Set During: Hmm. No real set time, let's just say Season 4
Disclaimer: No, I don't own House or Cuddy; if I did...they would've gotten together a LUHHOOONNNG time ago.
Sitting in your office, blinds drawn, darkness, empty, and quiet. The only sound is the soft fall of your cane hitting the floor, a low, steady rhythm. Another sound enters your think space. A loud, abrasive knock. "No one's home! Go away!” you huff, hoping to scare this disturbance away. But then you hear the clippity-clap of heels heading for the other door and you spring up to try and lock that door before she can reach it. No such luck. "What the hell are you doing?" Her eyes are like blue fire today, a message of 'don't you dare mess with me' emanating from them. Ha, like you'd actually care. "I was enjoying the company of a couple of hookers but you scared them away." She rolls her eyes and barrels into your office. "House, I am not in the mood. Sit." You open your mouth to speak but she cuts you a glare so deadly you actually manage to shut up for all of 4 seconds.
Obviously you've done something. She wouldn't come all the way up here if you hadn't. You figure you'll save her some time. "I'm sorry." You actually sound sincere which shocks you almost as much as it shocks her. She softens a little, her brow unfurrowing. "House, do you even know what you're apologizing for?" you try to keep it going because you are the Grand Master of quick on your feet but you just can't help yourself. "Yes, actually, I do. I am sorry about your unfortunate run-in with the Fashion Police. They seem to have confiscated almost half of that blouse. Although if I were to run into one of them I'd probably give him a high five before..." "House!" She's fuming and you love it. "Hey, I just wanted to give the guy some positive feedback on a job well done. Jeez Cuddy, cut him a break why don't ya?" It seems that snarky comments are all you can muster to stop yourself from gaping like a fish. Everything about her is fiery today, a flare of red fabric and berry-stained lips; an enticing red glow surrounds her. And for a split second you're human and can't take your eyes off of her.
She's angry, and pacing. Oh how you love this. Perhaps because she looks good in anger, sexy. Or perhaps it's the pacing you enjoy. Frustrated, furious, and aimless: walking the same short path a thousand times. Yes, it could be the anger you enjoy but the benefits you reap from the pacing just might be superior, although the combination is working pretty well for you here. With her hyper focused ranting you have ample time to practically catalog every square inch of her.
She sits on the edge of your desk now, leans back on her palms and crosses her legs that way she does, that way that makes you just a little bit crazy You brush your hand across her knee, an apology and an implication. You ignore the invisible consequence. She's sitting but she looks dizzy and lightheaded, like your touch elicits a mental as well as a physical reaction. She stands up. She's uneasy with this proximity. You wonder why it matters now. You yourself aren't sure of what this is or was. You, sitting at your desk and then she comes in and yells and sits, displayed to you like a Goddess and you are supposed to be okay, just sit here with her looking like that and somehow not feel what you're feeling. An unreasonable assumption, impossible even, that you are strong enough to witness her and not crack under the pressure of it all. Her presence, unable to be ignored or resisted, especially when she sits like that, right there in front of your face, nearly flaunting herself at you, wanting you to apologize, as usual, for something ridiculous. But all you can do is lazily drag your eyes down her body, swimming in the color of her skin and drowning in every dangerous curve.
Her eyes flicker to yours, questioning you and herself. You move to the side of your desk and sit. She approaches you, annoyance resurfacing, hands on her hips. A devilish smile paints across your features. You hook an arm around her waist and pull her to you. Her palms collide with your chest to stop you. "House", your name spills from her lips like molasses, thick with dangerous overtones. Your hands traipse under her blouse. Her resistance, is quite frankly, obsolete. She exudes sex, oozes it, embodies it. Those eyes, bluer than a summer sky, those curves, mesmerizing and that pout, fatal. You know she's trouble but you still want a taste. She is the catalyst for every lustful thought your brain can conjure.
Webster defines attraction as the affinity existing between one chemical body and another. That you certainly have, and more. Expressed mathematically it's something like (attraction ^3)^x + 10 ^4pie/n but that can't be all that drives her to partake in these elicit sexual encounters with you. Now they're clearly a habit, these run-ins. You try to resist her, to no avail. Usually the only emotion you can muster is apathy but when she tries to pull away and her voice drops into that husky tone, the surrounding air becomes humid, your skin sticky and devious thoughts invade your mind.
She tastes like maraschino cherries. Each kiss is like the first all over again. You can feel her leaning into you, her opposition melting away. The tables turn on you so quickly though. It's not long before she is the one calling the shots, seducing you, turning you inside out. The gleam from the moon creates a diaphanous glow that dances across her ravishing skin. Her arms move from your chest to encircle your neck and she moves closer into you, deepening the kiss, your bodies pressing together seamlessly. Your lips graze her neck as your fingers slip beneath the back of her blouse and pull it over her head, leaving it in a clump on the floor. Your touch borders on virulent and you ache for more of her. She crawls up onto the desk, straddling you. You hike up her skirt and your hands begin to wander, leaving a haunting afterglow on her skin.
You're not much for pleasantries in life so why would you make an effort to use them now? You'd rather bait her into this. Annoy her until she yields to her desire as well. She rips your shirt from your torso and tugs at your belt loops, pulling you closer. She runs her fingertips across your chest and the effect she has on you is almost too much to handle. You feel virile, savage-like. Your lips travel to her collarbone, branding her skin along the way. Her breath hitches under the pressure of your touch.
The act of sex can become unwantedly tedious for you, mundane. But with Cuddy you find that your every fiber, every thread, every vein and artery is humming; a catastrophic but endlessly pleasure-filled assault on your senses She is intoxicating and completely insatiable. You will surely be tired by the ideas of oxygen and gravity before even the flick of her wrist begins to bore you.
4/20 - 5/7/08
Finished: 1:22am - 11:17 pm