Zeus and Ganymede
It's almost dawn when the alarm is waking you up, and you quickly switch it off in order not to disturb the man next to you in your bed. Well, not exactly yours. It's his, but it doesn't really matter. It's like the things that belong to him are yours, too. You're more than willing to share, and even though you didn't really expect him to, so is he.
He makes you feel at home, and you wonder whoever made you feel that way. Not your parents who neglected you when you were a child; not Cameron who led you blind-sided into an ill-fated marriage.
Actually, House has saved you from being miserable in a relationship you could never have lived up to, no matter how hard you tried.
You wouldn't be lying next to a guy (next to him), if it wasn't for your mentor who scared away your ex-wife and turned into your lover.
You're watching him in his sleep. As soon as you move, you can sense that you're still sore in a certain area, but even that feels good.
He often mocks you, teasing that you were born a masochist to put up with all that crap you've gone through, and maybe he's right like he is most of the time. But he never gets angry or sarcastic when he's alone with you. It still baffles you how tender he can be when you're having sex.
He always makes sure you're ready for it, enjoying it. There are moments when you're too heated to think about getting prepared. House always does. He's much more restrained, much more experienced, but he is willing to give in, listening to your needs that you don't care about when he's finally entering you. You never knew there could be so much pleasure in, well, this.
Taken by a man who's known to be a jerk. Even his best friend never seems to get tired to refer to him as some selfish bastard. It's anything but an appropriate term for a man who has been hurt because he had too many feelings that he keeps locked up inside to protect himself.
Just like you used to do.
Sighing in his sleep, House turns his face to you, eyes closed, and his arm instinctively flings around your waist. A sinewy, muscular arm embraces you with its warmth, spread out like the wing of an eagle.
You're examining the fine, soft hair on his chest and gently breathe against his skin, wondering what it will do to him. You snuggle up to him, eager not to wake him. Underneath the palm of your hand you feel his heartbeat, steady and strong; like a lullaby that rocks you to sleep.
His gaunt face - sharp and beautiful in its stillness – reminds you of a predator's. It's an observation which, on an ironic note, makes you his prey.
In Greek mythology, Zeus takes on the shape of an eagle to abduct Ganymede, the son of the Trojan king. He's said to have been so beautiful that the God of gods wanted him to be his own forever and made him immortal in return.
Back in history lessons, and as a student in med school, you found that fairy-tale to be utter nonsense and made fun of it with your colleagues.
Perhaps this one has come true for you.
You wouldn't consider yourself looking pretty (although House keeps mocking you for it just to set you off), and yet, you can't help but to see yourself as the chosen one. It's kind of mystical that you share place and time with a man you once feared but at the same time yearned for him to be more than just your employer. Father, mentor, even a lover.
He fills the gaps beyond doubts, and you know that he'll be possessive, because that's what he is. You don't mind in the slightest. You feel flattered by the mere thought of it.
All your life you wanted to belong to someone. You never thought of House being your knight in shining armour. And yet, he's the best that ever happened to you.
You appreciate the way he allows you to see him in private, without any boundaries or shame while you're both getting undressed.
He acts vulnerable, honest, affectionate and sensitive when you're with him; but on the outside, he still clings to his old disrespectful, scornful self so as to hide his emotions towards you in front of others. You're not offended by his disguise, because you do understand his reasons.
It's better to remain your mutual devotion a secret for it might break if you're both too courageous and blunt about it. Gossiping is what nurses do best.
Suddenly, he lifts an eyelid, smirking at you and increasing the grip of his hand on your waist. He doesn't say a word, doesn't make a sound. It's not necessary. It's like you were able to read his mind right now, which, admittedly, is pure wishful thinking from your side. However, it makes you feel connected and wanted, and you decide to ignore the burning sensation that still lingers.
All that can be heard are the birds singing outside of the window at this early hour, and the shifting moves of his weight as he props up his elbow on the mattress.
Even though the night had been demanding, you catch that familiar tingling in your stomach again. He never fails to cause you waves of excitement and delight that you haven't felt possible when there was a life without him at your side.
His dexterous fingers soon trace down the curve of your butt cheeks to linger halfway at your cleft, exploring every inch of it. One of the best things in foreplay is the fact that House makes it a never-grow-old habit to see your body like an artist studies his unfinished sculpture. He touches your body like it was something precious he's proud of to use.
"You're my masterpiece", he mumbles in a hoarse voice. "Don't you ever forget this. I've worked hard to get you where you are now."
Bending over you, he playfully starts fondling the line of your neck before he goes down south while indulging your back with lips and tongue. Everything he does to you, he appears to do slow motion to tell you how much he'd treasure and respect you. Or as if to mark you as his very own property with saliva and other bodily fluids.
His action sends shivers down your spine as he approaches your most sensitive spot. There's not much to resist as he's working you, and it turns you on.
Moving your hips in a sluggish rhythm that puts you almost in a trance, you thrash about to keep silent, but it's getting hot in here, anyway.
House loves that. He loves to examine your reaction, to make you go crazy and make you crave his body bit by bit.
You hear him chuckle from deep down in the back of his throat. Obviously, he relishes the task. It's not entirely a bed of roses, so to speak. It's like sometimes you want him so hard that you're frustrated about the lack of control over your physical response.
Blame it on your youth, he would say with that devious grin of his. You have to learn to take the benefits of sex like any healthy adult should do. Let go, but don't rush it. Take your time. Sex is not about who crosses the finish line first, and I'm not here to get paid for half an hour.
There hadn't been such pep talk with your ex-wife, nor was there the desire to have a discussion about intimacy or – God forbid - how to perform. It was what married couples were expected to do, so that was all there was to it. No talk, no asking about what you like or what your preference in the first place.
Cameron had been a hellcat in bed. Loud, fervent, hysterical. She would have scratched your back and screamed for more until you collapsed unto her, totally worn out with the bitter taste of humiliation in being a tool for her self-centred needs.
Proximity with Cameron always had been more of a fight than cohesive sexual commitment.
Thinking about it, you never really have been at ease in her presence.
Surprisingly, it's different with House, not only because he's twenty years your senior. Although he can be pretty challenging, he's aware of sex as being fulfilled only when he manages to give you the highest pleasure on earth.
In fact, you feel a bit frenzied like Cameron every time you come beneath him (and you always do, no matter the techniques he brings into play). Now and then, you even squeal like a girl to get rid of the pressure that enhances inside you until you're ready to literally burst.
His gaze is mesmerising as he takes an extensive look into your eyes without blinking, not stopping to casually massage you. Slowly, his index finger dares to slide a bit deeper, a bit more inside your opening, and you try to relax as best as you can.
You quiver under his touch, trying desperately not to pant or to moan. The man carries magic powers around him everywhere, let alone in the tips of his fingers.
"Mind another ride before taking a cosy drawn out shower together?" he wantonly whispers in your ear, nibbling and licking at your lobe as if to taste a delicious slice of sweet fruit.
"We'll be late for work", you hear yourself point out half-heartedly, but it's not like you really mean it.
Whenever he has that wicked glimpse flashing up in those piercing blue eyes, you know how the land lies.
"Let's get you started at home, then. Complaints about overtime are none of your master's business."
You retort with a snorting, satisfied laughter that he muffles with a kiss as he rolls you below himself, limbs intertwined in a sensual punch-up, his bum leg placed between your thighs.
Within a couple of minutes, he will have you in blissful surrender, and there will be no one and nothing that stops you from doing the best to reciprocate this notion.
You're not Ganymede, and House is not Zeus. Gods are neither damaged nor grateful.
Gods are too privileged to know any kind of hardship, so they aren't capable to seize the fate of creating your own happiness.
After all, gods are not human.
You're glad that House is.