filled with the scent of them, together.
end