Trying to Divide by Zero
Title: Trying to Divide by Zero
Author: tree
Rating: Strong R
Pairing: House/Cuddy (also House/House, Cuddy/Cuddy)
Prompt: 180. House/Cuddy -- either one caught masturbating, excites the other.
Spoilers: Missing scene from 3.14 'Insensitive'.
A/N: Thanks to wendelah1 for her always-insightful comments and catching my non-American spelling. The title is from the poem Use The Following Construction In A Sentence by Belle Waring. You can read it here. This is my first House fic, so concrit is welcome.



In the light from the doorway, she was radiant. Hair mussed, lips swollen, she was more erotic fully-clothed than any naked woman, real or celluloid, House had ever seen. The sight of her rich with desire shocked him, as if she'd ripped off her clothes in the middle of the Clinic and begun belting out show tunes. Only Cuddy's voice was familiar, coming from the mouth of this disheveled woman with no bra and no shoes; the curves of her breasts and belly sleekly displayed in black. Standing on her step, towering above her, he had laughed and dodged her accusations. But sitting in the dark of his car, fingers wrapped tight around the cold leather of the steering wheel, House can admit it to himself. He wants her.

He hadn't quite known how much until that moment when she'd smiled up at him and asked him, so artlessly, if he liked her. Suddenly he was a teenager again: his mouth dry, palms sweaty, the beginnings of an erection tenting his pants. Lisa Cuddy was the most luscious thing on earth at that moment and he desperately needed to take a bite, to feel the juice run down his chin and let the sweet flesh of her fill the spaces between his teeth. In another lifetime he would have dropped to his knees right there in worship.

He'd had that once, the tart taste of her under his tongue. And in the headlong rush for oblivion, for the too-brief dissolution, he'd let so many opportunities pass by. There are days now when he wishes he'd kissed her - just kissed her for hours - searing the memories forever in his taste buds, lodging them permanently within his tangled neural connections. Instead, all he remembers is his own bitterness, impressions of softness and heat, and how she looked at him afterwards: as if she knew, even then, everything he regretted.

She has been a part of his life for so long now that he's grown accustomed to believing she always will be; his foil, his temptress, the bastion he is perpetually pushing against; his for the taking whenever he makes up his mind. He forgets that she has a will, desires, of her own. That they might not coincide with his.

Gregory House has never been accused of lacking arrogance. But it pisses him off that he didn't realize then how extraordinary she is; that he has never told her even now.

The car is cooling rapidly and he tries to quell the surge of irritation he feels at the image of Cuddy kissing another man. Don of the turtleneck and ballroomdancinglovers.com. The situation, the man, seems patently ridiculous. How can she want a guy like that? Someone who makes her smile, who makes her eyes shine, who has her braless and breathless on the first date. Yes, why would she want that? Why something simple and smooth when she could have the jagged edges and whip-snap of Greg House? He shakes his head against the burn in his throat, doing his best not to imagine Don in there with her, feeling the soft weight of her breasts, the lovely camber of her hips and ass. He breathes deeply and lists the twenty-six bones of the foot from smallest to largest. He's made it to the cuboid tarsal when Cuddy's front door opens and closes.

Don is in his car and out of the driveway within seconds. House is left wondering if the other man is insane. Lisa Cuddy is in that house firelit and willing. Who walks away from that?

In that moment the two possible paths open to him are clearly articulated in his mind. He can sit in this car and grow slowly colder until the pain in his thigh forces him to drive home. Or he can go back to her door and use the spare key to let himself in. House may be a fool but he's never been a coward, and tonight has been too full of revelations for him to start now. Maybe they'll fight, maybe they'll fuck. Either way Cuddy will be there, all spine and bristle, tender all the way through.

The key is right where he knew it'd be and it prompts a small grin. He knows her so well in these small intimacies. Inside, the fire is no more than soot and all the lights have been turned off. She must be in the bedroom, he thinks, but there's no way she's already asleep. Visions of skimpy nighties and lacy underthings fill his head as House stalks down the hall. He's not aiming for silence, but nor does he want to announce his presence in advance. A little surprise is good for the soul.

As his eyes adjust to the low light, the plaintive tone of a piano draws him on. The music muffles the sounds of his approach and he feels his smile turn wolfish. All the better to eat you with, my dear.

But the wolf is gone the moment he enters the bedroom. House stands at the doorway, rooted firmly to the floor in sudden paralysis. Before him on the high, wide bed is Lisa Cuddy, naked, her eyes closed and the fingertips of both hands tracing slow circles on her abdomen. The sight of her so flagrantly displayed is staggering. He wonders briefly if he's still sitting in his car having a Vicodin-induced hallucination.

Her hands trail slowly up to her breasts and begin to pluck at the nipples as the piano notes crescendo. In the moonlight her body is washed silvery but he knows that her skin is flushed cream and her areolae are dusky rose. Her low, delicious moan goes straight to his cock and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself becoming her echo.

What the hell is he doing in Cuddy's bedroom watching her masturbate? He is caught between an urgent pleasure and the exquisite agony of looking but not touching. Christ, he wants to touch her.

She licks a finger and flicks at one nipple while her other hand continues to massage her breast. Her legs shift together, the rasp of her thighs making him gasp. He knows what it's like to be there, to feel those long muscles gripping him, pulling him down and in; tensing and quivering against him. The air in the room has thickened so that he can barely force it in and out of his lungs. He's terrified she'll hear him over her own little mewls of pleasure and the throb of the music; he's afraid he might hyperventilate.

"Mmm," she moans, one hand sliding down the sleek length of her and into the dark nest of hair between her thighs. "Oh, god."

House presses a hand against his jeans, the friction closing his eyes with pleasure. He's so close he's gonna come in his pants if she keeps making those noises. Forcing his eyes open, he sees she's now rocking slowly against her hand, mouth open and the breath moving harshly through it. The hand on her breast shifts then, follows its partner, takes up residence against her clit, while the other hand delves further between her legs. He's been there and he wants to be there again so much he's salivating with it, pumping against his hand and trying desperately not to close his eyes.

Cuddy's hands are working faster now, the one buried in her cunt stabbing hard, while the fingers against her clit make endless, endless circles. Her face is flushed and a tiny straining frown deepens as she surges against the sheets.

Come on, he thinks, half delirious. Come on.

His own hips are rocking in time with her thrusts, their separate rhythms bringing them closer and closer together. House hears her whimpering, soft little ohs of desperation and entreaty, and then suddenly she is there, and her voice rises, strengthens, until the world is filled with his own splintering pleasure and "Oh god, oh god, Greg."

And he comes to the sound of her calling his name, over and over again.

*

He can barely breathe, let alone walk, but he hurls himself out of her house as if chased. The sight of Lisa Cuddy writhing in abandonment and saying his name is burned into his retinas. He may never be able to see past its shadow. Gasping and stumbling, he makes it to his car, and sits, shaking and covered in his own semen.

Jesus christ, he thinks. Jesus fucking christ. His brain has short-circuited, and loops like Steve on his exercise wheel. When his cellphone rings, he answers automatically.

"House."

And in his ear, Cuddy's throaty, just-fucked voice asks, "Did you enjoy the show?"


-End-