Author's Note: This story is one of my favorite "House" ficlets that I've worked on so far. It is cross-posted to my website and to the livejournal community house_wilson, one of my favorite comms! Enjoy, and please let me know what you think!
In this place, all the titles and positions, all the roles that we play, disappear as swiftly and silently as our clothing. With the gentle slide of each button through its carefully stitched buttonhole, another pretense at indifference falls away; with the slow metallic slide of his zipper, then mine, we lose our identities and find ourselves in one another, in the soft pants of hastened breathing and the flicker of bright blue or dark brown under fluttering eyelids. The first touch of slightly roughened fingertips against smooth, heated skin always makes me bite my lip; the first clasp of teeth over an earlobe or the sweet, heavy pulse of blood in his throat makes him growl ever so softly.
We do not exchange words, for fear of breaking the spell, dispelling the dream. In this place, at these times, the only sounds filling the room are visceral, primal, soft and sweet and needy and bold. No names, no deities invoked, no curses lobbied at the ceiling in delight or despair. Just the rasp of breath against skin, and the slick, slightly obscene sounds of sex. I have never experienced anything like this before in my life.
His hands on my shoulders pin me down, as if he is afraid I will change my mind at any moment and slip away from him. He should know better by now; I have never left him, not even that first time that our lips met in a hot, awkward clash of teeth and tongues. But I let him pin me beneath him with his long limbs and his oddly intense gaze, because I secretly love submitting to him. He has always taken what he wants from me, but when we are here, I can give him what he longs for, and somehow it feels as though I finally have the power. Perhaps that feeling comes from knowing that what I give him in this place is the one thing no one else can give him in my stead.
I love the first thrust of hips against hips; sweat-slick skin gliding in an explosion of nerve endings and heat. We have tried a dozen or more positions and methods, and found so many of them pleasurable and workable with adaptations. But time and again, when the lust has worked itself into a frenzy in both of our bodies and brains, we find ourselves just like this: his body raised above mine, my hips canting upwards into his leisurely at first, then more frantically as he drives down onto me. The feel of his cock sliding along the length of mine is a sensation I cannot fully describe or even concentrate on, as the pleasure makes me arch my back and groan out something that would be his name, if we ever spoke.
So we move and breathe and give and take, and when he comes, his entire body tenses like a spring and then uncoils, his breath spilling hot and fast onto my face, his climax spilling hot and fast onto my stomach. He always comes first, surprisingly, but I have come to suspect that he does it on purpose, so that he can fully experience his own pleasure before turning his attention to fully experiencing mine. In the seconds between the peace of his afterglow descending and the release of my orgasm, he manages to find enough coherence to wrap his hand around my arousal and stroke in precisely the perfect way—just tight enough, just fast enough, with just the slightest brush of his thumb over the head at the last second. I have come to anticipate these few and perfect strokes, and I find myself imitating them when I am alone to bring myself to orgasm. He has ruined me for anyone else, even myself.
Finally, everything that has gathered itself so deliciously behind my eyes and much lower spirals out of my body, and I find myself gasping and panting, my fingers digging into his shoulders as I spasm against his hand. He always watches me with the oddest look in his eyes—one I have yet to decipher—and I usually see him swallow convulsively as I come for him. I like to think that I can make him come just a little undone when he sees how much pleasure he can bring me, despite all the pain and annoyance he usually causes, purposefully or unwittingly. We share a moment of connected gazes and coordinated breaths, and then he slips away, leaving me sprawled out and panting, while he slowly dresses and sinks into a nearby chair, watching me with a little smirk.
In this place, in these silences, we find our equilibrium. We find our joy. It makes everything else worthwhile.
When we leave, we receive covert, knowing glances. We have learned to ignore them. Only one person dares to comment on the nature of our time alone.
"Is Exam Room Three free now, then?" Cuddy asks, sauntering past us with a smile.
Maybe we should find a new place.