This is in response to a recurring prompt and conversation: What if House wasn't so great in bed when they finally got together?

It's a little more erotic than it sounds... and a lot of fun to write. (You're welcome!)

The first part is taken directly from the start of "Now what" and then transforms to an alternate route.

Disclaimer: I don't own House, but I would have really liked to have seen this. :-)

Show Me

"Hey, you're not gonna..."

House closed his eyes, astonished and nervous as he realized what she was doing.

"You are," he said on a whispered groan as Cuddy began to remove his jeans. His breathing was labored and his dick twitched in anticipation.

She kneeled, tugging his jeans down to his ankles so he could step out of them; his scar was at her eye level. She pushed the jeans away and reached her hand out to stroke the mangled flesh.

"No," House gasped. "Don't, don't."

His heart was racing.

"It's okay," she softly said. "I love you."

He turned his head away. Her words were meant to soothe, but he felt self-conscious and exposed. When she kissed his scar, his distress increased. It was negatively affecting what should be a stimulating moment.

She took his hands and he helped steady her as she stood to her feet, more grateful to have her off her knees than he ever would have imagined. And then she kissed him.

It was soft and gentle, barely a whisper against his lips. It held no resemblance to the wild, passionate kisses of his fantasies. Instead, it was tentative and shy with a tenderness he'd never known. It was pure intimacy.

House grabbed the hem of her shirt and pulled it over her head, dropping it on the floor beside them. Her hands caressed his shoulders and biceps as she gazed at him. Her tongue slipped out to moisten her lips in anticipation, and he kissed her again and again. He liked kissing. He never got enough of it.

Cuddy wrapped her arms around his neck when bent to pick her up. She didn't question the move, didn't worry about her weight on his leg. She was lost in the moment, breathing in his musky scent as she burrowed her head into his neck.

He placed her gently on the bed, staring down at her with yearning, before sliding over her. His kisses grew stronger, his tongue more exploring, and Cuddy sighed with pleasure. She could so easily become drunk on his kisses alone.

As his hand slid up her thigh, his kisses became devouring, not tasting and savoring, but with more insistence and demand. It was as if he was lost in want, set on the task of taking more than sharing. He cupped her hip, quickly moving her beneath him. They'd barely touched and she was wet with want, hungry to feel him against her. Yet there was something missing, something she desired more than the feel of his pulse pounding deep inside her.

He removed her bra, palming her breasts, cupping them and squeezing, pinching her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Cuddy gasped at his quick abrupt moves.

"Lighter," she said, encouraging him with her touch to slow down and enjoy the moment.

His hands pulled at her panties in quick, frantic moves, but Cuddy stopped him, holding his wrist and silently demanding he look at her. She wasn't sure he was with her. It felt like he was caught in a vortex of need, dissociating from intimacy to move with instinct and by rote. Cuddy was scared of the emotional divide stretching between them.

His eyes locked with hers, wide and questioning, but he continued to roughly open her to him. She wanted to resist, to insist he equally give what she was willingly offering: her heart, not just her body. But to her surprise, there was nothing to resist. As he slid between her legs, pushing her into the mattress, she became acutely aware that something more than an emotional connection was missing. Primarily, an erection.

Cuddy paused, more out of shock than disappointment. After all, she knew House wanted her; she was very aware of his desire for her. The attraction had been mutual for many, many years, the sexual tension so thick between them at times it was almost palpable. She was puzzled and confused by this turn of events.

House froze, the warm haze surrounding him quickly dissolving as he felt her pull away.

He'd been overcome with emotion when she'd kissed him, overwhelmed by her love and affection. He'd barely processed the sensations when the fear had overtaken him. She was here. She'd left Lucas and chosen him. After so much time waiting and longing, she was here in his arms. He didn't want it to end, he didn't want to lose the feeling. He was consumed with the need to take everything he could before it slipped through his fingers, gone like everything else good in his life.

House hadn't been fully aware his body was not in sync with his mind, or that his mind was acting in opposition to his heart. He'd just moved, acted on his most baser instincts, taking for granted his desire would result in a natural physiological response. It wasn't until she grew still, her body taut with a tension that had nothing to do with passion he realized his body was failing him.

"House," she whispered.

He was failing her.

House shifted, embarrassed and humiliated at the ordinary state of his manhood, and the clumsy way he'd handled her. This was Cuddy, the love of his life, and he'd shown a complete lack of concern for her pleasure. He was worse than a horny adolescent; he was a self-absorbed impotent bastard. He didn't deserve her.

Cuddy felt a sense of panic. She could see the ice forming in his eyes, feel the chill surround them as a wall of anger and self-hatred encircled him.

"Don't go," she pleaded when he pulled away. But he wouldn't look at her. He couldn't hear her. The shame was too much.

"House," she pulled at his arm. "It's okay."

He jerked away from her.

"You should go," he mumbled, awkwardly standing to his feet.

"No," she said.

"Suit yourself.

He bent to retrieve the clothes they'd discarded.

"House, talk to me."

"There's nothing to talk about," he said, stepping into his jeans.

She sighed, sitting up to face him. "There's a lot to talk about."

"We'll agree to disagree," he said, and tossed her clothes at her. "Now leave."

"Don't do this," her voice was sad and pleading. "You had a building fall on you. You've been through a physically and emotionally draining experience, you can't expect…"

"Get out!"

He yelled at her.

She startled, shocked at the vehemence in his voice. His jaw was clenched, a slight tic pounding at his cheek. His fists were clenched and his lips had drawn into a tight, thin line. He was on the verge of losing it and she was desperate to neutralize the situation.

"I meant what I said, House," she said in a soft, steady voice. "I love you."

He shook his head as if trying not to hear her.

"What I feel for you is not about sex."

"Of course it's not," he bit out. "Because there's never going to be any sex."

"Oh, for God's sake," she said, quickly standing to face him. She was not going to just let him shut her out. "You're a doctor. Can you think like one for a minute?"

She stood before him bared except for the teal lace panties that clung to her hips. She was so beautiful. He was so pathetic.

House cursed his failure. He cursed himself.

"You're a 50 year old recovering addict," she argued, oblivious to his internal dialogue. "You've spent years abusing your body, you've had a building fall on you, lost a patient...It's been an exhausting night."

"Thank you for the recap," he said sarcastically. "Now you can go."

"It's not as if this is a permanent thing."

"Of course it's not," he snapped. "I'll have sex again. Just not with you."

Cuddy gulped. "What does that mean?"

"You figure it out," he angrily hobbled into the bathroom, fumbling around in the medicine cabinet for the ibuprofen bottle. Cuddy followed him, of course. She wasn't going to drop it; she was going to push him. He couldn't take it. He couldn't deal with it. He wanted to run and hide, to escape his miserable existence. But she was there, determined and persistent, and he was doing what he did best: lashing out.

"You're blaming this on me?" she asked, incredulous.

"If the cunt fits…" he popped the pills into his mouth.

Cuddy felt his venom, felt the force of his words as if it had been a physical blow. She leaned against the door frame for support.

"If I wanted somebody's sloppy seconds I'd pay a professional," he said, pushing his way around her toward the hall. "At least they wouldn't talk me to death."

Cuddy watched him walk away, shell shocked. She covered her breasts with her arms, suddenly feeling exposed and dirty as the full impact of his words ripped through her. The tsunami of pain traveled from deep within, threatening to explode to the surface; she pushed the bathroom door closed and sank to the floor, battered and humiliated. She covered her face with her hands to muffle the sound as she wept.

House was halfway down the hall when he heard the door slam behind him.

What have I done?

He felt his legs go weak and held the wall for support. He was going to be sick.

#####

House stared at the window into the dark night.

He was on his second glass of scotch, but it hadn't even begun to numb him. He didn't deserve to be numb. He deserved the pain; he deserved more than that and he was certain he would get it. This night would haunt him for the rest of his life; the memories would torment him, the realization of what he'd lost would be unbearable torture.

Had he really become so immune to basic human emotion he'd forgotten how to be with a woman? A real woman? A woman who loved and wanted him? Had he really become so cold he could share himself with the woman he'd been wanting for years?

He'd just been given the greatest gift of his life. Lisa Cuddy had declared her love to him, offered herself to him without fear or restraint. She'd given him the chance he'd so desperately wanted, what he'd been hoping for and working toward for months. His chance at happiness had been right there in his arms. He'd touched it. For a few seconds he'd felt it. But as usual, he'd jumped head first into a sea of self-sabotage. He'd lost himself in the eternal darkness of his soul instead of letting the light of her joy warm him.

She loves me.

She closed his eyes against the pain in his heart.

She loved me.

He knew without a doubt she hated him now.

House heard the door open and her soft steps move down the hall.

House took another swallow of scotch, focusing on the burn as it went down instead of the sound of a pending goodbye.

She was leaving, walking out his door and into that night: the blackest night of his life. By some miracle, fate had given him his chance, his last chance. He'd completely destroyed it, mangled it with bitterness and buried it beneath a spiteful anger that made him sick to recall. But she would remember. She'd hold it and nurture it. She'd build a shield of protection against him.

House closed his eyes against the pain. She would walk out that door and there would be no recovery. There would be no forgiveness. He wasn't even sure their professional relationship could survive the storm of this night.

"Could I have one of those?" she said.

He held his breath.

She was beside him. Close.

Cuddy waited. He couldn't look at her.

She took the glass from his hand and drained the remaining liquid in two quick swallows.

He turned when she handed the glass back to him.

She looked calm and collected, the remnants of a breakdown barely visible but for the streaks on her cheeks and the red around her eyes indicating she'd been crying.

She'd been crying.

House swallowed the acid of self-disgust.

She leaned against the window frame and stared into the night.

House watched her, waiting…wondering. Why was she still here? Why hadn't she left? Why wasn't she running away before he could hurt her more?

She turned away from him, reaching for the bottle on the fireplace mantel and pouring more scotch into the glass he was holding.

He didn't remember taking it from her; he was barely breathing, barely conscious of his surroundings.

Say something.

He couldn't.

She was wearing his shirt. Not the pink scrubs she'd been wearing when she arrived, but his shirt. His t-shirt. It dwarfed her, hanging off her shoulders while the hem reached her knees.

He forgot how small she was. She was always so strong, an angel, bigger than life. A woman like he'd never known. She was his greatest fantasy; his tangible dream. She was the best part of his reality.

Tell her you're sorry.

She didn't look at him, lost in her own tormented thoughts.

Tell her you love her.

"You stayed," he finally said, his voice weighted with confusion and awe.

"Of course I stayed," she responded, taking the glass from him once again. "Just because I declare my love for you doesn't mean you'll suddenly be cured of asshood. I'm good, but not that good."

Oh, Cuddy.

House gave her a miniscule grin, watching the movement of her lips and throat as she took another swallow of scotch.

"I don't know," he said. "I remember you being pretty incredible."

She was. That one night they'd had in med school had been a memory he'd revisited many times over the years. Every time she rescued him, saved him from himself or from the system when he couldn't seem to work within the restraints, the memory became more cherished.

The woman was truly amazing. Her ability to put up with his shit was truly superhuman at times. She never let him down. She may go into hiding, run away for a bit, needing the time to lick her wounds and recover, but she always returned.

"Are we going to get drunk?" she asked.

She didn't leave.

House took the glass from her, determined to make things right, to fix the damage he'd done.

She looked at him with those stormy, grey eyes. Cautious. Afraid. Committed.

She really does love me.

House picked her up.

In one quick move, he lifted her onto the piano and turned to close the window blinds.

"You don't have to do this," she said, guessing what he had planned. "I just want to be with you. It doesn't need to be more than that. We've got time to figure this out."

He pushed he hair off her shoulder, watching the strands run through his fingers as he considered the texture...and her words.

He wanted to be with her, too. He wanted to please her, to make her happy. He wanted to be the man she deserved.

House brushed his lips against her, not in a kiss, but in a feather-light touch.

She knew what he was doing. He was embarrassed and humiliated. He'd lashed out at her to cover the feeling of emasculation and failure. Her attempt at being patient and understanding only placed a spotlight on his failure. After so many months of waiting for her, hoping for a chance with her when hope was not something he understood, for him to have a disappointing start was the ultimate shame for him.

"You stayed," he'd said. Those words had confirmed her conclusions.

He must have been out here beating himself up, convinced he'd completely ruined his chance. Now, he was going to make it up to her at all cost. But he didn't have to. She wasn't even sure it was a good idea to try. She'd been crazy to rush them in the first place. They really had been through the wringer. She'd just been so overwhelmed with finally being able to tell him how she felt, to see his joy, to feel his arms around her. But what she wanted more than sex was just to be with him, to hold him and talk to him, to feel the closeness she'd been denying for so long.

House slid his hands along her thighs and under the t-shirt, pushing it up over her hips.

"House," she halted his advance. She wanted to reassure him that a second attempt wasn't needed, to reiterate her love for him.

"I want to see you," he whispered. His eyes were shy and pleading.

How could she resist him when he was so openly sharing himself?

He slowly lifted the shirt over her head and tossed it aside as he'd done earlier. His eyes traced her features, gliding over her cheek and jaw, across her chin and down her chest. She saw his eyes darken as they reached her breasts; his pupils dilate and his nostrils flared. It felt like he was watching her for an eternity.

"If you don't touch me, I may explode."

His lips twitched as he fought a grin, but he looked at her with uncertainty.

"Show me how."

She frowned, pretty sure he knew how.

He's screwing with me.

Cuddy turned away, feeling self-conscious and afraid, silently reprimanding herself for so terribly misjudging everything. But his hand was suddenly cupping her cheek and jaw, gently pulling her back to look at him.

There was no indication of mocking in his expression. His eyes were glassy, a cloudy troubled blue. She realized he was afraid, too. He was afraid of failing her, afraid they'd come so far only for him to be incapable of being what she needed.

House cursed himself for being so selfish and warped, for being a complete idiot. He'd spent years calling on hookers to satisfy his physical needs, and that wasn't even often. She was right. He'd abused his body and avoided intimacy – or any emotional connections for that matter – at all cost. He wasn't sure his body knew how to respond appropriately to a loving relationship. Even that one night in Mayfield, when he'd allowed himself to feel, it had been more about coming together in brokenness and grasping the kindness as a life-support more than it had been a coming together for the start of a relationship. Lydia had understood that; he'd wanted to stay in the bubble and pretend. He hadn't been sure he'd ever make it back to the real world. Even after he'd been released and had come home, he'd wondered if he was capable of succeeding.

These past few months had been difficult on him. He'd been trying so hard, stumbling and falling, sometimes beneath his own ignorance, sometimes beneath the uncertainty and disbelief of others. And Cuddy had kept her distance: so close, and yet so far.

He'd been angry at first, then hurt, but then he'd realized Lucas wasn't the real obstacle between them. She was doing what he'd done, latching onto a something that reads well in the annals of "normalcy" and trying to build a fantasy from nothing because real life was just too hard. And the feelings between them seemed…impossible.

He'd been fumbling the last few weeks. When he'd told her he didn't want to be friends, he'd wanted her to choose him, expected her to finally walk away from the pretense and give them a chance. But she'd walked away. She'd clung to the fantasy. He'd begun to believe she'd managed to transform the fantasy into reality. He'd been ready to make one last ditched effort, to throw out a gauntlet that would demand attention: her grandfather's book. It was a voice from the past. It spoke of history and longevity, of common interests and understanding, of long-lasting love and commitment. It was a reflection of them…if she'd only remember.

That crane hadn't been the only thing that collapsed yesterday. He'd been crushed, broken in the debris and rubble of a very different kind. Hannah hadn't helped. It was as if he'd been transported back to the past, back to his infarction and the decisions of the past, only this time from a different perspective. Everyone wanted to do what was best for the girl, but there was no certainty that any decision was the "right" one. Dangers were at each turn. The only thing they could do is go with their gut, make a decision and hope for the best.

Hannah had died. He'd done everything he could for her, but she'd died. The doctors had done everything they could for him and he'd lived. He'd wasted that gift.

House looked at Cuddy.

So beautiful.

How long had he wanted this? She was so strong and brave. She'd walked away from the safe bubble she'd created and back into reality at just the right time for him, but it was very likely the worst time for her. She'd come to find him, expecting the best, and if he knew Cuddy, imagining a happy ending. She made an art out of seeing things as they could be. It was the administrator in her. She believed she could manage and control everything. She thought she could provide the structure and guidance to create a world of possibilities. She'd done it with him when she formed the Diagnostics department and managed to keep him drawing within the lines. She thought she could do it again with him now.

He wanted to try. He needed to succeed.

It was as if she read his mind. She understood his troubled thoughts. She knew the complexity of his emotions.

Cuddy took a deep breathe, closing her eyes as if to balance, to place herself back in the center of this reality and not in the darkness of their fears and failures.

She cupped the outside of his hand that was on her cheek, lightly squeezing before sliding it down her neck, across the dip of her clavicle and between her breasts.

"When you've thought of us together," she said. "Did you touch me like this?"

His eyes had never left hers, though it was taking all of his focus not to gawk at her naked body. She had brought his hand beneath her breasts, cupping the weight in his hand, in their hands.

Hot.

"No." His voice was raspy.

She arched a brow in question.

"It's always wild," he admitted. He was always taking her from behind, against a wall, passionately in the shower.

Cuddy nodded. The knowing smile in her eyes said she'd had similar thoughts. Her fingers laced between his and very slowly moved their hands, keeping their touch light, finely tuning their senses. He could feel her nipple hard against his palm, could feel the tiny bumps at the tip and the slight wrinkling at the base.

House watched her, weighing every change in her expression, every movement of muscle and the glide of her tongue as it moistened her lips. He read her clearly. She had something else in mind for them, something more slow and sensual, an experience that would take them out of patterns and habits and remove them from the fears and failures that held them back.

He grinned and she knew he understood.

His eyes finally left hers, lowering to watch the movement of their hands. He moved his left hand to mirror the movement on her other breast. Cuddy released a sigh, instinctively bowing her back so her chest reached toward the exquisite sensation.

He puffed out a breath of air.

"You are so beautiful," he told her, unable to keep his thoughts to himself any longer.

"I'm yours," she said.

His fingers stilled and his eyes locked on hers, shocked at her words, but needing to see the truth of them.

Mine.

Cuddy dropped her hand from his and braced them on the piano at her sides. She leaned back, offering her body for his exploration.

Mine.

The gift of a lifetime.

His hands moved over her body, over the slope of her breast and along the bones of her chest. Along the line of muscles down her arms and up again, then to trace the curve of her waist to her hips. He looked at her as his hands grasped the hem of her panties, silently requesting permission.

She lifted her hips to ease their removal.

His eyes widened at the first glimpse of her. The small patch of hair so perfectly groomed pointed to a hidden promise.

As he pulled the fabric from her ankles he opened her legs, providing a better view of the wonders he'd just unveiled.

His hands ran along her leg, memorizing the shape of muscle and bone, and the softness of her skin. But his gaze never left the center of her heat.

When his fingers finally reached the apex of her thighs, he stilled. Cuddy groaned; House smiled.

Mine.

His fingers slid along the edge of her folds, finding each nerve, each place that made her gasp and experimenting with the motion and pressure of his fingers.

He could feel her heat, feel the moisture in abundance as he moved along her slit. He could smell the scent of her excitement and he breathed it in, his oxygen, his life support.

Her hips started writhing beneath his touch, seeking more, needing more.

"I want to taste you."

"Oh, yes." It was almost a moan.

He pushed forward, placing her legs on his shoulder as she laid back on the piano, stretching out before him.

House ran his eyes along her body before catching her eyes.

Mine.

Cuddy smiled seductively.

"Yes."

To Be Continued...