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Curve of the Peach

House feels it, the thrill in his veins, the tingle of anticipation tightening his muscles as 
he makes his way to the office door and raps on it. Both urgency and arrogance let him 
push the door open before her voice calls to him, and House moves with lurching determination towards the woman at the desk.


He enjoys this. Not many people can keep up with him, certainly not through the years. 
Cuddy is rare that way. Cuddy is fun that way, even if she doesn’t see it.


It’s hard not to grin. He tosses the medical file on the desk and pulls back a moment, 
taking it to study her Highness in the soft light of the high intensity desk lamp, to admire 
the way it highlights her hair, accentuates the shadows of her cleavage peeking coyly 
out of her blouse.


“A little follow-up on your clinic patient from this afternoon. Mr. Hemorrhage.”


“Henderson. His name is Henderson,” Cuddy corrects, reaching irritatedly for the file. 
She knows he does this on purpose, but can’t help rising to the bait every damned time. 
Her long hands flip the folder open, and she scans it. House waits, knowing she’ll find 
the result he wants to share with her.


She does. Her nostrils flare a bit, and she glances up at House. He sees her fighting an 
initial shock, not wanting to give into it in front of him. House watches their reflections on 
the window behind her, and he admires the feminine curve of her back against the chair.


“Positive for Hepatitis B. We suspected it. Nothing too serious.”


“Not for me,” House agrees, his tone cheerful. A shade TOO cheerful. Cuddy stares at 
him coolly. He looks back at her, and in that moment, that PRECISE moment, he has 
her dead to rights.


Cuddy pales, and House feels the smile steal over his face.


“I checked YOUR records, Doctor Cuddy, and it seems you’ve been a little lax in 
preventative immunization. Tsk, tsk. Don’t you read the memos? We’re hospital workers; 
we’re REQUIRED to be vaccinated against hepatitis B. But no, the Dean of Medicine 
somehow forgot to follow up on that directive, and now, after being splashed with a fair 
amount of Mr. Henderson’s blood, she needs a big old honkin’ hepatitis B immune 
globulin shot.”


The pause is sweet, and House savors this moment. He can count on one hand the 
number of times he truly has had Lisa Cuddy over a barrel and this makes only the 
fourth occasion in nearly seven years.


She lifts her chin, annoyance masking something else in those amazing blue eyes, and 
that something else is completely unexpected. House blinks, freezing, trying to hold still 
and look harder, to see if he really saw what he THINKS he saw.


“Fine. I’ll get it in the morning.”


“You’ll get it now, Cuddy,” comes his rumble. It’s quiet, and his glee has drained away, replaced with curiosity. She shakes her head.


“Oh come on—it’s nearly . . . “ she checks her watch, buying time as much as noting it, 
“ . . . eleven at night. It can wait until morning, Greg.”


He catches the quaver in her voice, and the truth dawns on him easily. House shakes 
his head, amazed.


“No, It can’t. If it was anybody else, you’d march them to the clinic right this minute for 
that vaccination and you know it. Nobody in this hospital, not even I would get out of it. 
CDC rules, hospital regs, Cuddy. We do this now.”


“House—“ she snaps, glaring up at him, and he catches a glimpse once more of that 
elusive emotion. The final confirmation makes him feel odd inside.


“You’re scared.”


Cuddy’s eyes widen; her mouth thins out into a grim line before she speaks. “Excuse 
ME?”


“You’re scared. What is it? The needles? You don’t like shots?” House probes. At the 
very word she flinches and he sighs, picking up the Henderson file again, focusing on 
it instead of those big blue eyes.


Cuddy’s fingers flex for an awkward moment and she speaks, in a rush. “No, I don’t like 
shots. Yes, it’s a stupid phobia, and how the hell can I be a doctor with a hang-up like 
this, but giving and receiving are two different things, okay? I can inject anyone and 
anything, no problem. I can intubate and set up an IV line and lance and hell a hundred 
other invasive procedures, House. But I don’t . . . take needles well.”


“Explains why you haven’t used that tattoo parlor coupon I gave you for Christmas,” he 
tells her, as much to break the tension as to distract her. Cuddy rolls her eyes, but 
House senses she’s grateful for the shift of mood. He leans down over the desk, 
dropping the file once more, moving into her personal space. “Nevertheless, oh grand 
high Poobah of Princeton-Plainsboro, you NEED immunization. Not only is it a 
regulation, it’s imperative to your health, Cuddy. I can’t live up to that pretty oath I had 
to swear if I let you slip by on this.”


“Shhhhhit.”


He wants to laugh; Cuddy never curses except in extreme duress, major crises, and yet 
here she sits with her lower lip stuck out and trembling, looking like a naughty little girl 
in trouble rather than a hospital administrator. Actually the thought of her as a naughty 
little girl is causing some lovely tension in his lower stomach, so he shifts himself to 
keep her from noticing. Cuddy blinks, her hands clutching her Mark and Cross pen so 
tightly that her slender knuckles are white.


“Yes, you HAVE to,” he tells her firmly. “And nobody has to know but me. I’ll go get the 
vaccine and be back here in a few minutes. We can close the office shutters and you 
can scream and cry and curse me—that will just confirm we’re having sex, right?”


“You’re getting OFF on this, aren’t you?” Cuddy dryly demands. House refuses to 
dignify this with a reply, preferring to waggle his eyebrows at her.


*** *** ***


Since the clinic is locked up at this hour, it only takes a few minutes to walk into the ER 
with Cuddy’s authorization in hand to pick up a dose and a clean needle. House makes 
his way back to her office, feeling the tiny bottle warm up in his palm. He thinks about 
Cuddy’s fear, and about how best to distract her because the globulin is an 
intramuscular injection.


House wonders if he isn’t the one who needs a distraction because the foremost 
thought in his mind is that he’s going to see Cuddy’s ass tonight. That taut, pert, often 
admired aspect of his boss; the object of many a fantasy.


Life is good, House thinks.


She’s still there when he opens the door, standing near the coffee table, straightening 
the magazines. House recognizes her anxiety, her need to take charge of SOMEthing in 
this extreme moment of stress. Carefully he moves past her and speaks in a low voice.


“Go close the blinds and lock the door.”


She hesitates, then moves to do it, gracefully. House lays out the needle and vaccine 
out on the desk along with an alcohol wipe; in the light of the intensity lamp they look 
very sterile and slightly scary. Cuddy is still over by the door, her arms crossed, her eyes 
wide. House gazes at her in the semi-darkness of the office and waits.


“This really is like sex you know,” House tells her. “In order for me to do this, you have 
to be over HERE.”


Cuddy reluctantly moves forward, eyes on the hypodermic sitting her desk. House 
clears his throat. “Sometime tonight would be nice.”


She reaches the edge of the light, and he can smell her fear, can see how pale she is. 
House is both amused and exasperated, but the mischievous part of him is quick to take advantage now. He shifts himself between her and the desk, blocking her view of the 
needle. House smirks.


“So, this is where the fun begins. Tell me where you want this—the right cheek or the 
left?”


Cuddy blinks, and the flush across her face is a joy to see; a wave of rosy color stealing 
over those high cheekbones. House swears even the tops of her ears are red.


“God,” is all she mutters. He preens a moment.


“Please, I’m happy to walk among you and be called House these days. But getting 
back to the matter at hand, Cuddy--you need to hike up your hem and show me your 
best side.”


“Can’t you just give it to me in the arm?” she whimpers even as her hands drop to her 
skirt. House gleefully shakes his head.


“Nope. Deep muscle injection is required for best absorption of globulin. Think of it as 
your chance to moon me.”


“Stop enjoying this so much.” She growls. Cuddy moves to the far side of him and takes 
a deep breath. She quickly pulls up her skirt, and begins to shimmy down her panty 
hose, struggling with it for a few awkward moments. House waits until she’s slightly bent 
over and then moves. He lays a hand on her blouse covered back, giving her time to get 
used to his touch.


“Shhhhhhh. Calm down. Grip the edge of the desk.”


Cuddy resists for a second and then takes in a deep breath and does it. Her fingers 
clamp the rim and House lets his hand rest a little more heavily on her back. Carefully 
he reaches for the foil packet with the alcohol wipe, and moves to stand behind her.


“I need more of a target,” he tells her honestly. The dip of her waist, the hollow of her 
hip is unexpectedly beautiful in the low light, but he’s all too aware that it’s the curve of 
the peach that draws him. Cuddy quivers.


“House—“


“If I stick you anywhere along the pelvic ridge you’re going to feel it a LOT more, Cuddy. 
At least let me jab it where you’ve got some padding.” His voice is lower, and the wishes 
he could make the innuendo more of a tease, but the sight of her is making it hard.


Making him hard, to be precise. House feels the surge of his erection and rattles the foil 
packet impatiently.


Cuddy reaches back and slowly lowers her hose and panties even further, letting them 
shift over the sweet globes of her bottom. In the dim light House sees the sleek rounded perfection of that bared backside and fights the little growl in the back of his throat.


Damn it, nobody else has an ass this nice—not Cameron, who lacks curvature, nor 
Stacy with her boyish hips in tailored slacks.

No, it’s clear that Doctor Lisa Cuddy not only got back, she got bootalicious back and 
House is almost dizzy at the revelation, what with the blood flow all moving south at a 
damned quick rate.


“Come ON, are you going to do it or what?” Cuddy grouses, trying to hold her skirt up. 
House jerks guiltily, and drops the alcohol packet, which lands on the carpet behind one 
of her high heels. She glances down and lets out an irritated sigh. “Oh great. That gives 
me SUCH confidence.”


House grips his cane and dips, reaching one lengthy arm down to pick up the wipe and 
as he does so his face comes dangerously close to the warm curve, the semi-bared 
thighs, the long, long line of legs . . . He rises and forces himself to turn his attention to 
the packet as he hooks his cane further down on the edge of the desk.


“Behave, or I won’t give you a lollipop,” he snipes, but his heart isn’t in it. House is too 
aware of Cuddy as a woman right now, a half-naked body gleaming in the dim light, 
warm and probably satiny to the touch and GOD how long has it been since he got 
laid? He tears the packet with force and pulls out the slightly mangled wipe.


“Right side?”


“Whatever, just DO it,” comes her voice through gritted teeth. House takes a deep 
breath and shifts once again. He steps behind her, and presses his left hand on the 
small of her back, pinning the skirt up, feeling the knobby ridge of her spine through the 
layers of cloth. With one swift circular swipe he rubs the astringent on the perky 
perfection of Cuddy’s right cheek. She shivers, and he can feel her body against his 
thighs.


“Hold still; that’s just alcohol.”


“It’s COLD,” she complains, her voice oddly strained. Her head is down and her hands 
are locked tightly on the edge of the desk now. House lets his stroke around her bottom 
slow a bit, guiltily enjoying the sensation of those firm muscles under his fingertips. 
Only a thin layer of saturated cloth keeps him from touching her bare ass, he realizes. 
This makes him throb, and he tenses, hoping like hell Cuddy doesn’t feel THAT in 
return.


House leans over her back and reaches for the bottle of vaccine and the needle, 
scooping them up even as he drops the used wipe on the desk. Cuddy turns her head 
the other way, her long hair gleaming. He grips the needle cap in his teeth, pulls it off 
and pokes the foil seal on the tiny bottle, drawing in the globulin in a long precise drag 
of reverse suction. When the barrel of the syringe is full, he pulls the tiny bottle off the 
tip and sets it down on the desk.


The sound makes Cuddy flinch again, and he hears her soft little whimper, all the 
louder in the silence of the office. House hesitates, caught between wanting to comfort 
her and distract her, both of them rising from his underused sense of compassion. 
Finally, he brings the needle a few inches from her skin and clears his throat.


“Tell you what--once this is all done I’ll kiss your ass and make it alllll better—“ he offers 
in his most leering tones, deliberately infusing his words with sexual insinuation. Cuddy stiffens, and at that precise moment House slides the needle in, squeezing the plunger 
in a swift move borne of long practice. A low yip rises out of Cuddy, and when he pulls 
the needle out he pushes closer, brushing against her firmly.


She sighs; she sags, all the tension draining out of her as her head drops to her folded 
arms on the desk. House reaches over and sets the empty hypodermic down next to the 
used wipe. He’s up against Cuddy’s ass again, and his body is hypersensitive to this 
fact, keeps screaming this fact to him.


House can’t move.


Cuddy whimpers a little. “Damn it that stuff burns. I feel like I’ve got menthol in my butt.”


House can’t talk. He’s up against said butt, feeling the warmth of her body pressing 
against his, feeling how his erection is nicely trapped between the curve of those half-
bare cheeks, and there is no WAY Cuddy can miss this.


“Houuuuse . . .” she turns her head and looks over her shoulder. Something lazy in her 
voice makes his balls tighten, and the gleam in her eyes makes his pulse jump. Slowly, 
in a moment of pure surrealism she grinds back against him.


House lets out a harsh sigh as all the muscles from his chest through his knees flex 
and rock him forward. Even though his damaged thigh is thrumming, it’s minor; in the background of his consciousness because Cuddy’s lovelyprettyluscioushotlittleASS is 
up against him and GOD it feels SO good to rub himself right along that divine cleft.


Somehow his hands are now on Cuddy’s waist, gripping the cloth of her skirt, fingers 
tangling in the silk lining. More sensory input to go along with the push of her tush and 
House fights to speak when all he wants to do is grunt and rub some more.


A LOT more.


“You . . . “ her voice slides through the semi-darkness, low and breathless, “. . . owe me 
a kiss, Buster.”


House’s fingers tighten convulsively and he lifts his head as Cuddy widens her stance a 
little. He leans down, letting his torso stretch out along her back, dropping his weight on 
her as he traps Cuddy against her desk.


“That . . . was just to get you to pull your panties down for me—“ he breathes. Dim 
thoughts of harassment suits and personal assault charges flicker through his mind, but 
right now higher brain function is shutting down as his hips push, and the ridge of his 
erection slides along the bare globes of Cuddy’s ass.


She laughs; the sound is husky, and excited. “Oh no, you’re not getting out of it. I want 
you to kiss my ass, Greg.”


The words hang in the air, and House, rubbing shamelessly on her now finds them 
deliciously naughty. This dark office in the aftermath of Cuddy’s fear is alive now with a 
giddy passion and who is he to deny it? House brushes his chin along her shoulder and 
sighs.


“You don’t want a lollipop?”


She impatiently makes a soft negative sound, her lithe body moving under his, writhing 
in a counter rhythm that’s going to have him coming in his shorts very soon if he doesn’t 
pull back. Reluctantly House lifts himself, and Cuddy keeps looking over her shoulder at 
him.


God he can’t believe how sexy she looks right now. Cuddy is bent over her desk, skirt 
up over her waist, hose and panties down at mid-thigh. Her sweet butt with its dimples 
along the base of her spine is utterly hot, and House realizes he WANTS to kiss it.


For starters.


Cuddy is breathing quick and fast now, and House sees a hint of common sense 
coming back to her, so he reaches out and lays a hand on her butt, cupping one cheek 
in his palm, savoring the feel of it.


“Like a peach,” he breathes with a sincerity that startles them both. Cuddy sucks in a 
breath, and House slowly bends down, fighting hard twinges through his damaged 
thigh. He breathes in the scent of her skin; mingled perfume and musk, and with warm deliberation he brushes his bristled cheek against her smooth one.


Cuddy gives a soft yodel. There really isn’t any other word for it; a musical cry of 
pleasure that makes House throb savagely in response. He turns his face and 
deliberately flicks his tongue out to lick the arch of one cheek and the moment his 
tongue touches her Cuddy tenses.


House licks a circle on her ass, and then opens his mouth, pressing his teeth against 
that firm tushie, the thrill running through his loins in a jolt of molten fire.


He nips.


Cuddy squeals, jolting forward, knocking her pencil cup off the desk in a clatter. House 
ignores it all and lets his mouth wander along the curve of the peach, moving towards 
the cleft. Cuddy groans and one hand slides back, attempting to touch his chin.


“Greggggg . . “


“Shhhh . . . “he tells her dreamily, his words muffled against her butt. She can’t help 
but giggle and House nips again, one hand sliding around a smooth thigh, pushing the 
panty hose down further.


Little by little, inch by inch he manages to kiss all of it, from cheek to cheek he realizes. 
Every nip and nibble, every scrape makes Cuddy react. House has never heard his 
name uttered in so many ways—cursed and sung and gasped and growled and 
pleaded and hissed and his favorite, begged. By the time he’s covered it all, Cuddy is 
damp and desperate, her ass gleaming with his saliva, her eyes wide and unfocused.


“Oh God . . . “ she moans, shivering. House leans over her body once more, settling comfortably against her ass, feeling possessive now of those charming globes. He 
breathes in her ear.


“If this is what being a sycophant means, I’m all for it. You have no idea how close I am 
to blowing my wad here---“


Her hands reach back and find his straining fly; with a dexterity that amazes him House watches as Cuddy unzips his pants behind her back. She shoots him a smutty look, 
dark fire in her gaze.


“I’m ready for that lollipop now.”


He doesn’t need to be asked twice, and after struggling to get free of his jeans and 
boxers House sinks himself into the gleaming cleft between Cuddy’s thighs, sliding 
deeply with a growl rising out of his throat now. He grips her hips, shoves and 
oohhhhhh the squeeze, the searing slick grip of Cuddy roasts him in sheer pleasure. He pumps, he pushes hard, not thinking now, lost in the glide of muscle and skin, feeling savagely happy. And then the crest rises and he feels his nipples harden under his shirt. Beneath him Cuddy softly wails, her half-naked body tight,tight,tight as she comes and 
that’s such a fucking RUSH that he comes too, the lancing pleasure pulsing hard and 
deep from his testicles.


*** *** ***


He’s still paying for it two days later. His leg is throbbing through the heaviest dose of 
Vicodin he can take and still humanly function. His temper is savage, his mind distracted, 
but through it all he’s determined not to do anything but live on the memories.


House has only seen Cuddy in the distance for the last forty-eight hours. So when he 
steps into the half-full elevator and she comes sliding in with him, he’s startled.


Not afraid of course, but even so, he can’t help but check out the flare of her ass under 
her skirt. She catches his glance and for a moment her expression flickers off of the professional mask. Then she clears her throat.


“Doctor House.”


“Cuddy.” He responds, amused at her tone. Something inside him relaxes a little. “Nice 
skirt? Is it lined?”


She rolls her eyes and waits until the elevator is in motion. “I need you to follow up on 
one of your patients.”


His mind rolls back over the nameless rabble from the clinic and he turns to look at her, 
hope welling up in his chest. Cuddy looks at him, and nervously licks her lips.


He smiles. When the door opens, he steps out and looks at her while the other 
passengers are exiting, and he dips his head down.


“I’ll get on it after clinic, if that’s okay with you.”


For a moment she struggles not to laugh, the relief on her face evident for a second or 
two. Then she nods.


“Good. In fact—“ she begins to walk away, and House SWEARS she waggles her 
glorious backside at him. “—That would be just peachy.”



End

 



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