This is no longer just fucking, though it certainly began that way. A predilection for tequila and trying to shock might have been the catalyst, but now raw need and something dangerously close to actual emotion is providing the fuel.
There are a thousand ways to stop this, and not one has ever successfully made the journey from brain to lips; every attempt evaporating in a pulsating wave of lust that seems to dominate her every waking hour.
Stacy Warner is fucked, in every possible way.
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"Tell me you're over him," she hisses against Stacy's neck, a punctuation of kisses and teasing nips of her teeth.
It's unfair to ask, since Stacy probably can't form words at the moment, but she feels somehow desperate about knowing there are no thoughts of House (or Mark for that matter) mixed up in this. Cuddy knows that Stacy is already wet for her, but at some point in this whole ridiculous situation she started caring about how the other woman feels. Though none of it is helping her rationalize why she insisted on breaking into House's apartment to do this.
Cuddy has spent years hiding behind the excuse of not messing with her subordinates, using the sexual harassment laws as a defensive shield whenever anyone got too close. It was part of the reason she hired Stacy back in the first place, hoping it would insulate her and House from implosion while also placing a barrier in the way of Cuddy's own relentless attraction.
If Stacy can go along with this, if she can squirm so exquisitely when trapped against the piano with Cuddy's warm mouth working overtime, then it might just be that she feels something too. Sure, it's fucked up, but Cuddy is nothing if not a scientist and she needs empirical proof. It's ridiculous enough that she's having an affair with a married woman, but she can't compete with House too. Though part of her would take the ultimate satisfaction in defeating him.
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It's getting harder to concentrate; there's cold polished wood digging into her lower back, and a gorgeous woman pressed against her front. Nothing about this is even a close relation to normal, but when has Stacy ever cared about normal?
She needs to find words to reassure her lover that this is all about her, that she hasn't thought about House or anyone else in any way since that first night of lime and salt and hungry kisses in a hotel bar. For the embodiment of confidence, it seems odd that Cuddy would be insecure; or perhaps not because each time the protective layers and excuses are falling away, no alcohol or extraordinary circumstances to blame. They're both here because they want to be.
They want this.
The best part? Other than the pleasure center of her brain apparently being set to overload, it's that this little secret is the first part of either life in years that hasn't revolved around work, or trying to run away. They have unfortunate habits in common--trying to achieve the impossible and loving people incapable of love. Isn't it natural that they should finally come together this way, to find what each of them needs without being destroyed in the process?
Stacy knows the risks and takes them anyway. She could be fired, ridiculed, or the subject of gossip from now until eternity. Instead of worrying about any of those, she's simply praying that Cuddy doesn't break her heart, all the while knowing she'd let it happen rather than miss out on this.
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Cuddy is impatient tonight; there's no time for soft or gentle. She yanks down Stacy's jeans and panties in one rough motion, provoking a gasp from her lover. The remaining leather jacket, vest, and bra delay her only a few further seconds and in a move that seems as practised as her signature, she lifts the other woman until her feet leave the floor and her naked ass is suddenly in contact with the closed piano lid.
Stacy has spread her legs willingly and when Cuddy finally lets her mouth trail to where her fingers have already been so active, there's a whimper of longing that sends a jolt straight to her own clit. With her customary thoroughness, she traces maddening circles with her tongue, alternating the pressure according to Stacy's responses. Adding fingers with practiced ease, it isn't long before Cuddy hears the yell of release and feels the jerking of Stacy's body that signifies success.
She can't help the smile when the only name on Stacy's lips is a drawn-out "Lisa".
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The ridiculousness of the situation isn't lost on Stacy. She remembers at first: those bookshelves she helped pick, the divorce papers in her desk waiting to be signed.
None of it matters, none of it even registers when she feels Lisa's mouth on her. For the first time in so long, she feels valued for being her, not being some prize in a crappy contest.
The men she loved have lost their mobility, but only Lisa understands what she went through. They've all lost their youth, their optimism and their faith, but that doesn't mean that nothing good can come of it.
In Lisa, she believes she might just have found redemption, the universe's compensation for everything that was taken away.
So she'll go along with proving the points, with the twisted notion of having sex in House's apartment to prove that she's over him. She's never asked Lisa to prove the same thing, though it was always obvious, and some would say she had the right.
That's the past though, with all of its missing pieces. As she reaches for Lisa in the half-light of the otherwise empty apartment, she offers a silent prayer for a future.