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Mirage
by Laura Smith
He thinks it was a dream. Admittedly, a dream brought on by depriving himself of Vicodin for the first time in years, but a dream nonetheless.
His office doesn't move that way, swimming and blurring in bright and gray lines that are stark and faded all at once. His body doesn't move that way, liquid grace and easy. He has never not tried to talk his way into or out of something, grabbing her and kissing her and pulling her down, pinning her down on the desk with a bad hand that doesn't hurt and a bad leg that doesn't throb and the pulsing of blood that sings in pain.
The pain he knows was real.
He was just sitting at his desk, his brain humming along with the intimate pulse of pain, beyond thinking as his hand sung in concert until sleep overtook him, kidnapped him away though it couldn't steal him from the pain.
And then she is there. Her hair down, her lab coat open and inviting, framing a sweater the color of the orchids in the gift shop whose smell sickens him every morning, worse now without the staving effects of drugs. Her nipples are high and hard and he reaches out for them, standing still and moving at the same time as she steps toward him. Her breasts fit into his hands like they're made for them, his long fingers stroking the angora - cashmere - wool - acrylic that's so soft it can't be real.
The skin beneath resists, firm and fleshy, as he squeezes lightly, his body - his flesh - responding in kind. She touches him lightly, her hands brushing against the buttons of his shirt and undoing them, easily parting fabric. It falls to the side and she steals under his t-shirt to run her hands up and down his chest, the rough rasp of hair against her palms filling the room.
He kisses her and she tastes of the stale smell that fills the halls and coffee, mint and long hours that he sucks from her lips and tongue. She moans in his mouth and pushes him backwards careful not to make him stumble. He groans and curses and turns the tide, moving her backwards until the desk pushes against her thighs and she can't help but fall back onto the books and papers and pencils and CDs that clutter the space, his toys for thinking.
He shoves the PDR off his desk and she offers a purr of relief that wraps around his spine and goes straight to his cock. He braces his thighs against the desk and finds the hem of her skirt, pushing it slowly but determinedly up her legs. The stockings end just above mid-thigh and the silky texture gives way to downy skin.
His fingers continue upward, hooking under the thin strip of elastic at her waist as she arches her back, hips rocking upward as he pulls her panties down her legs. He steps back slowly, easing them off of her, balancing himself against her as she edges down the desk, bringing the heat of her body closer to him.
His leg throbs in time with his cock as he moves forward, unfastening his jeans as he does. He doesn't think about anything except the heat of her surrounding him as he frees his cock and presses it against her, the tip engulfed in the molten fire of her arousal. He mutters a curse he can't help and pushes in, surging forward and using his arms to brace himself for the fall.
There's no effort, just need, as he meets her with every push, every stroke a mutual thrust. They collide in the middle amid sweat and fabric and harsh panting breath. His hand aches distantly and his eyes cloud over as the pain fills him, surrounds him. He feels her hands clench at him and the echo of her soft cries buffet him as her muscles clench and just like the pestle against his hand there's pain elsewhere and his leg doesn't hurt and he doesn't hurt and it hurts suddenly so deep and so good and he comes buried inside her.
He collapses more than tires, exhausted and spent. She takes control and eases him off of her, supporting him as she slides off the desk. Papers rain down on the floor and he almost laughs until the sensations seep back in and there's nothing again but the pure, relentless pain. He reaches for the Vicodin, but it's not there.
And, when he wakes up, neither is she.
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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 Fox Television, 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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