Cuddy and Wilson and Stacy and House went to dinner at some little restaurant House knew that he claimed had the best jambalaya north of Interstate 12. It was crowded and smoky in just the right way. The band was playing lowdown dirty jazz that made House smirk as it washed over him. Cuddy gave him a curious look and he lifted an eyebrow at her.
"Something wrong with the music?" she asked. "I'm no connoisseur of jazz, but it sounds good to me."
"It's not music," he said. "It's foreplay."
Cuddy fought against the blush rising over her face and tipped her beer bottle to her lips, sliding her foot up House's calf in retaliation. From the color on Stacy's cheekbones, it was clear that House had his hand in her lap. It was a strange game they played, this public titillation, and she had been startled when Stacy had brought her in on it. She still wasn't sure if it had been the brush of Stacy's lips against her ear that had convinced her or the heat of the murmured words.
Cuddy shifted in her chair, feeling the nub of the little vibrator between her thighs. It trembled suddenly against her clit and she took another sip of beer, lifting her chin higher than necessary to cover her gasp and the involuntary quick arch of her back. It had been Stacy's idea, the lacy panties with the toy built in, and it was supposed to be their secret, but House looked at Cuddy under lowered eyelids and she wasn't sure who was holding the remote after all. She turned to Wilson, smiling brightly, biting her lip against the rise and fall of the hum between her legs that was masked by the rough sexy music. He was between wives, between beers at the moment, tie loosened, one arm slung over the back of his chair. He looked relaxed and happy.
"Have you had Cajun food before?" she asked, putting her face close to his so they could hear each other.
"No," he said, with that boyish regretful smile she liked. "Mom kept the house kosher. Crustaceans and pork sausage were both strictly verboten. Also spicy food, lemon meringue pie that wasn't from her deli of choice, and sugar cereals."
"Nothing fun is kosher," Cuddy said, trying not to breathe too fast as the thrum of the vibrator increased. Not enough to bring her off, but enough that she was aware of it.
"You'll love it," said House loudly. Apparently he could read lips. "It is a flavor sensation unlike anything you've ever experienced, Jimmyboy."
"What he means is that it'll burn your mouth off," said Stacy, grinning. She really was quite flushed at this point, Cuddy reflected, and wondered how that boded for the rest of their evening. She wasn't going home with them - threesomes weren't exactly in her repertoire at this point, and they had such a closed system sometimes that she wasn't sure she wanted to be between them in bed - but if Stacy was coming before the appetizers were finished, that might change the tone of things. The table was scattered with the remains of the dishes: fried green tomatoes, crawfish boulettes, oysters Rockefeller. She picked up one of the boulettes with her fingers and put it in her mouth, feeling Wilson's eyes on her as she licked her fingertips. House was right and Stacy was right. She loved the savor of the little meatballs, the ocean taste of the crawfish, but they were spicy as hell. She doused the flames on her tongue gladly with the beer House had chosen, something dark and full and very alcoholic.
House leaned over and touched her wrist. "Come dance with me, Lise." She looked at him through her eyelashes and nodded, following him away from the table. She wondered if Stacy was flirting with Wilson while they were gone, calling him James in her husky drawl.
House escorted her to the little dance floor with his hand under her elbow like a gentleman and she remembered how he had been in college, when he had always been Greg. As they neared the band, he pulled her abruptly against him, his hand sliding to her lower back to press her hips against his.
"Hmmm," he said, his eyes sparkling and laughter suppressed in his voice. "Enjoying yourself?"
"Your idea?" she asked, trying to play it cool, but increasingly aware of the hot swell of him against her groin, pushing the little toy firmly into her clit. He rocked his pelvis as they danced as if he wasn't doing it on purpose, but his eyes were too knowing. She moved helplessly against him, her breasts pressing into his chest. The rumble of his laughter was like secondary stimulation.
"Has my fingerprints all over it, doesn't it?"
"Literally, I'm sure," she quipped. He smelled good, touched with whatever cologne Stacy had talked him into over the familiar base note of his skin. She pushed her face against his neck. The scrape of his stubble at her temple was an interesting sensation. "This game is strange for me," she admitted.
"We'll make it fun," he said. "Trust me, Lise." It was comforting not to be able to see his eyes, but she could feel the motion of his cheek muscles against the side of her face. "Remember that time we went skating?"
She did. He had been a little high and she had been a little deranged from pulling an all nighter studying for a biochem final. He had invited her to his little apartment by the river when the library closed, because her roommate was fussy about sleeping with any lights on, and he had made her endless cups of coffee. It had been snowing all night, but it stopped when the sun rose, and he had dragged her outside, insisting it was better than coffee, and produced skates by some miracle, and they had glided over the rutted ice of the river and fallen on their asses more than once. Chilled and laughing, they had made snow angels on the bank and gone to a greasy spoon for breakfast to stuff down pancakes and bacon and more coffee as the truckdrivers leered blearily at her over their mugs and Greg flirted outrageously with her for kicks. She had aced her final.
"Are you saying I should put snow down your pants again?"
"Definitely not," he said, and his fingers had wandered further downward to cup her ass. "But I don't mind if you put things down Wilson's pants."
"Is he playing?" She nuzzled his neck idly. He had been touchy in college, always on his terms, looming into her personal space, and she was comfortable with his physical proximity. More than once they had fallen asleep together in his carrell, crowded in with books and her head on his shoulder. Once or twice they had slept together, but they generally ignored that fact except at times like these.
"Jimmy?" He laughed. "I'm not sure he knows there are other positions than missionary."
She turned her head, scraping his cheek through her hair, and looked at Wilson. He was talking with Stacy, gesturing broadly, and his sad mouth was pulled into a grin. "A hundred dollars says he knows plenty."
"I'll take your money," said House against the rim of her ear. "No question."
"I guess we'll see," she said. Stacy waved at her from the table. "Looks like the food's here." He pulled her hips against his one last time and guided her back to the table. She slid into her chair knowing she was flushed and starry-eyed, lit up by endorphins. Wilson looked a little dazed, overwhelmed by the beer, the hot waft of spices from the gumbo and jambalaya and okra, and the glow of the women around him. She gave him a smile and pressed her knee against his under the table, hoping he wouldn't notice the faint buzz that shimmered down her tibia to her patella. The jazz and the carbonation of the beer were buzzing through all of them and he seemed oblivious.
They worked their way through the food, House dumping Tabasco liberally over everyone's plates. He moaned once when the band kicked into a new song and dragged Stacy to the dance floor, where they danced so close it was almost obscene. Cuddy tried to keep up the conversation, swallowing hard against the changes in tempo of the vibrator, which flicked up and down according to someone's whim, but she still wasn't sure whose. The gentle hum of it was surprisingly still pleasurable, though it had been a couple of hours, and when it kicked up to the high speed she squirmed against a delight that was part pain. She had moved so close to Wilson that he almost had his arm around her, their elbows jolting together.
"That was music," House announced when they came back, Stacy with one hand over a hickey blooming on her neck.
"This whatever it is is great," Wilson toasted him, forking sausage into his mouth. "No wonder it isn't kosher."
"I'm never wrong about jazz or food," House boasted, "or women." He raised an eyebrow suggestively. The women rolled their eyes.
The graveyard of empty beer bottles had been shifted to the next empty table, too populous among all the dishes and the candles and prone to rattle and tip as someone reached for a piece of sausage or a spoonful of dirty rice. Stacy was flashing a lot of cleavage: her partially unbuttoned shirt gapped every time she shifted, and she and Cuddy shifted a lot. Cuddy's low neckline had been the same all day but now the flush was spreading up her chest and she was sure Wilson and House had noticed the budding tightness of her nipples under the fabric. Wilson was paying more attention to her breasts than to her medical narratives, and House was giving her lazy once-overs with laughter in his eyes. Her mouth was burning, but it was a good burn, almost sexy. Wilson's mouth was very red and he seemed to enjoy her attention.
House, ever the master of ceremonies, called the waiter over to remove the plates littered with rice and the carapaces of shrimp and crawfish, and ordered dessert. Cuddy and Stacy groaned, protesting that they were full, but House insisted. Dessert turned out to be something full of pecans and bourbon and chocolate, sinfully rich and melty, and god, with that taste flooding through her mouth and the alcohol in her system and the toy wedged against her aching clit, she had never been so turned on in her life.
Stacy jerked suddenly and made a small noise in her throat. "Hiccups," she explained, but House's hand was still in her lap and Stacy looked limp and satisfied, a bright blush visible through the open collar of her shirt.
"Time to call it a night," House said, reaching for his wallet. "Got to get the little woman home. If I don't keep her satisfied...." He let his voice trail off and threw money on the table. "Let's just say no one wants to see her destroy downtown Princeton."
"Want to share a cab?" Wilson said to Cuddy, and she smiled at him.
"That sounds great."
"See you guys later," said Stacy as she and House rose. The toy stopped buzzing between Cuddy's thighs and she wasn't sure whether to be relieved or frustrated. Wilson counted up the bills on the table and added more from his wallet, pushing away Cuddy's hand as she tried to pay.
"It's more fun this way," he said. "Makes me feel manly." He smiled at her and she knew why the hearts of nurses melted for him.
He helped her into the cab and she insisted that they go to his apartment first, that she would be fine. She sat very close to him in the back seat, the wool sleeves of their coats making an interesting friction. He looked at her curiously and she put her hand on his knee, fingers sliding down the inside of his thigh, feeling the knobs where his tibia ended, the lines of his muscles.
She stared boldly at him and stretched to kiss the corner of his mouth as her fingers worked toward the creases across his lap. He tasted of chocolate and the day's growth of stubble was coming in around the edges of his lips and she had forgotten that boyish Wilson had to shave like every other man. He turned his face into the kiss, his mouth opening hungrily against hers, and put his arm around her under her coat, his fingers very hot through the thin material of her shirt. She was glad his apartment was close by.
As it was, they barely noticed when the cabbie pulled up. Her hand was pushed up between his legs, his tie was crumpled in her other hand, and her front-clasp bra was hanging open inside her shirt. Wilson gave the cabbie a twenty in a haze after he honked at them, a generous tip on an eight dollar fare. He fumbled with the keys as she crowded against him, her knee pressing against the back of his thigh. Finally the door opened and he ushered her in and had her up against the door almost before he'd closed it. She felt him turning the lock behind her back as his mouth crushed hers and god, Wilson could kiss. His mouth was incredible, and his tongue moved against hers in a way that gave her goosebumps. She was trying to wrestle him out of his coat and crawl into his mouth at the same time.
They tugged at each other's clothing with a mutual urgency, his hands inside her shirt under her bra. Cuddy nipped Wilson's mouth as she undid his shirt buttons. Once Wilson had her shirt off, he kissed his way down her body, pushing up her skirt to peel off her panties. He pushed them over her hips, burying his face between her legs, and rolled the bits of lace down her legs. Cuddy was glad she'd worn stockings instead of pantyhose as Wilson's tongue flicked out and she whimpered. She twined her fingers into his hair, bracing her shoulderblades against the door. The glass eye of the peephole was digging into her skull, but she couldn't care. Wilson's hands kneaded her calves as he coaxed one foot up and then the other, getting her to step out of the panties at last, and all the while his tongue danced between her legs. He bit the inside of her thigh gently and she moaned and dragged him back up to her mouth.
"What," he said breathlessly between kisses, "what is this?" He was still holding her panties, and he'd found the vibrator.
"Dinner theatre," she said, pulling his face against hers. She held the back of his head with one hand as she undid his pants. He broke the kiss and moved to her cheeks and neck. Her toes were curling inside her shoes, but she didn't want to step out of them and lose the height that was keeping her hips lined up fairly well with Wilson's.
"All through dinner? That's why you were buzzing?" He kissed around her ears, put his teeth into her earlobe. "I thought it was the bass."
"Stacy's idea," she whimpered, and he groaned as she pushed his pants off. The loose boxers followed and she wrapped her fist around his erection.
"That's unbelievably hot," he murmured.
"Condom," she said, and he swore and knelt to find his wallet, kissing the insides of her thighs and putting his free hand against the back of her knee. He tried to rip the packet open but failed, and she reached down for it as he ran his hand up the outside of her leg, and she was going up in flames with all this need. She had been primed for hours and was almost senseless with desire. She tore the foil and rolled the slippery latex down over his cock, turned on again by the look in his eyes as he watched her handle him, and then he had shoved her up against the door and was pushing into her, one hand pulling her leg up over his hip and god, she was going to explode right there with her bra hanging loose around her shoulders and her skirt pushed up over her hips, moaning like a college girl. Wilson had his face against her neck and one hand cupped around the back of her head. She was touched by his courtesy and startled by the passion with which he thrust into her, his pubic bone jolting her clit.
As her head rolled back against his fingers and the lights in the room started to get brighter and brighter, she thought that House had definitely lost that bet. She threw up an arm and flattened her palm against the wall, trying to stay on her feet, and her muscles were clenching and she was flying, cast out into some brilliant hot space in which she combusted and the million tiny pieces of her flamed individually.
Wilson was still moving in her when she came back down, not as roughly, but he speeded up again when she lifted her chin to look at him and whispered huskily, "What are you waiting for?" He surged into her and she was glad of the cushioning roundness of her ass as she braced herself against the door. He grunted and kissed her collarbones, his mouth sliding desperately over her, and then his hips jerked and he groaned, the rhythm faltering. After a moment he pulled out, his arms supporting her as she slid a little way down the door.
"You should sit down," he said, stroking her hair and stepping out of his pants. He was still wearing his socks and shoes, and he looked endearingly awkward as he went off toward the bathroom. Cuddy pressed a palm against her forehead and blew out a long breath, trembling. She let herself slip all the way down the door until she was sitting, and she reached out an arm that felt very heavy to pick up her shirt. She pulled it on slowly, her fingers shaking, and did up the clasp to her bra before buttoning herself back in. Her skirt was twisted, but she would fix it later. The water was running in the other room, and Wilson came back in a bathrobe and bare feet with a damp washcloth for her. She smiled her thanks and he helped her to her feet, passing the washcloth gently between her legs. She kissed him, soft and lingering, and tugged her skirt down.
"You're not staying?" he said, not really a question.
"I can't," she said, with a measure of real regret in her smile for the pain in his eyes and the gentleness of his hands. But she would wake up wishing for House's rangy body in the bed beside her. That was the problem with college flings that you stayed friends with, or maybe just with the unyieldingly unpersonable Gregory House, with his unusual measure of gentleness under the scruffily appealing surface. If it came to it, she would take Stacy in the bed with them, but not tonight. Wilson called her a cab, and she kissed him again on the cheek and knew he was watching her walk away, his cheek propped against his forearm crooked against the doorframe. It was a sweet relief to get home and take off her sex-fragrant clothes and climb into the shower. She washed herself tenderly, noting hickies and beard burn, feeling the places that would be sore in the morning, and then crawled into bed naked with her hair damp and a sense of deep satisfaction.
As she was falling asleep, she remembered that Wilson still had the panties.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.