Earful
4:24 PM
Tuesday afternoon, Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.
The clinic was crowded and busy; Cuddy shot the triage nurse a
sympathetic
glance and picked up a file, determined to get things moving along,
feeling a
little tired herself but determined not to show it.
“Let’s see, we’ve got three rooms
ready--okay, Mr. Delmaccio, you’re
next—“
At
the sound of her voice, the old wino slumped on the waiting room
chair
perked
up and beamed at Cuddy, flashing her a smile that looked like a rotting
picket
fence.
“Miss Smoky! Gawd, I’d know your voice anywhere,
Honeybuns!"
"Excuse me?" Cuddy blurted, startled.
"Oh yeah, I remember,” he cackled, looking pleased with
himself. “Long
time
ago, but it's the same voice. Yew got me through a lotta lonely
lonely
nights
. . . “ he announced loudly enough to be heard all through
the clinic.
Cuddy flashed him a tight, unamused smile and herded him into exam
room
One.
“I’m afraid you’ve got me mixed up with
someone else, Mr. Delmaccio . . .
here’s Doctor House.”
“No it’s yew, Miss Smoky, from fifteen years ago, I
KNOW it! Doncha
remember
th’ time you tol me ALL about playn’ tennis with no
undies on? Or
the story
about spankin’ your roommate in college? Ah those were
good
times . . . “ the
wino mumbled in a daze, his hand moving not so subtly to his
crotch.
In the exam room, House glanced up from his Gameboy at the derelict
old
man and
then at Cuddy, his expression one of lofty amusement. Cuddy
sneered back, and
slapped the file on the exam table. “Our clearly
delirious
patient is
complaining of stomach pain, Doctor House. I expect you to get
right on the
case,” she warned, stepping out briskly and closing the
door
behind her.
Quickly she shot a sharp look around the clinic waiting room, but
nobody
seemed
to be paying any attention to her, and Cuddy took the moment
to
slink off to
the ladies’ room.
Her hands were shaking slightly.
She splashed a little water on her face to cool it off, certain that
she was
blushing. Dear God—after all these years, who would have ever
thought that
she’d be . . . recognized? Cuddy glanced at her reflection in
the mirror,
blinking.
Remembering.
The first summer in
Money.
It was an easy summer job, Glenda assured her. Just talk to old farts
over the
line and tell them some perverted story. Listen for what gets them off
and play
it up. Ten dollars an hour and fifteen percent of the phone tab. You
can work
when you want, but morning calls are the best because the creeps are
all at
work behind office doors charging it to their companies.
She didn’t want to—it sounded sick. But the pay too
damned tempting
because
textbooks--even used ones--were outrageous. Flipping burgers
or
filing papers
somewhere for a mere five-twenty an hour wouldn't add much to
her budget; even
with her student loans.
Glenda had offered to walk her through it, coaching her and after the
first few
days, Cuddy had realized with a weird pride that she was good at it.
That she
had . . . a knack.
A voice and an imagination.
She sighed, gripping the edges of the sink. Nearly a decade ago; behind
her
now. Damn it, she was a chief administrator! Dean of a major
teaching
hospital,
a respected member of the community--light years away from
Miss
Smoky of the
Dial-a-Dirty-Dream Line.
That wasn’t HER anymore.
Cuddy drew in a deep breath and kept staring at herself in the mirror,
thinking
back. How many calls? How many regulars? Once the money had
started
coming in
it didn’t seem too bad, aside from getting bored with most of
the
callers.
There had been one or two, but for the most part it was all talk,
none
of it
anything more than an easy way to pay the bills.
With a scowl, Cuddy shook her head. A wino—nobody would take
him
seriously . .
. then she remembered who was treating him, and blanched all
over again.
10:46 PM Tuesday night,
“Hello?”
“Hello, is this Miss Smoky?” came the low, almost
seductive question. Cuddy
scowled.
“House—not funny.”
“Oh I agree, not funny. Intriguing, and illuminating, but not
funny. I always
thought you were a GOOD girl, Cuddy, and now I find you have a
naughty
past.
This makes things much more interesting.”
“I don’t care what that patient said, I’m
NOT Miss Smoky, and you certainly
can’t take his word for anything, House. Obviously I remind
him of someone—
a
case of mistake identity, nothing more.”
“Is that what the defense claims? Because it’s not
holding up, Miss Smoky.
My
little conversation with the patient puts the first holes in THAT
assertion.
Our source is Harold G. Bilmar of
both you and I attended?” came his ruthless question. Cuddy
bit her
lip; when House took that tone it meant he wasn’t bluffing.
“It’s a big country, House. Lots of people come
from
mean every one of them
has perfect hearing, or accurate memories for that
matter.”
“True, true—and given the amount of sterno our
fellow Wolverine has
consumed in
the intervening years I’d normally give you the benefit of
the
doubt. However,
Harold was able to cough up a few details along with some
lung chunks, and
those mesh rather nicely with some Internet research I did.
It turns out that
the time frame for his patronage of Miss Smoky’s
raunchy
services does indeed
coincide with your first year at school. Furthermore . . .
.”
his voice trailed
away, and Cuddy heard him breathing softly.
“Furthermore what?” she snapped, wondering why she
didn’t simply hang up
on
him. House’s voice came back on the line, a little
rough-edged, but still
there.
“Furthermore, he elaborated the details of a session or two.
Cuddy, Cuddy,
Cuddy—tennis without panties? You were on the junior varsity
doubles team.
You’d KNOW all about tennis, panties or not. Too many
coincidences, Miss
Smoky.
Don’t make me go through the yearbooks to find your roommate
and
start asking
questions, not at this late date.” This last came out in a
wheeze,
and Cuddy
realized the sound wasn’t sexual at all.
She recognized it, and a pang of concern flared through her. Carefully
she
sighed into the phone. “Damn it . . . you’re in
pain, aren’t you?”
“What makes you say that?” House snapped back over
the line. “The fact that
I’m
calling you at eleven on a school night? Just answer the question,
Doctor
Cuddy.”
“If you’re in pain—“
“Not an ‘if’ and I AM doing something
about it, if you’ll just cooperate for a
damned minute here—“ came his waspish reply. Cuddy
took a breath,
considering
the sweet oddness of the moment; of the absurdly tender situation
facing her here.
She could hang up; God knew what House would do, but it probably
wouldn’t
be
prudent.
She could reason with him.
Right.
Or—
Or,
She could . . . talk to him.
“Lisa?” he whispered into the phone, and that soft
little pain-filled plea
suddenly made the choice for her. Drawing in a deep breath, she settled
back
in
her bed and closed her eyes.
“Doctor Greg . . . “ She breathed into the phone,
feeling the slow rush come
back to her. “You can call me Smoky.”
“Well, that’s more like it,” House
grunted, his reply a little guarded.
Cuddy laughed throatily, thinking fast. What next--oh yeah--“
So you decided
to
give me a call . . . I love that.”
“You do?” this came out in a slightly cynical
snort. Cuddy gave a purr in
reply.
“Oh you bet. I get lonely in my little bed here, all alone.
Nobody to talk to .
. . nobody to touch but myself . . . .” she trailed off. Over
the line came the
sound
of House’s breathing, low and deep.
“You . . . touch yourself,” he muttered.
Cuddy flexed her toes, absurdly pleased; fifteen years and she still
had the
knack. She made a tiny purr again. “Yes. I know
it’s a naughty thing to do,
Doctor Greg, but when I get these urges it’s just so hard to
ignore them . . .
those hot little pangs deep between my thighs . . . “
“Those can be . . . hard to ignore—“ he
sighed, his voice lower. Cuddy sighed.
“They get really bad when I wear my thongs. I always buy them
a size too
small,
and so the tiny little silk panel just rubs and rubs between my legs
alllll
day. It just makes me so squirmy, and by the end of the day my thong is
so
wet
. . . “
The noise House made on the other end of the line was midway between
a
groan
and a growl; Cuddy felt her nipples harden against the eyelet of her
nightgown.
She let her hand glide over her breast wonderingly as she
spoke
again, her own
voice lower in timbre now.
“Sometimes it gets so bad I just take my thong off and go
around the hospital
without panties. I have to be careful though about it though, because
if people
knew I was walking around naked under my skirt they might try to . . .
“
“ . . . Touch you . . . “ House finished hoarsely,
“Slide a hand up—“
“Oh that would be nasty, Doctor Greg,” Cuddy cooed,
feeling a flush of heat
over her skin. She tried to concentrate, but the hand not holding the
phone
slid down her stomach. “If you did that, you’d find
out how turned on I was . .
.
how wet . . . “
“Jesus, you’re too damned good at
this—“ House groaned a little, trying to
be
funny and not succeeding. Cuddy laughed softly and breathed a bit
more
heavily
into the phone, her hand sliding lower.
“Oh no, I’m not good, I’m a bad, bad girl
. . . guess where my hand is right
now?” She groaned into the line. The reckless pleasure
flooded her senses as
she cupped the fur between her thighs.
Dear God this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. House was the
one who was
supposed to be turned on and touching himself, not her. Cuddy pressed
her
palm
against the soft curls between her legs.
“I have a good idea where your hand is, Lisa, but I have a
much better
one . .
. “ House growled, his voice suddenly louder. Startled, Cuddy
heard
the sound
of a key in a lock; of her front door opening. She froze, and by
the
time she
decided to move it was too late; big as life, House stood framed
in
her bedroom
doorway, snapping his cell phone shut, looking down at her
lying
on her bed,
her hand inside her panties.
He breathed hard, nostrils flaring. “Show me.”
Cuddy stared up, into his bright blue eyes, seeing the sweat of pain
and
arousal dampening his hairline and staining the armpits of his shirt.
She
shifted, licking her lips.
“Greg . . . “
“Show me . . . “ his tone had changed from a
command to a quiet, hunger-
filled
plea. Cuddy slowly dropped her phone. Carefully, she drew in a
shaky
breath.
Very slowly, she let her eyes half-close, and shifted her fingers
again.
With
her other hand she slowly pushed down her panties.
“When I get . . . turned on, I take a shower, and get into
bed,” she murmured.
“Sometimes I get in naked, but usually I wear my nightgown. I
love the feel of
the lace on my skin. And then I touch myself, really really
slow.”
“Um hmmm,” House moaned. He was looming over her
bed now, watching her
with
rapt eyes in the low light of the lamp. Cuddy shifted her thighs
apart,
fingers
raking through her curls.
“And I tease . . . myself. I touch everywhere between my legs
but the hottest
spot . . . “ came her thick confession. House opened his
mouth, breathing a
little more raggedly. Cuddy stroked one hand along the cleft of her
pussy, and
rubbed her bare, flat stomach with the other.
For a moment neither of them spoke, but the sound of their breathing
filled the
room. House pressed a hand to his fly, swallowing hard.
“Fuck.”
Cuddy nodded. “Yeah. Ohhhhh yeah.”
They exploded; Cuddy lunged up for him as House dropped down,
mouths
meeting in
a wet clash of teeth and lips. Hands fumbled, tugged, freed; Cuddy
squealed
against House’s tongue as he yanked her nightie up. With a
few
squeaks of the
bedsprings they managed to both fit on the bed; House
flattened his palms on
the mattress on either side of her heaving ribs. Cuddy wrapped her
thighs
around his hips, struggling with his jeans.
“Damn it, WANT you—“
“You’ll GET me, just don’t claw my ass
raw,” House hissed, rocking his hips
forward. In one glorious thrust he plunged into her, and Cuddy groaned,
her
slender throat arching as the pleasure flared, driving all rational
thought
from
her mind.
He was thick, and hot; moving deep in strong thrusts and the wet sound
of
their
bodies merged with the creaking of the bed, with her own
whimpered
groans.
House dropped his face to the side of her neck and Cuddy felt
the
burning gusts
of his breath on her skin along with the nip of his teeth.
“Jesus H. Chrrrrrist you’re fucking tiiiiight . . .
“ came his slightly anguished
growl, “Goddamn it . . .”
“Harder, baby—“ Cuddy gasped, clenching,
feeling the hot quick surge of
sweet
lust knifing through her, the undeniable tension drawing closer
with
every
smack of their stomachs. House chuffed, big strong body responding
helplessly
to the low command in her voice, and he tensed, driving deep,
pinning her even
as he grunted his pleasure against the tender skin of her
throat, his beard
scraping her.
“FuckfuckfuckGodcomminnnngg—“ he growled
in a husky animal tone that
seared itself
in her mind even as she clung to him, lost in the sweet crest
of
their
pleasure.
Later he slept, slumped against her breast, nose pushed into her
cleavage,
and
Cuddy gently stroked his damp hair, indulging herself in the rare
chance
to
cuddle him. It wouldn’t last long, she suspected; the
endorphins would wear
off, and House would probably pull back from the offered tenderness.
But for now he was relaxed, and neither of them had to get up any time
soon,
and it felt good to have him in her arms, and safe. Cuddy started to
doze off,
drifting into sleep when she felt his lips move.
“You . . . amaze me.”
She smiled and kissed his forehead.
end
