He gets a hand under her so he can fill one palm with her rock-scraped tit, mounts her like an animal, teeth in the skin of her back to keep her there, keep her good for him. Fucks her like that — like he'd fuck Danny, brutal slap-slap-slap against her ass without a thought for anything except how her body can make him cum.

When he feels that bright peak drawing closer from his mercantile determination, he simply does what he did to try and wake her, slips into her nerve endings and electrocutes her clit, swells her cunt up hot and ready, kickstarts an intense little orgasm. She's awake to feel it, this time, the possessive way he simply takes what belongs to him, the perfect execution of pleasure she has no control over her, one peak barely subsiding before he forces her into another, this time joining her, flooding her ass with a broken sob.

When he's done, he's crying softly against her back. "Sorry," he finally tells her in a ragged whisper. "Baby, I'm so sorry." For letting House die. For not being there to wake her up. For using her to offload a little of his screaming grief.