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  Fourplay 
 by leiascully	

 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.

"Cuddy?"

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.