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Wicked Little High
by leiascully
"By the way," he had said, limping out of her office. "Why does everybody think that we had sex? Think there could be something to it?"
As if he didn't remember college. Hell, as if he didn't remember that morning in her office, her back against the wall, his hand up under her skirt and her moans muffled against his mouth. It had been a lot like college, actually, spontaneous and feverish. She had come hard against his fingers, her makeup rubbing off on the shoulder of his t-shirt. He had always said that she played even better than his piano, sexier than a slow jazz tune. His little taunt had brought back a rush of memories of erotic moments stolen from lab time or clinic duty, and she watched him as he hobbled away.
And Stacy, right there, had caught her toying with her pearls and smiling. It was a smile Stacy would know, too, the satisfied, perplexed expression you got when you were fucking someone you weren't sure about loving. Cuddy was nervous suddenly that Stacy would know that her lipstick was a different shade than she'd come in wearing that morning. It had taken half an hour in her bathroom to fix the damage that passion had done.
"What was that all about?" Stacy asked, wearing her lawyer-client confidentiality expression, her dark hair swinging around her face in just the way that Cuddy's never had.
Cuddy touched her pearls one last time and shuffled things around on her desk. "You know House. Never passes up a chance to screw with me."
"Apparently that's the rumor," said Stacy, laughter sublimated in her voice. Cuddy flushed. She pressed her fingertips to her cheekbone.
"You know what I meant."
"I do," Stacy said lightly, "and I know Greg." She gathered up her papers. "I'm sure you have work to do. We'll talk later." Cuddy looked down at her desk as Stacy left, not really reading any of the papers there. God, Stacy knew. Or if she wasn't sure, after House had said Cuddy's name almost the way he did in bed, she would figure it out, because she knew him. Cuddy sighed. It had only ever been a matter of time. House was possessive. He flaunted their arrangement in little ways, right under everyone's noses. She almost wished she had been able to resist him when he had come to her after Stacy left, but she had never been able to resist him when he wanted her.
He called after a couple of hours; she had barely gotten anything done and then she picked up the phone and heard him say "Tonight" in that husky way he had, and there was no hope after that of finishing up her paperwork. She could barely see the words on the page for the heat of desire that crashed through her body, flooding upward from her groin to her face. It was like the shimmer above the road on a blistering day. She ached all day with wanting him, shifting in her chair against the painful sensitivity of her clit, the texture of the lace on her bra almost torturous.
She wanted to swear at him when he opened the door to his apartment and let her in, but his mouth was over hers as soon as she stepped over the threshold. She twisted her fists in his t-shirt to stay on her feet, kissing back as hard as she could, balancing on the balls of her feet as she let her teeth sink into his lip. Not deep enough to draw blood, but deep enough to bruise so that he'd have to make up something to tell his nosy team. She pressed her body against his until he staggered off-balance and had to let her go, but she kept hold of his shirt as they broke apart, breathing hard. Her makeup was still on his shoulder like a badge and it was infuriatingly sexy.
"Dammit, Greg, why did you have to say that in front of Stacy?" Her voice was almost a growl and her lips burned from his stubble.
"Forget Stacy," he said, his eyes burning through her clothes. He was bracing himself against a bookshelf. She was going to go up in flames without ever getting her point across.
"Fuck you," she said.
"That's the plan."
She tightened her grip on his shirt. "I need to be able to do my job."
"Fine," he said, pushing toward her. "No more sex in your office. No more sex on the roof. No more sex in my office." He was unbuttoning her jacket. "No more sex in the morgue, no more sex in the path lab - that was good, though - no more sex on the balcony." His fingers pushed up under her shirt and she felt the buttons straining. "But we're not bringing any work home."
His hands were kneading her ribs. She let go of his shirt and undid her buttons herself, shrugging out of her shirt. "You keep ruining my clothes."
"You should wear them less." He kissed her under the jaw and she let her head roll back. His hands moved up her sides, just enough pressure not to tickle, and his fingers slid under the strap of her bra. She pushed her own hands up under his shirt, letting her nails scratch his back until he hissed against her throat. "You're fierce tonight. I like that."
His voice against her throat rumbled through her body. The heat between her thighs was unbearable. She shoved one hand down the back of his jeans and grabbed his ass, pulling him against her as he managed to unhook her bra. He gave a little groan of appreciation, burying his face in her breasts. Cuddy leaned back, giving him better access, and squeezed his ass as he raked the edges of his teeth around the heavy curves of her breasts.
"I need you," he said into her cleavage. "All day long, it was all I could think about, the smell of you on my fingers. I would have fucked you on your desk right in front of Stacy."
"She would have loved that," Cuddy panted, fumbling with his belt and zipper. She pushed his jeans off his narrow hips and his boxers with them, struggling with the way the fabric rucked between their bodies, and he unzipped her skirt roughly. She let it fall and stepped out of it, walking him backwards one unsteady step at a time, supporting the length of his body as he pushed her panties down her thighs. His erection jutted against her, leaving smears of heat, and she wrapped her fist around it and guided him to the furnace between her legs, rubbing the slickness of his head against her clit, spreading their mutual wetness.
They didn't make it to the bedroom, just the bench of the piano, House leaning on the keys while she kneeled over him, her knees gripping his thighs as she rode him to a jangling accompaniment. His back was going to hurt in the morning. The thought satisfied her. He cupped her breasts as she ground her hips against his, his head thrown back against the music stand, and the heels she hadn't been able to take off jabbed her thighs. She felt the trembling begin in his stomach and rocked even more fiercely against him, his fingers rolling her nipples and the muscles of his thighs tense under her.
"Fuck," he said incoherently, "Cuddy." The rough way her name tore from his lips was enough to send her over as his hips jerked hard into hers. She refused to say his name, just gave a strangled cry as the orgasm hit her, a bright searing burn like a magnesium flare. She collapsed against him and he raised one arm to throw around her waist, stroking her back with the other hand as if his fingers had turned to lead. She panted against his neck, tasting his sweat, the fine hair on his chest burning like electrified wire against her breasts.
"It should have been the couch," she said as their breathing slowed to a normal rate. She counted off the beats of his pulse under her ear, and listened to his lungs.
"Piano's sexier," he said, his hand still moving from nape to ass along her back, his cock almost soft inside her. "Not like I don't have something to take the edge off."
She hummed in agreement, and reluctantly moved off his lap, missing the pressure of him inside of her. "I should go," she said, kissing him lingeringly.
His arm was still looped around her waist and he tightened his hand on her hip. "Stay," he said. "You never do."
"I shouldn't," she said, touching his face. His fingertips fit perfectly over the ridge of her hipbone.
"Pretend we're in love," he said. "Stop giving a damn about should."
It wasn't entirely pretend, she wanted to tell him, but instead she kissed him and helped him up, wobbling in her high heels as she pulled his arm over her shoulders and they limped off to his bedroom with its beautiful antiques and its air of sadness.
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A/N: Title from the Bird York song of the same name.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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