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Four Hands For Solitaire
by leiascully
When House apologizes, he does it with his mouth between her legs, his tongue tracing out letters as he mumbles more words against her clit than she could catch even if her brain weren't short-circuiting. Those long fingers curl into her and she says something she can't even hear over the ocean roar of pleasure inside her head and comes hard, so hard that she almost blacks out. It's a long slide down from orgasm with a sob catching in her throat, and all she knows before she falls asleep is that she's in his arms.
When she wakes up, he's watching her, blue eyes too close. He's always too close, too real. Too House. He doesn't fit into her ordered life outside the hospital. But she supposes with him it's never exactly been about comfort.
"Hey," she says, stretching. She likes the way her shoulders roll over his arm, muscle and bone layered between them. "Sorry I fell asleep. Was it good for you?"
"You wake up sweet when you've been fucked senseless," he says, and he's got that smug grin that she's beginning to truly appreciate.
"An excellent safety tip for the next time you have a ridiculous demand or an addition to your criminal record," she says.
She's never needed him to grovel when he does wrong, not the way Wilson has. She just needs him to show up, to keep doing his job. She'll take this while she can get it, but she doubts it will last forever. She's not sure she wants it to. She's not sure what she wants. But he's been in her bed for three months, and sometimes he's there when she wakes up in the morning, and he crowds her into the corner of the shower with kisses and sometimes she thinks, oh, this could be before she stops herself. Matter over mind. They could both use the release. God knows he's not willing to let anyone else into her life.
When she thinks about it, she likes this a little too much.
So she stops thinking about it and rolls over and kisses him, avoiding the bad thigh by instinct and habit. He kisses her back, House-fierce and passionate. She didn't really expect him to be good in bed: their first time years ago was fine but not mindblowing, but something changed. Maybe getting over Stacy, maybe getting out of jail, but whatever it is, she welcomes the alteration. Even the way he kisses, God, it drives her crazy, and he spends a lot of time kissing her. It's as if they're actually in a relationship, except that it ends when they slip out from under the sheets. She nibbles at his lip and leans into the prickle of his stubble. The beard burn is worth it, though she's going through moisturizer like no one's business. The dark hours of this double life they're leading are keeping her sane. "I think I owe you something," she murmurs. "Fair's fair."
"What are you offering?" he says back, sliding one hand down her back to cup her ass and press her tight against him. She can feel the shape of his cock against her leg: not completely hard yet, but he will be soon. For a long-term opiate user pushing fifty, he's remarkably resilient.
"What do you want?" she asks, raking her nails lightly across his nipple before following them with her tongue.
"I want to watch," he says.
"Hmm?"
"I want to watch," he repeats, jerking his chin towards the full-length mirror on the wall. "I want to watch you touching yourself."
It startles her, the way he says it. His voice grates out of his throat like it's being dragged over a gravel roadbed of lust, and though she thinks of brushing him off with a smartass comment about vibrators in her desk drawer, what she says instead is, "Okay." Just because of his voice, and his eyes.
He half-sits, crushing his mouth against hers, and her body rises with his. They've gotten good at it, this balancing act. They use their strengths against each other and somehow it's a system that works: they both stay up, supported. She thinks that play of wills and muscle started, figuratively, long before he actually slid beneath her covers and passed a warm hand over her hip. They've been counterbalancing each other since the day they met. Ancient history, she thinks, and kisses him fiercely. He smooths his palms down her arms, turns her gently so she's facing the mirror, sitting on the edge of the bed. He shifts his legs with difficulty so that they bracket her body, pressed against the outsides of her thighs. She leans her head back against his shoulder. Suddenly she feels almost shy. But he kisses her neck and strokes his fingers up the ticklish insides of her thighs until her knees fall apart.
So there she is, sitting in front of the mirror, his chin on her shoulder and his eyes devouring her reflection. It's odd to see herself like this. She knows the curves and shades of her body intimately, but it's different this way. Usually she's smoothing fabric over her skin or letting a towel fall away: she doesn't look at herself with any sexual intent past estimating her potential to seduce someone else. At the moment she can't see herself any other way: her nipples are tight and her chest is flushed and her hair is every which way, and then there's the fascinating sight of her cunt, which she never really looks at. She looks now, mesmerized by the flash of pink flesh between white skin and trimmed dark hair. His fingers tease her curls. He strokes along the length of her folds once, twice, and his fingers dip inside her. She clutches his arm, the crook of her elbow pressed across her breasts. He nips her earlobe. Just as she's starting to whimper, he pulls his hand away and rests it on the top of her thigh, his fingertips damp and hot against her skin.
"Touch yourself," he murmurs with his lips against her ear.
Her fingers slip down his arm, across her hip, down between her thighs. Just one hand, her right hand. The left holds his left thigh. She feels vulnerable this way, with her legs spread for both of them to see, and she feels foolish to be thinking of pleasuring herself when he is right there. Even more than sex, this pleasure has been a private thing. She's not ashamed of it, but it's strange to think of sharing it with him, this ritual that has been hers alone. It's a whole new degree of being naked. She feels like her heart is exposed, and all her secrets. She hesitates, looks at his eyes in the mirror. He is watching her with an intensity she recognizes, and a flush of heat slams through her veins at the hunger in his expression. She lets her fingertips brush the sudden dampness of her curls and hears his rough intake of breath.
Ah, well. That's a different game entirely.
She strokes the pad of her thumb slowly over her folds. His fingers tighten slightly on her thigh. He's breathing into her ear. She bites her lip, half to keep from grinning, half because he's so gorgeous with his arms around her, his legs around her, and that fire in his eyes.
She wonders when she started finding him so attractive that she's breathless looking at him in the mirror. She lets her fingers drift over herself and she can feel his focus narrow even farther. It's like being under a laser beam, only sexy. Her shame and shyness burns away. Her thumb grazes her clit, and even though it's her own hand and she knows it's coming, she squirms a little. She's wound desperately tight. The muscles twitch in her thighs. There's a sweet ache building somewhere back of her pelvis. He makes half a noise deep in his throat and puts his teeth into her shoulder. She circles her clit with her thumb and strokes the joint of her thigh with the other fingertips. His palms are so hot on her thigh and her hip that she's half-hoping to see scorch marks when he moves them.
"Touch my breasts," she demands, tipping her head back so her cheekbone scrapes against his jaw.
"That's not part of the game," he says, wrapping his arm around her waist, "this is solitaire," but the other hand leaves her thigh and weighs her breasts in turn. He rolls his thumb over her nipple and she hums with satisfaction. Her own thumb is still making circles. She lets go of his thigh with her left hand and caresses her hips and stomach, watching him. He growls.
"You are such a tease," he says, and it almost sounds like an endearment.
"Careful what you ask for," she says, wriggling her hips just a bit against his groin and the massive erection jammed into her back.
She is playing him at the same time she plays herself, her fingers the bow to draw moans out of both of them. His face is buried against her throat, but he is always watching. She knows it even when her eyes flutter closed. He's pressed up against her as tightly as he can be. His cock is wedged between them: she can feel the throb of it, the astounding stiffness, the patch of wetness that the head leaves as it slides against her skin when he half-thrusts into the narrow space between their bodies. He nudges at her insistently and puts his fingers in her mouth. She sucks blindly at them, tasting herself on his skin. Her fingers move faster and faster. She lets her left hand circle and pinch her clit as she bends her right wrist, her fingers reaching and reaching for the rough place on the front wall. The angle is bad and she arches back against him, her ass grinding against his groin, and he moans again. Her senses are all in overload, even with her eyes closed. She can't stop the sighs and whimpers leaking from her. He has both her breasts in one hand, the other hand dragging up and down the inside of her thigh, his short nails scraping against her skin and his fingertips damp with her saliva. It's so good, and she's found the perfect spot inside herself, and she presses and rubs and her toes have gone numb, she can't feel her bones, just the skin where he's touching her and the furnace of heat and pleasure.
Maybe, she thinks in a strange cool lucid moment, maybe this is why people become astronomers, because this is a supernova, this rush of joy and light and the seeming danger of extinction. At least their molecules, hers and House's, will be distributed through the universe.
"Come back," he growls against her neck. "Come on."
"House," she says, not there yet, wanting to tell him she's close, but he moves suddenly and she falls back against his arm, supported, her back like a bow.
"Keep going," he says, and bends at an angle that must be uncomfortable to pull her nipple into his mouth, and the heat and the slickness and the textures of his mouth and his teeth send her over the edge and she's gasping in his arms. Before she's even come down, he's rolling her onto the bed, pulling her leg over his hip, and sliding into her. No condoms: she had fished for one the first few times and he'd shaken his head. It was a hell of an apology to make, with him knowing about the treatments, and she had trusted to his predeliction for self-medication to keep him clean and nodded. Now she loves it, the satin skin of his cock instead of the greasy feel of lubed latex, and even the need to wash up afterwards is enjoyable. The ritual makes it seem more real; half the time during the day she can't really believe that he'll be in her bed at night.
He thrusts hard, his mouth claiming hers with a roughness she loves and answers in kind, though she's not sure she's not going to start hallucinating from the complete overload of pleasure. She's sensitive, almost too sensitive, and his pubis grinds into hers, just the right way, and she's gasping again, almost shrieking, and she's not bones or skin or anything but friction and pleasure. Only his teeth anchor her as he pulls at her lower lip, and his cock as it bumps her cervix. She grabs his ass, digging her nails in lightly, holding him to her, holding him in her. She tightens her inner muscles around him as best she can through the rippling of them and he groans as he rocks, his hand still under her thigh.
"God," he says.
"You're an atheist," she reminds him, panting, clutching at him.
"You, then," he says, "Cuddy, I'mmmmmm." A touching courtesy, not one he always follows. She presses her breasts against his chest and urges him on with her hips.
"Go on," she says, struggling for the words and she can't tell where one orgasm ends and the next begins, and it almost aches how how good it feels, this constant rush and shudder like she's being shaken apart at the seams. He grunts and pushes his face into her neck, sucking desperately at the place where her shoulder and her neck meet, and his fingers clutch around her thigh. He sags against her, both of them sweat-slick. She passes her hand over his back. Her fingers are trembling. Her toes ache from how hard they were curled.
"Fuck, Cuddy," he says into the hollow of her throat.
"Mmm," she says. "How's the leg?"
"I've got phantom amputation syndrome," he says, his words slow and muffled against her skin. "Endorphins are better than Vicodin."
"Fewer side effects," she murmurs. His muscles are smooth and relaxed under her palm. "Maybe I should update your prescription."
"Mmm." He kisses her collarbones and releases her leg, slipping out of her and rolling onto his back with a groan. She feels empty and full and hot and sticky and exhausted and utterly, utterly satisfied. She pushes back her hair with one sweaty hand, but it's an effort.
"God," she says with her hand still on her forehead, since she's got no energy to move it. "I'd get up, but I'm not sure I can walk."
"A job well done," he says, his jaw cracking in a yawn.
"I won't fire you yet," she says dryly, sleepily. "Maybe in the morning."
"Tomorrow is another day," he says, and reaches one long lazy arm over the side of the bed for his t-shirt, pats her between the legs with it, and crumples it over the wet spot. She smiles. She can't help smiling, even though she knows he's going to be a complete ass tomorrow because he's got no patients and too much time on his hands and he's still not back to annoying Wilson, and even submerged in the sweetness of afterglow, he's still House. She likes that he hasn't changed beyond recognition, but she likes him here in her bed, too. If she weren't so sleepy, she might say
But she's asleep before she can think it, and he pulls her closer and nods off too.
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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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