Floating

Chapter 14

A/N: OK, guys. This chapter is pretty much R rated. It will be the only R-rated chapter in the story (probably). If you do not read this R-rated Chapter, the story will still make sense.

A/N #2—This story takes place with no knowledge of spoilers. I do know that some of the spoilers for season 3 make this story less likely in the form it takes. So it might be A/U.

Cuddy finally understood that Stacy's sexual attraction to House had nothing to do with prowess, size, or any other physical attribute. It had everything to do with sensitivity, attention, gentleness and passion. And concentration.

He didn't ravish her. He didn't take her. He didn't push her or coerce her. He made slow, sweet, intense, infuriatingly, agonizingly tender love to her. To all of her. It was insane. Who was this man, who spoke of hookers and funbags? Who was rude and crass and as insensitive as Homer Simpson? It was artifice. All of it. The cracks and remarks. All of it.

He touched her with an artist's hands; a musician's fingers. He kissed her with a poet's lips and burned her…no, more like…melted her until she was nothing more than a pool of sensation. She wanted him. More than she had wanted any man in her life at that moment. To her, the most erotic thing about this was the obvious effect it was having on him. She had barely touched him, though she wanted desperately to do so, yet he was as aroused as he was arousing. They were both still fully clothed as they lay in a tangle on the big leather sofa.

She reached out, pushing his suit jacket from his shoulders, telling him by her actions that she wanted him. She pulled at his shirt, trying to undo the buttons. Her actions caused him to pause. She missed his touch, but these clothes had to come off. Now.

He still hadn't said a word. He was savoring every inch of this. Of her. Lisa Cuddy. His destroyer; his savior; his evil witch; his angel of mercy. His equal. His.. Oh shit! "Cuddy." He stopped, frozen. "I don't know if I have protection."

"You're kidding. Mr. 'if-it's-Tuesday-it-must-be-hooker night?" She knew that wasn't fair—that he really didn't use hookers—often, if ever. She was breathless. House groped in the nightstand drawer. Maybe Stacy had left them when she had spent the night with him last winter. He thought…

"Score one for Stacy. She left us a belated Christmas…er…Chanukah…present." He brandished the small foil packet, pulling Cuddy into a sitting position.

"Wait. Idiot. It doesn't matter. Remember? First, I'm not ovulating yet. Not for a week after the last injection. Second, even if I was… God. You don't think you could have HIV?"

"I don't. Are you absolutely sure about this? Because it's really no…" Now it was her turn. She shut him up by otherwise engaging him mouth while she worked at his belt.

Most of their respective apparel removed, House took Cuddy's hand and led her the bedroom. "I can't be on top. My leg… I don't have the strength to…" He was still too insecure about it. It just didn't matter.

He wanted to look into her eyes as they made love. To see her face as she climaxed. He knew, though, that the price would have been exposing his ruined right thigh to her sight. He couldn't do that to either of them. Before he had a chance to douse the lamp, she was upon him—touching him in places he hadn't been touched for a very long time. She massaged, she caressed, bit and kissed. Her eyes were closed, taking him in, going with the feeling. But she was getting too close. He leaned over to reach the bedside lamp. Cuddy could sense his anxiety. "What's wrong?"

"The light, I want…"

"I want to see you."

"No. Cuddy. You don't." The last time she had seen the terrible scar had been that evening in her office, when he begged her, beyond simple agony, for that shot of morphine.

"House. Greg. I want you. All of you. It doesn't matter. I've seen your leg. I know. It's part of you. Goes with the whole, flawed package." Her hand reached out to it, caressing the jagged outlines, the uneven architecture of his right thigh. His entire body stiffened, and for a moment, she thought she had greatly miscalculated. But then he relaxed into her touch. Overwhelmed by his desire. He had lost the edges of his arousal, but Cuddy's ministrations brought him back to the very precipice. He was ready. They both were. The soared from the cliff's edge, floating back to earth when completely spent. It was right.

"You do realize we're screwed." House propped his head on his left hand, looking serious, though Cuddy was certain that she saw a gleam in his eyes.

"Quite literally. Yes, I had noticed."

"No, I mean. What now? You know Wilson will figure it out. He knows us both too well."

"He'll only be able to speculate. We can't let this out. Not yet. It's not that I don't want people to know. It's just that…"

House was nodding. "If it gets out, it undermines your authority. Credibility as dean goes out the window. I know all that. I agree. But you know, at some point…"

"I know We just have to figure out a way and a time. About the fertility thing too. We'll figure it out. C'mere."

Cuddy placed her arms around him, drawing House to her holding him. He needed to be held. To know he was cared for. To know he was…loved. And she could see it. Loving him, being in love with him. He had had far too little love in his life and far too much hurt and disappointment. She knew she couldn't recapture what he had lost, but she what she could give him might be enough.

They slept peacefully in each others' arms.