Tactile
Damn it.
House
moved down the
hallway, a large lanky juggernaut; people saw his expression and moved
out of
his way with alacrity. He ignored them, his gaze
set on some distant point, his
thoughts moving at superconductor speed
across his mind. As he lurched on, he
considered his arguments, laying them
out carefully in his head, congratulating
himself on the clear logic behind them,
the solid validity of each salient
point.
He swung
towards Cuddy’s
office, only to see it was empty. In frustration, he tamped his cane
hard on
the linoleum floor, the sound loud despite the rubber
cap on the end of it.
House looked right and left, hoping against hope to catch
a glimpse of She Who
Deserved a Yelling At, but neither direction yielded
anything, and as a last
resort, he grudgingly slipped into her darkened office
seeking out the
day
planner on her desk.
Long ago
House had
figured out her code; it amused him to be able to
decipher the cryptic little
notes Cuddy thought were so secure. T/JL/4 was easy--‘tennis,
Jane Lindon, four
o’clock’. Some were a bit harder: ZZZ/DC/L
turned out to be ‘board meeting,
Donors Committee, lunchtime’. She had
symbols too—
He himself was a stick drawing of a cane; he was grateful
she hadn’t gone for
the obvious, at least.
House
scanned the agenda
and frowned. New notation: M/PT/teardrop.
Odd.
Very
odd.
House
looked at the
notation again and let his mind race; the argument about
the patient
treatment
could wait a bit—this was intriguing. M, M, M . . .
Meeting?
Management? Money?
He wondered. The nonlinear synapses
jumped in immediately: mudpack?
Manicure?
Masturbation? That last thought brought a brief flicker of a smile over
House’s
thin mouth. Riiiiight.
Cuddy
already had a symbol
for that, he knew.
Carefully
he looked over
the notation again, and one piece clicked into place.
PT—Physical Therapy. He
frowned a bit more. Physical Therapy for what?
She was too good to
overdo her
workouts, and he hadn’t heard any gossip
about injuries.
Cuddy might have been
checking up on the department, but
the teardrop made him doubt that
idea. No,
this was a personal notation, he
was sure.
House
sighed, and closed
the day planner. He scanned the desktop for
further clues, letting his
gaze
move across the tidy, feminine décor in a quick
sweep.
Framed nieces, glass
trinkets, nameplate, coffee warmer, airline
boarding pass printout . .
.
Carefully he picked up the latter, reading off the
pertinent details:
Round
trip to Chicago over the weekend, first class.
towards the door.
Cuddy
carefully unwrapped the towel from her hair and gently shook it
out.
The
heat of the sauna had done her some good, but the tension across her
shoulders
still ached, and she moved gingerly, hoping the massage would
help. The
last
thing she needed before heading to give her speech in
was to be too stiff to move.
Fortunately,
Ingrid had
an opening, and considering the way she felt, Cuddy
had no compunction
about
booking the time. A good rubdown, some hydration
and she was sure to be
relaxed
enough to deliver the opening remarks to the
North American Hospital
Management
Conference tomorrow. Cuddy made
her way from the sauna to PT room three
in her
bare feet. Once there, she
stiffly climbed onto the padded table and
lay face
down after tugging the clean
drape low across her hips. The room was
semi-dark,
with the light filtering in
through the frosted windows and vertical
blinds;
Cuddy willed herself to relax a
bit as she tried to get comfortable on
the
naugahyde surface; to distract
herself she softly muttered the opening
to her
speech.
“The
history of hospital
management has been a long and often arduous one,
and the majority of
progress
in this area remains unappreciated—“
The door
opened behind
her, and she sighed, breaking off from her speech
and closing her eyes
happily.
“Ingrid. Thank you for taking me this morning.
I’ll
make sure you get
compensated for the hour if you fill out a supplemental
time
card.”
The soft
touch of a hand
trailed along her flank, and Cuddy sighed, already beginning to relax.
She
settled down, her hands folded under her cheek, and
waited.
House
looked down at the
sleek expanse of Lisa Cuddy’s bare back; the soft
swell of
her breasts rounding
under her ribcage; the shallow trough of her
spine and bit back a
groan. There
wasn’t an ounce of excess anything on the woman, and velvet
warmth of her skin
simply begged to be touched. Cuddy
had swept her hair over her right
shoulder,
and the pale angles of her bones
made perfect wings in the low light.
House
felt a growing urge to bend down
and kiss her neck. Point of fact he
felt a LOT
of growing urges, but in a
moment Cuddy would turn and see him if he
didn’t act
fast.
Too bad
that somebody had
just given Ingrid the afternoon off, with pay.
House
plucked one of the
squirt bottles of oil out of the warmer on the counter
and drizzled a
few
splashes artistically across her shoulders; the seductive
scent of
heated
tangerine rose up. Cuddy gave a happy little sigh and House pushed his
jacket
sleeves up, smirking to himself. He lightly stroked both open palms
through the
oil and up her back, spreading the lubricant smoothly,
noting that his
open
hands were almost big enough to cup the entire area. He rubbed.
Cuddy
tensed for a moment
against the firm pressure, and after a few long
minutes finally began
to relax;
the slow rush of liberation under those skilled
fingers felt like
magic, the
release so good she felt like crying for a moment.
Slow glides moved
along
either side of her spine, culminating in a tender
kneading of her
shoulders at
the end of each stroke in a heavenly sensation.
She gave
a long moan,
flexing her toes happily. “Ohhhhh my God, this is
amazing . .
. You’re hitting
all the knots just right . . . . “
House
made a little hum
of affirmation, trying to pitch it high and keep up the masquerade a
little
longer as his palms slid over Cuddy’s smooth skin.
The
heat
of it was
unexpectedly arousing, and the citrus mingled with a hint of
musk now;
the rush
of sensation leaving him aware of how petite Cuddy’s
frame
was, how sweetly,
gorgeously naked she was under the drape.
He kept
stroking, letting
his fingers slide from her shoulders to her neck and
House gently
squeezed the
slender base of it, letting his thumbs caress the
knobs of her
vertebra. Cuddy
moaned again, a low animal tone that drifted
into his ears and dropped
straight
into his boxers. House fought not to moan
himself, aware that his hands
were
beginning to move along Cuddy’s shoulder
blades in little
circular motions,
curving around her ribs to brush against the
outer bulges of her
breasts.
Cuddy
sighed
languorously, almost purring. “Mmmmmmmmmm, nice.
Please—don’t stop.”
House
forced himself to
slow down; he reached for the bottle again and
drizzled more oil onto
each
hand, then returned to delicate strokes, working
his way down
Cuddy’s lean
flanks. Christ he was getting seriously hard now.
The sweet flare of
her fanny
rose up from under the drape and he could see
the dimples at the base
of her
spine, unarguably one of the more adorable
sights he’d ever
seen. He wanted to
lick them, and keep nibbling up and
around her ass, making her giggle
and
squirm. House loved Cuddy’s giggle;
he’d only heard
it once or twice, but it ranked
high on his list of Sexy Sounds.
Then,
without opening her
eyes, she reached back and tugged the drape
down, exposing the rest of
her
torso. House paused, slightly stunned,
desperately hard now. A fully
naked,
oiled up Lisa Cuddy on a padded table in
a dark room with a locked door.
In that
instant House
KNEW that there was a God, and this was a damned
fine way of
proselytizing, oh
yeah. He drew his hands down along the small of Cuddy’s back
and rubbed the
bottom of her spine gently. She wriggled in
response, and her low laugh
rumbled
out.
“I
don’t suppose you do
rump rubs, do you? I’m trying not to sit so much on
mine
these days, but I
ooooohhhhhhhhh--“ she trailed off as House obliged,
stroking
forcefully,
squeezing, if the truth be told. He tried not to give in to
the
urge,
but
honestly, Cuddy’s ass was begging for it; gleaming with oil
and
wiggling so
cutely there . . .
“I-Inngrid?”
came Cuddy’s
breathless, slightly alarmed question.
House
drew in a breath
and quietly hissed out, “Shhhhhh!” in such
a
commanding tone that she actually
hesitated. House let his hands slide
happily over the firm globes of
Cuddy’s
caboose, indulging himself for a long, glorious moment. Prrrrrime,
ooooh yeah,
most definitely. Muscled and taut
and God he was going to lose it here
if he
didn’t . . .
House
closed his eyes and
did a lightning fast assessment. //ASS-essment,//
his own mind taunted
him on
the current situation. Cuddy was going to realize
it was
him—there was no
escaping that end. //END,// his mind chimed in
again. So the key was to
make
sure she was so aroused herself that she’d
choose him over
throwing him out on
his butt. //BUTT--You are SUCH a booty hound, Greggo,// came his own
snide
inner thoughts once more.
He
stretched his fingers,
cupping her cheeks and stroked carefully, rubbing
the muscles until he
felt
them relax slightly. Then, in gentle, feather soft
strokes, House began
to
focus on the backs of Cuddy’s thighs. His erection throbbed
now, and it took
willpower to keep his touch light, but it worked.
Cuddy squirmed a bit
more
shifting her hips, and clearing her throat.
“Um,
Ingrid . . .”
House
took a breath and
slid his thumbs along the insides of her thighs,
letting the oil
trickle down
as he stroked. A darling puff of dark fur peeked out,
and House chuffed
a
little, aware of how tightly his cock was pressing against
his jeans
now. His
fingers moved faster; he felt small tremors move through
her muscles
and her
thighs opened a tiny bit; reluctantly.
“I
don’t think . . .”
Cuddy gasped out, “That this . . . is—“
House
slid his hands down
the back of her legs to her knees, pushing them
apart; Cuddy yelped and
pushed
up on her palms, twisting to look over her shoulder.
She
froze.
Naked.
She was naked, on
her stomach, her legs wide, with Greg House
looming behind her, his
hands slick
from the massage, his eyes glittering a dangerous shade of blue and
that was
one holy HELL of a boner he was
sporting against his jeans, she thought
dizzily. This was unreal. Not
happening, the stuff of nightmares and
fantasies.
“Lisa,”
he breathed, and
she heard it then; desire, yes, but also shame and
regret; a joke gone
much too
far to take back at this point. House shifted,
wiping the back of one
wrist
under his chin, his gaze still drinking her in.
Cuddy
moved. Quickly,
before she could think, talk herself out of it, talk him
out of it, she
rolled
over and sat up, reaching for his arm. The minute she
gripped him,
Cuddy
tugged, and House glanced down at her fingers around
his wrist. With a
stunned
look he stumbled forward just as she slid off the end
of the table,
and—
There.
They. Were.
Cuddy
naked and slick,
pinned against the edge of the massage table by
House’s
greater height. She
tipped her face up, aware of how dry her mouth
was, how she could feel
her
pulse in a mad throbbing echo through her.
“You
started this, you
FINISH it, Greg,” came her voice, almost calm, but
lower,
huskier. She rubbed
one hand down his inseam, caressing the hot
ridge and making him groan
aloud.
House dropped his hands on either side of
her, trapping her against the
table.
He bent down and breathed in her face.
“Fantasy
number one,
Lisa. Doing you. Christ you have no idea, none, what a turn-on it is to
see you
standing here at work, completely naked while I still
have clothes on.
You’re
mine oh yes--my toy, my naughty, naughty plaything
and I want you so
much I’m
seconds from going it alone here if you know what
I mean. Take my pants
off.
Now.”
Smiling,
Cuddy reached
for the rivet on his jeans, plucking it open and
undoing his fly. She
tugged
the denim down past his knees, along with his
blue boxers, revealing an
arrogant shaft of flushed red. Lightly she circled her
hand around it.
House
thrust himself into her grip, his eyes half-closed with
pleasure at the
sight;
the touch.
Cuddy
laughed. Carefully
she turned and bent over the massage table,
shifting her ass and
looking over
her shoulder in a slow, wordless taunt.
She
licked her lips.
House
growled. He pressed
himself forward, one big hand pressing on the
small of her back, the
other
guiding himself between her lean thighs. He thrust, plunging into the
honeyed
slickness there, and the sweet squeeze drove a pleasured groan out of
his
lungs; a duet to Cuddy’s soft, melodic cry.
“Sexxxy,”
House managed,
rocking forward, his splayed, oiled palms over the dimples at the base
of
Cuddy’s spine. “Your skin, your spine, your
damn
adorable ass, Lisa—“
She
gripped the edge of
the massage table, bracing against the hot thrusts as House drove
himself into
her in slick, deep plunges. The feel of his hands, the
burn of his
eager prick
tugging and stroking her hot flesh, rocking her against
the padded
curve of the
table . . . Cuddy pushed back eagerly, hungry for him,
the low fire in
her
belly flaring up now, searing through her. She writhed,
tossing her
hair,
gasping as she closed her eyes and within a few scant
minutes let the
blazing
rush of orgasm surge through her, leaving her
clutching the table with
her
nails, moaning loudly.
House
was a goner. The
feel of Cuddy under him, taking his cock, squirming
and crying out, her
long
hair tumbling over her bare shoulders, his hands
pressing just over
those pert
asscheeks as he rocked himself into her—all of
those swept
him up and drove him
through a crescendo of lust the likes of
which he hadn’t felt
in years. He
arched, his fingers curling around Cuddy’s
waist in a
possessive grip, and his
groan rose up from his balls.
He
slumped over her
spine, chest heaving, sense of balance utterly gone as
he pressed his
stubbly
cheek to one small shoulder blade, breathing in the
scent of tangerine,
and
under it, the wilder, spicier scent of Cuddy’s lust.
For
long
minutes neither
of them moved.
Finally,
House sighed and
pried himself off of her; out of her while reaching for
the stack of
towels on
the counter. He took long gentle swipes to clean her, humming as he did
so;
Cuddy shyly looked over her shoulder, her eyes soft
and grey now, her
smirk
deep enough to show her dimples.
“This
never happened,”
she announced.
House
blinked a little
and wiped himself clean, grimacing as he tucked himself
back into his
jeans and
zipped up. He gravely pulled the drape up from the
floor and wrapped it
around
Cuddy, tucking it neatly around her curves and
angles, taking a moment
to kiss
her shoulders and softly work his way up the
side of her neck to lick
her ear.
“It
never does,” he
agreed. “And I certainly don’t think it ought to
happen
again, later tonight,
at your place. I won’t bring a bottle of wine, and
you
shouldn’t ask me to stay
overnight so I won’t massage you again.”
“Right,”
Cuddy sighed
contentedly, “because it’s pretty clear
you’re NOT a touchy-feely hands-on
doctor.”
House
slid a hand under
the drape, and whispered softly to her. “I blame it
on
not
enough positive
strokes from my chief administrator, but we’re working
on
it.
It’s—“
“—Touch
and go?” Cuddy
smirked, and kissed him before he could reply.
END
