A/N: This fic was written for the very kind cuddyfan07 over at LJ in exchange for a donation to Tsunami Relief. It was illustrated by melissaisdown. A link to her illustration can be found via my livejournal page, which can be accessed by clicking on my "homepage" link in my profile.
Music
His favorite fantasy has nothing to do with schoolgirl outfits or stiletto heels. It does not involve sex in the office, or his motorcycle, or even his piano. House's favorite fantasy is something much more erotic, much more sensual, much more rock and roll.
She shifts on his lap, straddling him, rubbing against him. Her thighs hug his hips and her arms encircle his torso, clinging with bare skin.
He's thought about it, imagined it, with other women, but only with her does it seem right. She is everything that he imagines this moment to be: sultry, intense, as tight as a violin bow and as loose as an open G.
His left arm hooks under her right, gripping the neck of the guitar, while his right loops around her waist, holding the body close to hers, his hand poised over the strings.
The duality of feelings sets every synapse ablaze, having this woman he loves and lusts after pressed against him and the instrument that makes him come alive resting on his knees. His two passions, intertwined in his grasp.
The first chord reverberates on her vertebrae, echoing in her ribcage like he's strumming her from within. She inhales at the sensation and nestles her nose in the crook of his shoulder, smelling scotch and resin. Below her, he responds to the motion and the music.
When he told her what he wanted, she'd been deliciously cool, as though the request wasn't at all unusual. Then again, in the context of their relationship, nothing much was. Or rather, all of it was – uncommon, unpredictable, uninhibited. She'd just smiled and stripped off her top, and he'd had to close his mouth for fear it was watering.
She mumbles something into his throat, low and sleepy and sensuous. The warmth of her breath is intoxicating. Her lips drag as her mouth ascends to his ear, and she whispers, oh so softly, that she was told there would be music.
The vibrations of sound echo in her chest and up her spine as though the origin is her own heavy breath. The wealth of conscious feeling has every nerve straining. He plays on, no particular tune or direction, and she lets herself vanish into the sensory experience. No thoughts, no qualms, no tomorrow.
Only the urgent present, in which she is splayed naked across him as he plays, and she sinks deeper into his skin with every note.
His concentration is almost impossible, somehow still plucking out a lucid melody as she lets her lips caress the flesh of his neck and arches into him, keening for more of whatever this is. She feels him hesitating, just the slightest bit, but enough to know she's met his expectations. And perhaps flown past them, in the process.
The concerto of foreplay waxes erotic as the notes grow sharper, his hand choking the neck of the instrument in tandem with her breath. She knows that this part of the exercise will end sooner than later.
And from there, they will make their own music.