Title: ...To Make Me Feel This Way (Triquel to "What a Wicked Game to Play.." and "Work of the Devil")
Set During: Season 3
Disclaimer: No, I don't own House or Cuddy; if I did...well if I told you I'd have to kill you. :P
He’s kissing her. He’s kissing her and his hand is sneaking up her dress. He’s kissing her and the anger that is erupting in your stomach is something immeasurable. They’d gone to dinner and he’d brought her home. He told her how he felt about her, every meaningless detail. And she bought it. She let herself become vulnerable; too vulnerable. Not the way she is with you; vulnerability simply a clever excuse whenever the two of you run off somewhere and return slightly disheveled and with unexplainable scratches. No. She believed that look in his eyes and when he moves to touch her; to kiss her, she allowed him. Encouraged him even; parting her lips when he leaned in, reacting when his hand pressed into her hip and her into the door.
And you swear you can see every part of her humming when he touches her, glowing. And something isn’t letting you stop it. Some unseen force is holding you back. Too far to do anything but close enough to have it all searing your memory.
When he says maybe they should take things inside all she can do is gaze up at him with her sparkling eyes and pull him through the doorway. He overpowers her and ‘God’, you say, ‘she can’t want this’. But she does. His hands are greedy on her skin; trying too hard to possess what you once, twice, a hundred times possessed. She gasps at the ferocity of his touch. But this is your M.O. Yours and yours alone. Wandering hands and lips and teeth, touching every inch of her; memorizing even the littlest of her reactions. How can he know what buttons to push? Why doesn’t she pull away?
Her hands were meant to touch you, her lips meant to kiss you. But instead she touches him, kisses him. He’s undressing her, his hands running across her bare skin, just taunting you. Every intake of breath grows more haggard. He keeps touching her; he won’t stop and she’s wanting every second of it.
He pulls her out of her dress and his eyes ravage her body; narrowly appreciating her immaculate curves, the ones you worship. This feeling in your chest is dreadful and you can’t seem to pinpoint why you’re feeling as much as you’re feeling. You don’t love her. Your “relationship”, if we can even call it that, is a laugh, really. A mutual grudging affection that somewhere along the way turned into something more, you saw her more, more deeply. No, not really. More like you just get to see more of her and more often, whenever you please.
But now it appears she is his. He’s taken her; is taking her, right now. And you’re frozen watching; helpless to move and powerless to breathe. Forced to sit and witness every minute of it. Hating and wishing for it to be done.
The gleam in her eyes is for him, the gleam that used to melt you to the bone. And he couldn’t possibly deserve this; couldn’t possibly deserve her. If you could move you’d finish him; save her from his dominating touch.
But then…her eyes have found you; your relentless stare. She whispers his name. No. That was your name; you are certain of it. Now everything is feeling heavy and it all fades to black. You’re propelled into light-headed consciousness; into reality and none of it was real.