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While You Were Sleeping
by Topaz Eyes
Notes: Written for Porn Battle VIII (Bigger, Longer, Uncut), prompt "asleep."
~~~~~
Trust Cuddy to come running when he bangs on her front door very late one evening.
She opens it, dark hair tumbling around her shoulders, clutching a peignoir around herself as she braces herself on it. "House? It's two in the morning! What the hell are you doing here?"
He dons his best puppy-dog look. "Can't sleep." he says. "Clowns will eat me, and Wilson's not here, he's in Philly." (Which, this time, happens to be true; Wilson's at a kiddie cancer conference. Probably seducing the smokin' hot chief clinical investigator from the Princess Margaret Hospital in Toronto. Though that's not the point.)
His begging has the desired effect: Cuddy's face softens with knowing concern, and she acquiesces almost immediately. "Okay," she says, and holds the door open with a long-suffering sigh. "Come in."
Insomnia sucks, but there are some benefits to it, especially when it comes to manipulating Cuddy. He stumps inside, suppresses a triumphant smirk. Behind him, the door latches closed. Cuddy moves past him towards the hall, flicking on a light as he heads to the darkened living room.
A minute later she returns, holds a neatly-folded blanket and pillow fetched from a closet. "You can stay on the couch tonight," she says as she drops them onto the end of her sofa.
Of course Cuddy would refuse him entry into her bed at first, but House pretends disbelief anyway, lets his jaw drop. "You're kidding. My leg hurts--"
"Your leg will be fine. There's plenty of room to stretch yourself out."
He shifts his weight. "But what about my back?"
It must be late, and she must be too tired to think clearly: she throws up her hands. "Fine! You can have the bed. I'll sleep on the couch."
This is far too easy. He furrows his brow. "But I don't want to put you out of your own bed."
"You just want to get into my bed. With me."
"Among other things." He lets his gaze wander up and down her body, appreciates how the cream silk negligee clings to all the right curves, complements the warm tones in her skin. "Your nipples are hard," he adds with an exaggerated leer.
Cuddy folds her arms across her chest and glares at him. "The room is cold. It has absolutely nothing to do with you."
He stares right back, but then winces as a spasm shoots through his lumbar muscles; he grabs his left side, massages the offending obliques. She sags, hides her eyes with her hand and shakes her head ruefully. He hears her utter something under her breath, and he knows he's won.
"You know where the bedroom is," she says, absently rubbing her temple. "Just hurry up and let me go back to sleep."
"Your exasperation is showing."
"I wonder why."
He beelines to her bedroom, more grateful than he lets on. He tells himself it's because Cuddy's got a great firm-support mattress. He's already stripped down to boxers and T-shirt, and stretched out under the covers, by the time Cuddy pads into the room.
"I see you didn't waste any time."
"Good night, House." She douses the light, settles down on her side, as close to the opposite edge of the bed as she can get. Even so, within minutes her breathing has evened out. House thinks he should envy that ease, expects not to sleep at all; but her warmth relaxes him, and he drops off not long after.
It's five-thirty when House wakes. Hands folded on his stomach, he stares at the ceiling, feeling not rested, exactly, but content at least: three hours these days is almost a miracle. Beside him, Cuddy lies on her back, sound asleep. The heat's kicked in and it's warm in the room; the peach-colored comforter and sheets are pushed down past her hips. Her nightgown's ridden up as well, revealing a matching cream silk thong. Ready for anything, he thinks, and files that thought away for later torment.
With a stifled grunt, he rolls onto his side, raises himself up on his elbow. Cuddy doesn't stir under the movement of the mattress. He gazes at her sleeping form, her dark, tangled curls fanned on the pillow. It's light enough to discern the fine crow's feet around her eyes, the laugh lines around her wide, expressive mouth.
He reaches out with a crooked finger, hesitantly, to stroke her cheek. She still doesn't budge. Emboldened, he traces a line down her jaw, her throat, along her exposed collarbone, reveling in the softness of her skin. She sighs, her eyelids flutter, but they don't open. He smooths his hand over the swell of her breast beneath the silk, gently squeezing to feel the give of flesh in his palm.
He can't help but want to touch her. He always wants to have sex with Lisa Cuddy, though not in the way she thinks. He knows how his leg pain always threatens to spoil his pleasure--but that doesn't mean he can't indulge in hers. Of course, Cuddy would never believe that, which is why he has to appreciate her from afar. Or covertly, like this.
He lifts his hand and places it on her belly, covering her navel, noting the contrast of soft and firm when he presses down. He smells lingering scents of sleep, of body lotion when he inhales. He continues his study, taking his time to trail down to her hip, the juncture of her thigh. Cuddy sighs again and he nods to himself. She's probably awake by now, but he's happy to continue the pretense of her sleeping as long as she will.
He thumbs her inner thigh, powder and smoothness. He hears a low purr, remembers how Stacy loved to be awakened like this, slow and lazy, and now he knows, so does Cuddy. He nudges Cuddy's thighs apart, just enough to slide his hand between to cup her, to rest the heel of his hand on her mons. He feels the prickle of neatly trimmed hair through her panties. Curling his fingers, he caresses the exquisitely soft labia, softer than the silk of her thong; when he dips down to her entrance, he finds that, God, she's already slick.
That thought surges straight to his penis. He licks his lips, bends down to brush them against hers, just a dusting, not a kiss. She exhales, though her mouth doesn't budge; Cuddy's good at playing possum, he thinks, impressed. His boxers tent over his erection, rub against the head, but he'll take care of himself later. Now he just wants to touch Cuddy, taste her, give her a dream to remember.
He pulls his hand back and licks her salt from his fingers. He hears a distinct whimper, and she frowns, though her eyes are still closed; he grins outright. Cuddy, you sneaky wench, he thinks with approval. You are totally enjoying this. He tosses off the covers, carefully wriggles down the bed; it takes only a gentle pressure on her knees for her legs to spread open, to let him maneuver himself in between.
He gives thanks to whoever designed thong underwear, making it easy just to push the already-wet fabric out of the way, instead of having to move Cuddy bodily to peel it off. He feels a definite flutter when he touches his tongue to her, the quiver in her thighs when he kisses and teases her clit until it pokes out of its hood. He burrows his nose against her, sweet musk and salt heavy in his nostrils; he slides one finger, then two inside to strike up a rhythm that she meets easily with muscles clenching in tandem.
Cuddy's so slick and so hot rocking against him, eager in (feigned) sleep; House can't get enough of her trembling and thrusting around his fingers, his mouth. He rubs against the mattress to ease his own tension while he draws out hers, gently blowing puffs of air onto her overheated labia, diving in to lick and nibble at that maddening softness, lap her up, drink her in. Just her and him in the rising morning, and if she's awake now (how could she not be?) it doesn't matter. What matters is that she purrs and angles and grinds against his fingers, his mouth, harder and faster until she freezes still for one agonizing moment.
She comes with an explosive shudder, her whole body contracting under the force of it. House rides it out with a muffled mmm'ing, until the waves cease and she relaxes, utterly limp against him. He plants one more soft kiss on her, then pulls back and climbs off the bed. Even despite his leg he's aching for release now, but the last thing he wants is to sully her sheets, ruin the illusion. He hastens to the bathroom as best he can, leans against the vanity, grabs some tissue; it takes only a few hurried strokes until he climaxes into the wadded Kleenex, the smell and taste of her heavy on his lips.
When he returns to the bedroom, Cuddy's curled on her side, head pillowed on one arm, flushed and completely mellow in repose. He tugs the bed covers over her, dresses, and exits silently, hoping to maintain the pretense. Outside, the sun's already up, burning away the morning clouds when he mounts his motorcycle to drive home.
Still, he makes a point to visit her office when he finally drags himself into the hospital, three hours late. She looks up from the papers on her desk when he barges in.
"House. What do you want?"
"Just wondering how things were going."
She twists her mouth in a wry grin and leans forward. "It's never 'just wondering' with you. Especially when you're acting like the proverbial cat who caught the canary."
A-ha. She's throwing the first volley. He smirks back. "Thanks for letting me stay last night."
She nods, graciously accepting. "I hope you managed to get some sleep."
"I did. It was very restful."
She smiles openly, but after a pause, her brows knit in puzzlement. "But you know, early this morning, I could have sworn--"
He perks up at the wondering tone, hides the smugness in his own voice. "What about early this morning?"
She shrugs. "Oh, never mind, it was nothing. Just a dream I had about you."
He raises an eyebrow, leering. "It must have been quite the dream."
They lock gazes. He's disappointed at first that Cuddy's not giving anything away, until he sees the knowing glint in her eyes. "Oh, believe me, it was."
She turns her attention back to her paperwork. He nods once, pivots and, grinning, exits her office.
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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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