Title: Car Trouble
Author: Lola Lauriestein
Rating: M for sexytimes.
Spoilers: none, set in the past between seasons 2 and 3
Summary: Cuddy makes an unscheduled stop at House's apartment.
He opens the door and she's there.
In the cutest little tennis outfit.
He just about remembers to breathe and it glad that his sweatpants are a little baggy because he's halfway to an instant reaction.
She's flushed, babbling at ninety miles an hour about her car trouble and the match she can't get to, and if he could stop staring at the perkiness of her boobs in what is undoubtedly the sleekest little sports bra, he might have been listening to the rest of the story about her forgotten cellphone.
He doesn't say come in, and she doesn't ask if she can.
The room is too small with her in it, and he retreats instinctively until the battered leather of his sofa marks the no man's land between them. A battle like theirs needs trenches and he's not sure if this is an ambush or the Germans playing soccer at Christmas.
He'd feel more secure with his cane, some outward sign of disability to ward her off; but the ketamine worked and he's standing there at her mercy.
Over the years, they've learned not to trust each other. It's the only way they can depend on one another so completely.
As he mentioned to Wilson one drunken night not so long ago, he'd trust her with his life, but not necessarily with his dick. By which he meant heart, but that was hardly going to come up in such manly conversation.
She's commandeered his phone, the rapid fire of her conversation apologetic and authoritative all at once. It could be her living room, her office, she's completely at home now and it freaks the hell out of him.
Cuddy hasn't been in his apartment since it was half Stacy's, until the ketamine treatment worked and she took it upon herself to check on him at home. It was awkward then and it's awkward now.
He briefly considers a break for freedom, but if he can't stop staring at her, he can't jump out of the kitchen window. Instead he affects his most inconvenienced expression and is rewarded by the flicker of guilt in her eyes when she notices it.
Not like it's difficult, for Cuddy to feel guilty doesn't require much more than for her to be conscious.
She stops her chattering eventually, throwing the phone carelessly on his sofa. Just when he thinks he might be rid of her and those damn legs which apparently go on forever she turns and marches towards his kitchen.
Which means she's marching directly towards him.
Of course he doesn't move out of the way in time, and an observant witness might assume he wants her to brush up against him. Especially when that meager contact is in danger of escalating a certain semi situation to something that really can't be ignored.
He's trying to name the Mets' outfield to slow his damn body down and then she's bending over in front of his fridge and he just about passes out. Whatever blood is floating around his body is certainly not being directed to his brain right now.
She's stolen a bottle of water and is pouring it down her throat with an abandon not generally considered ladylike. Which unfortunately doesn't help with the whole turning-him-on problem.
He could hide, make his excuses and run for the safety of the bathroom until his predicament disappears. But she notices, of course she notices, and the wicked smile it provokes makes him a goner whether he likes it or not.
Her lips are still shiny and wet, and he's too distracted by them to notice her beckoning at first. When he does, his feet are moving before he can do anything about it, the cool tile under his bare feet doing nothing to reduce the heat in the room.
The distance he was so careful maintain is reduced to mere inches and the last scraps of rational thought are screaming that he should get the hell out of there. Who knows what devious ideas she might come up with on a hot July day, in a skirt that barely skims the top of her thighs?
He stops thinking altogether when the finger she used to summon him traces a determined line across his jaw, and as she tips her head up to meet him, he moves seamlessly to kiss her full on the mouth.
It's impossible to remember the last time he kissed her (remembering his name is challenge enough right now) but it's the perfect sensation of new and familiar combined. Her mouth is cool from the water, and when he starts out gentle she doesn't hesitate to pull him closer and deepen the contact.
He's always had a thing for aggressive women.
She backs up against the block table that dominates the center of the room, pulling him with her for the step or two required. Her hands are bunched in the slightly damp cotton of his t-shirt and he's beginning to wish he'd shelled out for some decent air-con.
Of its own volition, his right hand traces out a path to her nipple and when she moans into his mouth he knows it was the right idea. Her nails are gripping his shoulders through cotton, and all he can think is how much he wants them to be scratching down his back.
He gasps at the break in contact when she pulls away, but disappointment gives way to excitement as she hops up on the table, pulling her skintight gym top off as soon as she does.
It's been something approaching twenty years since he last saw her naked, back before scars on his thigh and the extra letters after both their names. His thumb runs softly down the perfect definition of her torso, pausing as he sees black ink that he's never seen before.
How many upstanding members of Princeton society would raise an eyebrow at professional good girl Lisa Cuddy getting inked? He's surprised he's still formulating questions, his brain must be pretty impressive after all. He likes the incongruity of a tattoo on the Dean, a hint to the wild-child side that so few have seen.
He compliments her on the choice of a caduceus.
She corrects him that it's actually the rod of Asclepius, and he probably would have realized his mistake if she hadn't been slipping out of her bra when he made the observation. Trust her to be right, and to be hot while she's at it.
At this stage it would simply be rude not to start losing some clothing of his own, and his shirt is on the floor in record time. He moves closer, pressing himself between her parted thighs, drunk on the feeling of her erect nipples pressing into his bare chest.
His hands that have been roaming over her naked skin skim under the scrap of fabric calling itself a skirt and his thumbs hook firmly into the waistband of her panties.
He's strong enough these days to take her weight as she wriggles and lets him slide the cotton away. As soon as the last barrier is gone, she hooks her slender legs over his hips and he's captive at last.
Funny how he suddenly has no problem with being trapped.
Even less of a problem when her nimble fingers undo the loose knot at his waist, and she's just a little rough in yanking down the bottoms and the boxers beneath. She makes the little noise in her throat that's going to send him completely insane before this is over, and when he kisses her again he really fucking means it.
Kissing her neck drives her wild, and the little nips of his teeth get him gently smacked and encouraged in turn. He has just enough control not to leave a mark, something that deserts him when his mouth is trailing over the perfect lines of her clavicle.
By the time he reaches her breasts her hand is stroking slowly and deliberately along his shaft and he's pretty sure that she's going to get him off in record time if he doesn't slow this down.
But when his fingers seek out her clit it's obvious that she's wet and more than ready, as evidenced when she guides his cock inside her in one swift motion. He grips firmly at her hips as she reclines on his kitchen table and if there's one reward of his renewed mobility then it's that his leg is allowing him to stand here like this, buried inside her in the sort of ecstasy he'd almost forgotten.
There's no patience, no slow build. It's been two decades' worth of foreplay and they both want it now.
The table is the perfect height for him to thrust into her, the welcoming tightness of her pussy drawing mumbled profanity from his mouth as he lifts her legs on either side of him to improve the angle. She's bucking her hips in a perfect rhythm and there's no doubt when he hits just the right spot, her guttural moans bringing him perilously close to the edge.
Their eyes meet, her messy curls cascading over her face and he swears she's never been more beautiful than she is right now. He would know; he spends an incredible amount of time just looking at her.
Still, his thumb is working steady circles of pressure on her already sensitive clit as he crashes into her with increasing abandon. When they come, it's not quite in unison, but close enough for it not to matter. He's seeing stars and she can't breathe normally and for a moment he collapses on top of her, not caring what it will do to his aging back muscles.
When they part the awkwardness returns, and he finds himself fumbling to pull up his pants. She still manages to look smug, collecting her clothes and commandeering the bathroom.
By the time she's ready to go, tennis whites restored to almost pristine condition, he's slumped on the sofa with a Baywatch rerun at obnoxiously loud volume. He senses her hesitation, and he silently braces for the 'talk' he's about to endure.
He's almost disappointed when she simply takes her leave, the keys of her broken-down car hanging loosely in her hand.
He doesn't stop her to ask how she's getting home, and it's only when he hears her engine roaring to life that he realizes it was all an excuse.
Retrieving a cold beer from the fridge, he smirks when he looks at the kitchen table. There were definitely worse ways to celebrate his return to the land of the walking.
When he goes for a run in the cool of the evening, he's already planning the unscheduled stop.