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some girls like to hold your hand
by leiascully
some girls like to hold your hand and some girls like to pray
my girl takes her drink with dust and rusty razor blades
She dragged him into her office before the board meeting about the creation of the diagnostics department.
"What do you want from me?" he said. "I'm wearing a shirt with buttons and everything. I know you've got a tie for me in your desk."
"I'm not sure the tie will be enough." She held open the door to her bathroom. "In here. Now."
"God, you're bossy," he complained, but he went.
"Sit," she said, "and lean back," and she pushed him down into a chair and tipped his head onto the edge of the sink with firm hands.
"I love it when you get forceful," he said. "Are you planning to scald me? Is that going to make me acceptable to the board? Or do you always keep your sink full of hot water?"
"Just for you," she said, and dipped her hand towel in the sink before slapping it over his face. She dug a second towel out of a cupboard and wrapped it around his neck. They were contraband, the fluffy little hand towels, ought to be forbidden in a hospital as collectors of germs and debris, but this was the Dean's privilege of luxury, and the cleaning staff threw them in the wash with the scrubs at the end of the day and didn't say a word.
"Changing your line of work?" he said, or that's what she imagined he was saying, though the towel muffled it.
"If you keep your mouth shut, this will be easier for both of us," she said, and took off the towel, filling her palm with shaving soap and rubbing it into the hollows of his cheeks until it lathered. "I know it's difficult for you, but try not to fidget."
Surprisingly enough, he stayed still, but his eyes followed her hands as she took the straight razor out of its case and tested the edge on the ends of her hair. "I'll be more presentable if I'm not missing half my face," he muttered.
"Mouth shut, I said." She stroked the blade along the line of his jaw and flicked the lather off into the sink. He had a strange face, funny lines and strong bones, but she knew it well, and she was good at what she did. She could feel his eyes on her as she worked, absorbed as she was in the sensual, dangerous act of shaving him. There was a rhythm to it: stroke, flick, stroke, flick. The fingers of her free hand were against his throat and she could feel his pulse, feel him swallow, feel him tremble now and again.
When the lather was just fine traces on his cheekbones and the strong line of his jaw, she put the razor down, dampened the towel under the faucet, and wiped his face clean. She stroked her fingertips over his face, checking for stray stubble, but his skin was smooth and damp under her hands. He was looking at her with the most peculiar expression, his eyes narrowed a little. He sat up, twisting so that he was sitting properly on the chair.
"Where did you learn that?" he said. "Got bored in anatomy? Gave your cadaver a quick onceover with a damn straight razor?"
"My grandfather," she said, taking the towel from around his neck and trying not to look into his eyes. Her skin tingled as she approached him. Maybe it was the steam from the water making her overheated; she had been leaning over the sink. It was a probable explanation for why her cheeks were hot and her hair was curling in wisps over her forehead. "He used to shave the fuzz off peaches for me. After he got sick, I wanted to take care of him."
"Cuddy," he said in a rough low voice, "why are you trying to save me?"
"My hospital needs you," she said, turning away and trying to step away from him, but he caught her wrist.
"And it's all for the hospital." It wasn't really a question.
"It doesn't matter," she said, not looking at him, knowing how piercing his blue eyes would be. He tugged at her hand and she went off balance on her stylish heels, teetering into his lap, one hand on his good thigh and his arms suddenly around her and his mouth against hers. She felt the edges of his teeth against her lips as his tongue thrust against hers, and she nipped him back. She fought to get closer. She fought to get away. The arm of the chair dug into her hip and thigh. She wasn't sure what the struggle was for but that was the way they were. She leaned hard into him and he pulled her closer so that she had to straddle him or risk them both falling over. Under her thighs she could feel him, hot and hard.
"Of course you would get turned on by this," she said, panting as she broke the kiss. "Danger. Control. God, House, you twisted bastard. I should have done this before."
"Maybe I just like you," he countered, and pushed a hand up under her skirt, his long fingers unerring. The elastic of her panties bit into the crease of her thighs as the fabric strained against the push of his hand and his thumb swiped roughly in all the right places. Her head lolled back and he nipped at her throat.
"What are we doing," she said to the mirror, looking at her flushed face, the sudden wildness of her hair, her bright eyes, the strong set of his shoulders.
"Improvising," he said, and twisted his fingers, and she didn't have any more questions.
"You can't go in there like this," she panted, "with the world's most obvious erection."
"What are you going to do about it?" he asked, his lips against her collarbone.
She slid off his lap, boneless, but her trembling fingers didn't fumble with the button on his pants. "Lift your hips or they'll crease," she said, and he moved obediently as she slid down pants and boxers. She could feel the weight of his focus on her, the heat of his gaze like the desert sun. The air had gotten thinner, she thought, and breathing was troublesome. "I would fuck you here in my office," she said to see his cock jump, "but as we don't have time, that will just have to wait until the celebratory dinner."
"Am I allowed to make jokes about appetizers?" he said, but his words trailed off as she wrapped her fist around him and lowered her mouth over his head. The skin of his cock was like satin under her tongue, smooth and salty, and she wrapped her tongue around it and slid her fingers up and down the base, stroking lightly. She could feel his pulse under her wrist, rapid and getting faster. His astonished satisfaction was almost palpable, and he was hotter than she'd expected in her mouth. For a moment she let go, still working at him with tongue and lips, taking him deeper and deeper into her mouth. She dabbled her fingers in the remnants of the shaving soap. The slickness of it let her fingers play over his shaft as she let him slip part way out of her mouth, practicing old flute scales with the pads of her fingers and sliding her tongue against the slit in his head until he dug his heels into the tiles of the floor and wrapped his hands in her hair. She closed her lips around him as he pulsed, swallowing the salty liquid: she had a toothbrush, and this was House, and she took what she got from him.
He groaned and she got up carefully, wiping him down with the shaving towel. "Go," she said. "We can't come in together."
"Historically, I'm always late," he said, accepting a hand up from her, his other hand clutching for his pants. She thought of the smell of shaving soap on his palm all through the meeting, shaving soap and the smell of her. Her hair was perfumed with the scent of her own arousal, she thought, thanks to House's troublesome gifted hands. Pants done up and tie straightened, he reached for his cane.
"All the more reason for me to be the last one in," she said. "Wash your hands and go, House."
"See you in the board room," he said. "And tonight. We'll have champagne and all that idiot celebratory ritualistic stuff. I have some favors to call in." He tucked his cane under one arm and fished for his Vicodin, tipping a pill into his palm and sliding the bottle back into his jacket.
"And some favors to return," she said.
"Ah, Cuddy, I always make good," he said, and reached for his cane, and walked out of her office.
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A/N: Written for paperclipbitch.
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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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