Matters of the Heart, Part 2
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
Wilson was trying to eat breakfast, but finding it nearly impossible because, for the last 10 minutes or so, House had been rapping his cane against the floor.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. [Brief pause] Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
“STOP IT!” Wilson finally yelled.
House looked down at his cane, surprised.
“Oh, sorry bout that,” he said, in a distracted sort of way.
“Something on your mind, House?” Wilson asked, ironically.
“Nope.”
“You sure about that? Because you don’t usually turn your cane into a snare drumstick.”
“No, it’s nothing,” House said, still lost in some personal thought. Then, after a few minutes, he shook his head and said: “I will never understand women.”
Wilson gave a weary smile: Finally.
“Any woman in particular?” he asked, ironically.
“Duh,” House said.
“Cuddy.”
“First, she practically begs me to ask her out. . .”
“Begs?”
“Well, not technically beg. But strongly implied that there was no shot I was getting laid unless we did small talk over veal piccata and chianti. And then when I do ask her out she says-and I quote-‘I’ll get back to you.’”
Wilson smiled, proudly.
“You asked her out? Good for you, House. You finally manned up.”
“You’re overlooking the crucial point of this story, as per usual. She told me she’d get back to me.”
“Well, good for her then,” Wilson said.
“Good for her?”
“Yeah, you put Cuddy through the ringer. You led her on, toyed with her emotions, sent her more mixed messages than a whole army of Candy Morgenthals. . . I mean, what do you expect?”
House scowled.
“Who, pray tell, is Candy Morgenthal?”
“My junior high school crush. She kissed me behind the bleachers and then immediately went steady with Todd Woodsen.”
“Did you just compare me to a teenage girl . . . who kissed you behind the bleachers?”
Wilson shrugged.
“Hey, if the lip gloss fits…”
House rolled his eyes.
“I will admit that I may have sent Cuddy mixed messages in the past. Possibly. But where’s my reward for finally doing the right thing now?”
“On its way to our table, apparently,” Wilson said, pointing.
Indeed, Cuddy was sashaying their way, a tiny smile playing at her lips.
“Hello boys,” she said, sitting down rather closely next to House.
“Good morning Cuddy,” Wilson said. “You’re looking especially lovely today.”
“Why thank you, Wilson,” Cuddy said. Then she gave House a sneaky smile. “Hi,” she said in a girlish whisper.
“Hi,” he whispered back.
“Oh God,” Wilson groaned. “I don’t think I can handle this much cuteness so early in the morning.”
Cuddy ignored him.
“Can I talk to you alone?” she said to House.
“Absolutely.”
“I could-” Wilson gestured for the exit.
“Great idea. Scram,” House said.
“That won’t be necessary,” Cuddy said quickly, grabbing House’s arm. “I’ll bring him right back.”
She led House to an empty table, then smiled.
“After much careful thought and consideration, I’ve decided to accept your offer to go on a date.”
He smiled back.
“Excellent,” he said.
“So where are we going?” she said.
“Well, plucky optimist that I am, I took the liberty of making 7 different reservations at 7 different restaurants, one for every night of the week. I wasn’t sure which night you were free.”
“Wow. Impressive.”
“I’m surprisingly industrious, when motivated. So which night is best?”
“No better time than tonight,” she said.
“I like the way you think,” House said, grinning at her. Then he looked down at his calendar. “That means we’re going to Little Bird. 8 o clock.”
Little Bird was a new French restaurant that had recently gotten a rave write-up in the newspaper.
“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?” she said.
He shrugged in a “I try” kind of way. Then he squinted at her. “It’s around the corner from my apartment. Drinks at my place first? 7ish?”
“Wow. It’s like you planned a whole date!”
“If you’re lucky, you might even get a corsage,” Wilson yelled, from his table.
“Shut up, Wilson,” House said.
#####
That night, at just after 7 pm, Cuddy knocked on House’s door.
She was wearing a cream-colored wrap dress and black stiletto heels.
House’s mouth dropped open at the sight of her.
“Whoa,” he said. “If I had known you were wearing that dress, I’d have masturbated before dinner.”
“Is that your way of saying I look good” she laughed.
“Better than good.”
“Excellent. I was aiming for better than good.”
“Mission accomplished.” Then he looked down at his own clothing-rumpled blue shirt, even more rumpled khakis. “I clearly need to change.”
“You look fine,” she said, unconvincingly. (At least he was clean. His hair was still a bit wet and he smelled nice, like fresh sandalwood soap.)
“My outfit is strictly irrelevant, as all eyes will be on you tonight,” House said, guiding her inside. “But for the sake of looking more like a date and less like some sort of homeless outreach project, I should probably change.” He poured two glasses of wine and handed her one. “But first, a toast.”
He raised his glass. “To manning up,” he said.
She smiled, knowingly.
“To manning up,” she said.
They clinked.
“This is good,” she said, sipping.
“Yeah, I remembered you liked it,” he said.
For a second, she drew a blank-when had she and House even talked about wine?-and then remembered she had passingly remarked that she liked a particular wine at a hospital function they had both attended. That was three years ago. The man never ceased to amaze her.
He started to head into his bedroom, then turned to look at her.
“You coming?’ he said, cocking his head.
“You’ve been dressing yourself alone for 50 years,” she teased.
“Clearly not that well. I need you. Bring the bottle.”
She laughed, grabbed the bottle and followed him into his bedroom.
For all their closeness, there were certain lines they didn't cross-perhaps because they both knew that once they crossed those lines, there was no turning back. Cuddy realized this was only the second time she had ever been in House’s bedroom. (The first time barely counted; she had put him to bed after his recklessly unhealthy behavior after the bus accident.)
He gestured for her to sit on the bed, then took a large gulp of wine-from the bottle- and handed it back to her. With a shrug, she followed in kind, taking a big swig. He grinned, then began rifling through his closet.
The last time she’d been here it had all been a bit of a blur. Now she took a moment to look around. It was a nice room-simple and masculine, decorated in expensive tones of taupe and gray. There was a medium-sized TV, and a video game console, several hardbound books on the nightstand-mostly medical books, but a few fantasy and sci-fi novels as well-and a beautiful antique lamp that emanated a warm, amber light. There was a set of barbells in the corner of the room, which made her smile. She didn’t know House lifted weights.
“Which shirt?” he said, holding up two similar blue dress shirts.
“The darker one,” she said. “Definitely.”
He nodded and, in a quick motion, stripped off his shirt. She had seen him shirtless before-at Michigan, of course, and a few times around the hospital-but never in such an intimate setting. She was taken aback-and a little turned on. He was lean and strong-looking, with just a tiny matt of light brown hair coating his chest. His arms were ropy, well-defined-weight-lifting had clearly gone to good use.
“Which pants?” he said, now holding up two pairs of pants.
“Black,” she said.
He undid his belt, shook off his khakis. And now Gregory House was standing in front of her, resplendent in only his boxers and socks.
For a moment, her eyes were drawn to his scar-ugly and large, but yet another symbol of their intimacy, of the trust he had in her. Our scars are what make us human, she thought. Our scars are what make us beautiful. (Were she to repeat that thought to House, however, he might actually laugh her out of his room.)
He noticed her notice his leg and, perhaps embarrassed, turned back to the closet. Now she was staring at his long back, his ass, the surprisingly strong muscles in the back of his thighs. She was undeniably feeling amorous, being this close to him, in this dimly lit room-with him practically naked and her in her sexy dress. (She had struggled with her own outfit-trying on everything from a pretty peasant dress to discreetly conservative shift dress-before finally settling on the skin-tight wrap dress. He’s earned it, she thought.)
To distract herself, she took another gulp of wine, then continued looking around the room. There was a Rothko-esque abstract painting, and a black and white photo of Central Park from the 1940s. But no personal photos, at all. Not of his parents, not of himself. And then she noticed the top drawer of the nightstand was slightly open and a photograph-clearly of a woman-was poking out.
She should’ve ignored it, in deference to House’s privacy, but the photo looked so familiar, she was compelled to explore further.
She opened the drawer-and was shocked by what she saw.
“Why do you have this photo of me dressed as Sleeping Beauty?” she said. (She had worn a corset that day. It gave the vague impression that her breasts were on the verge of popping out of the dress.)
“Snoop much?” he said, turning around, with an accusatory smirk.
“The drawer was open! Why do you have it?”
“To blackmail you, of course. Dean of Medicine dressed as a Disney princess? You never know when such a thing might come in handy.”
“Nice try, House. I’m pretty sure I’m the one with blackmail material in my hands.”
He folded his arms, liking the game.
“Everyone knows I have a permanent hard-on for you. This is hardly a newsflash.”
“So you admit that you masturbate to that photo of me,” she said.
“The heaving bosom is….um, uplifting,” he admitted. “Which tie?” he said, holding up two ties.
He had lay on this bed-the very bed she was sitting on right now-masturbating to that picture of her. She felt herself get hot.
She looked up. He was still standing there, in his boxers and socks, holding up the two ties.
“Come here,” she said.
He shrugged, limped over to her.
Where she was sitting, on the bed, she was basically at crotch level with him.
She put her hands on the top of his boxers, fingered the elastic of his waistband.
“What are you doing?” he said, nervously.
She slid the boxers down a bit, onto his lower hips. More of that light brown hair, jutting out from the top of the boxers.
“Should I stop?” she said.
“No,” he breathed.
He was hard already, which was good, because she pulled his boxers all the way down and took his rather impressive girth in her mouth.
He groaned and closed his eyes. He shuddered a bit and his whole body-save for the most important part-went limp.
“Oh God yes,” he stuttered.
She couldn’t remember the last time she was this sexually excited. To see House in the throes of ecstasy, to know that she had the power to pleasure him like this-it was all too much. She quickened her own pace, exciting them both, until he came, abundantly, in her mouth.
“Oh my fucking God,” he said, collapsing onto the bed.
“I prefer the black tie,” she said, with a giggle.
“Shhh,” he said.
He was on top of her now, kissing her, fondling her, his hands ardently riding up her dress. He pulled her dress past her hips and spread her legs.
“I believe in the golden rule,” he said, putting his face between her legs.
House was so good at oral sex, she vaguely wondered how many women he had been with, but then got too lost in the sensation, of the firmness of his tongue as it lapped at her clit, to even form a coherent thought.
After she came-embarrassingly loudly-they lay side by side on the bed. She was still wearing her dress, although it had been shoved up past her hips. And he was totally naked, save for a pair of socks.
“What time is it,” she murmured, still in a dreamy post-orgasmic haze.
“8 o clock,” House said.
“Oh shit! We better hurry, we’re going to miss our reservation!”
“I don’t think so,” House said, unzipping her dress and taking it off.
Then, expertly, he unclasped her bra.
“What are you doing…” she said.
He cupped her breast with his hand, then took it in his mouth.
“This…” he said.
“But we’re going to. . .”-again, coherent thought eluded her because he was doing this swirly thing with his tongue on her nipple that felt amazing.
“Do what?” he said, moving to her other breast.
“Forget it,” she said. “Keep doing that.”
House spent several minutes lavishing attention on her breasts, then they kissed on the mouth for several more minutes, until he was hard and inside her and they had great, long, mutually satisfying sex.
And then something occurred to her.
“There was never a reservation at Little Bird, was there?” she said, propped up on an elbow, looking at him.
“Um, you want the truth?” he said.
“Always,” she said.
“Okay then. No.”
“So the plan all along was to lure me into your bedroom, seduce me with your half-naked ass, and skip dinner completely?”
“Basically.”
“And the picture of me as Sleeping Beauty?”
“A well planted prop. It got you thinking about me thinking about you naked…which led to you actually being naked…”
“You jerk!” she said, swatting him, pretending to be more angry than she actually was.
“Tell me that dinner at Little Bird would’ve been better than what we just did,” he said, cockily.
“Okay, it wouldn’t have,” she admitted. “But now I’m starving.”
“Stay where you are,” he said. “I shall cook you an unforgettable meal.”
He popped up, still naked, and slipped into a pair of pajama bottoms and a tee-shirt.
“Look at that,” he said, kissing her on the forehead. “Sleeping Beauty in my very own bed.”
She smiled. She was having flashbacks to college: When Gregory House romanced you, it was like you were the only woman in the world.
He made his way into the kitchen.
She lay in his bed, feeling comfy and happy and besotted in a way she hadn’t felt since college.
She heard the rattling of pans and dishes in the kitchen and then smelled the most wonderful aroma. Finally, curiosity got the best of her. She wrapped herself in House’s sheet and made her way into the kitchen.
He was making something that involved pasta and egg and cheese and bacon-a modified carbonara of sorts.
“I told you to wait!” he said.
“I got curious,” she said. “It smelled good.”
“But you’re naked under that sheet. How am I supposed to concentrate?”
“I’m always naked under my clothing.”
“Oh my God, you’re right! How am I supposed to concentrate at the hospital now?”
She chuckled.
“You’ll manage.”
“I’m serious, woman, go put some clothes on,” he said. “I can’t perform acts of culinary wizardry when all the blood is rushing to my nether regions.”
She shook her head, went back to House’s bedroom, found something to wear and put it on. Then she came back to the kitchen.
His eyes widened when he saw her.
“Now you’re in my boxers and tee-shirt? That’s supposed to be an improvement?”
He lowered the heat on his pasta, hobbled over to her.
“Hi,” he said, kissing her luxuriously.
“Hi back,” she said.
“You feel good,” he said, rubbing her hips and waist under the tee-shirt and pulling her toward him.
“Get back to cooking!” she scolded.
He sighed.
“Yes ma’am.”
She hopped up on a stool to watch him. He cracked an egg into the pan with one hand, then tossed the shell into the sink.
“You’re pretty incredible, you know that?” she said.
“You’re pretty incredible yourself.”
“And tonight has been so much fun . . .” she said.
“But…?” he said, picking up on something in her voice.
“But I’ve got to ask…what took you so long to ask me out?”
House sighed.
“Part of skipping the restaurant was my attempt to avoid this conversation,” he said.
“There’s no avoiding it,” she said, firmly.
He scratched his chin.
“Honestly? I. . .don’t know. I know that’s lame but there it is. My subconscious knew I wanted you for myself. But my conscious self was scared shitless.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Usual reasons, I guess. Fear of getting hurt. Fear of rejection.”
“But you knew I liked you!”
“Why? Because we had sex 20 years ago? Because I took advantage of you and kissed you one night when you were in an incredibly vulnerable state?”
Cuddy looked down.
“It wasn’t like that…you were comforting me.”
“I don’t know what I was doing. I was …acting on pure instinct.”
“But when I came to you, told you about Lucas asking me out. I wanted you to tell me not to see him!”
“I did!”
“Not for logical reasons. Because you were jealous.”
“I was. Insanely jealous. Obviously.”
“But why couldn’t you just tell me that? Why do you always have to act out?”
“Because my mother only fed me when I acted out as a child.”
“Don’t be glib, House.”
“Sorry.” A timer dinged. “And…saved by the carbonara. Taste this.”
He twirled a forkful of the pasta and fed her. Of course, it was fantastic.
“You are a man of many, many talents,” she said.
“Thank you,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “So can we eat now?”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll drop it. I just need to know. Are you going to be nice to me tomorrow? Because I’m not sure I can take another day of you treating me like an annoying boss.”
“Then don’t be an annoying boss.”
“Hey!”
He took her hand.
“I will be very, very nice,” he said. “I will kiss your feet, feed you grapes, follow you around with a parasol. Whatever you need.”
“Just smile at me in the hallway,” she said.
“You drive a hard bargain, Dr. Cuddy, but I think that can be arranged,” he said. “Now sit down and let me feed you.”
#####
To make up for his subterfuge, House made an actual reservation at Little Bird for that Friday.
This time, they arranged to meet at the restaurant, 8 pm.
“Wear the cream dress,” House said.
“It’s, uh, at the dry cleaner,” she replied.
“Oops.”
Cuddy had to admit, she was excited about the date. House had been downright adorable all week at work, buying her lunch, sneaking kisses in the lab, holding her hand in the parking garage.
But this would be their first official date. Not just great sex and pillow talk, but two adults, having an actual conversation, in public, at a place with waiters and tablecloths and a wine list.
Cuddy arrived first. She sat the bar, ordered a glass of wine, waited for him.
Ten minutes passed. She glanced at her phone to see if there was a text message from him. There wasn’t.
Then 20 minutes passed, then half an hour.
“Did anyone call for me?” she asked the host.
“No ma’am,” he said, feeling sorry for her.
“Okay,” she said.
“Would you prefer to wait at the table?” he suggested.
“No, I’m fine here.”
She ordered a second glass of wine, tried not to guzzle it.
She looked at her watch. 8:45. Then 9 pm.
She called House, but it went straight to voicemail.
She considered leaving a “where are you?” message, then thought better of it.
There were only two possibilities, both highly insulting.
One, he had forgotten. (That was pretty unlikely. This was the same guy who remembered a glass of wine she had enjoyed three years ago.)
Two, he was having misgivings about a real relationship, but wasn’t man enough to share them with her. So instead, he left her alone at the bar, wearing the dress she had rush dry cleaned, wondering why she ever let that bastard into her heart in the first place.
To be continued…
Wilson was trying to eat breakfast, but finding it nearly impossible because, for the last 10 minutes or so, House had been rapping his cane against the floor.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. [Brief pause] Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
“STOP IT!” Wilson finally yelled.
House looked down at his cane, surprised.
“Oh, sorry bout that,” he said, in a distracted sort of way.
“Something on your mind, House?” Wilson asked, ironically.
“Nope.”
“You sure about that? Because you don’t usually turn your cane into a snare drumstick.”
“No, it’s nothing,” House said, still lost in some personal thought. Then, after a few minutes, he shook his head and said: “I will never understand women.”
Wilson gave a weary smile: Finally.
“Any woman in particular?” he asked, ironically.
“Duh,” House said.
“Cuddy.”
“First, she practically begs me to ask her out. . .”
“Begs?”
“Well, not technically beg. But strongly implied that there was no shot I was getting laid unless we did small talk over veal piccata and chianti. And then when I do ask her out she says-and I quote-‘I’ll get back to you.’”
Wilson smiled, proudly.
“You asked her out? Good for you, House. You finally manned up.”
“You’re overlooking the crucial point of this story, as per usual. She told me she’d get back to me.”
“Well, good for her then,” Wilson said.
“Good for her?”
“Yeah, you put Cuddy through the ringer. You led her on, toyed with her emotions, sent her more mixed messages than a whole army of Candy Morgenthals. . . I mean, what do you expect?”
House scowled.
“Who, pray tell, is Candy Morgenthal?”
“My junior high school crush. She kissed me behind the bleachers and then immediately went steady with Todd Woodsen.”
“Did you just compare me to a teenage girl . . . who kissed you behind the bleachers?”
Wilson shrugged.
“Hey, if the lip gloss fits…”
House rolled his eyes.
“I will admit that I may have sent Cuddy mixed messages in the past. Possibly. But where’s my reward for finally doing the right thing now?”
“On its way to our table, apparently,” Wilson said, pointing.
Indeed, Cuddy was sashaying their way, a tiny smile playing at her lips.
“Hello boys,” she said, sitting down rather closely next to House.
“Good morning Cuddy,” Wilson said. “You’re looking especially lovely today.”
“Why thank you, Wilson,” Cuddy said. Then she gave House a sneaky smile. “Hi,” she said in a girlish whisper.
“Hi,” he whispered back.
“Oh God,” Wilson groaned. “I don’t think I can handle this much cuteness so early in the morning.”
Cuddy ignored him.
“Can I talk to you alone?” she said to House.
“Absolutely.”
“I could-” Wilson gestured for the exit.
“Great idea. Scram,” House said.
“That won’t be necessary,” Cuddy said quickly, grabbing House’s arm. “I’ll bring him right back.”
She led House to an empty table, then smiled.
“After much careful thought and consideration, I’ve decided to accept your offer to go on a date.”
He smiled back.
“Excellent,” he said.
“So where are we going?” she said.
“Well, plucky optimist that I am, I took the liberty of making 7 different reservations at 7 different restaurants, one for every night of the week. I wasn’t sure which night you were free.”
“Wow. Impressive.”
“I’m surprisingly industrious, when motivated. So which night is best?”
“No better time than tonight,” she said.
“I like the way you think,” House said, grinning at her. Then he looked down at his calendar. “That means we’re going to Little Bird. 8 o clock.”
Little Bird was a new French restaurant that had recently gotten a rave write-up in the newspaper.
“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?” she said.
He shrugged in a “I try” kind of way. Then he squinted at her. “It’s around the corner from my apartment. Drinks at my place first? 7ish?”
“Wow. It’s like you planned a whole date!”
“If you’re lucky, you might even get a corsage,” Wilson yelled, from his table.
“Shut up, Wilson,” House said.
#####
That night, at just after 7 pm, Cuddy knocked on House’s door.
She was wearing a cream-colored wrap dress and black stiletto heels.
House’s mouth dropped open at the sight of her.
“Whoa,” he said. “If I had known you were wearing that dress, I’d have masturbated before dinner.”
“Is that your way of saying I look good” she laughed.
“Better than good.”
“Excellent. I was aiming for better than good.”
“Mission accomplished.” Then he looked down at his own clothing-rumpled blue shirt, even more rumpled khakis. “I clearly need to change.”
“You look fine,” she said, unconvincingly. (At least he was clean. His hair was still a bit wet and he smelled nice, like fresh sandalwood soap.)
“My outfit is strictly irrelevant, as all eyes will be on you tonight,” House said, guiding her inside. “But for the sake of looking more like a date and less like some sort of homeless outreach project, I should probably change.” He poured two glasses of wine and handed her one. “But first, a toast.”
He raised his glass. “To manning up,” he said.
She smiled, knowingly.
“To manning up,” she said.
They clinked.
“This is good,” she said, sipping.
“Yeah, I remembered you liked it,” he said.
For a second, she drew a blank-when had she and House even talked about wine?-and then remembered she had passingly remarked that she liked a particular wine at a hospital function they had both attended. That was three years ago. The man never ceased to amaze her.
He started to head into his bedroom, then turned to look at her.
“You coming?’ he said, cocking his head.
“You’ve been dressing yourself alone for 50 years,” she teased.
“Clearly not that well. I need you. Bring the bottle.”
She laughed, grabbed the bottle and followed him into his bedroom.
For all their closeness, there were certain lines they didn't cross-perhaps because they both knew that once they crossed those lines, there was no turning back. Cuddy realized this was only the second time she had ever been in House’s bedroom. (The first time barely counted; she had put him to bed after his recklessly unhealthy behavior after the bus accident.)
He gestured for her to sit on the bed, then took a large gulp of wine-from the bottle- and handed it back to her. With a shrug, she followed in kind, taking a big swig. He grinned, then began rifling through his closet.
The last time she’d been here it had all been a bit of a blur. Now she took a moment to look around. It was a nice room-simple and masculine, decorated in expensive tones of taupe and gray. There was a medium-sized TV, and a video game console, several hardbound books on the nightstand-mostly medical books, but a few fantasy and sci-fi novels as well-and a beautiful antique lamp that emanated a warm, amber light. There was a set of barbells in the corner of the room, which made her smile. She didn’t know House lifted weights.
“Which shirt?” he said, holding up two similar blue dress shirts.
“The darker one,” she said. “Definitely.”
He nodded and, in a quick motion, stripped off his shirt. She had seen him shirtless before-at Michigan, of course, and a few times around the hospital-but never in such an intimate setting. She was taken aback-and a little turned on. He was lean and strong-looking, with just a tiny matt of light brown hair coating his chest. His arms were ropy, well-defined-weight-lifting had clearly gone to good use.
“Which pants?” he said, now holding up two pairs of pants.
“Black,” she said.
He undid his belt, shook off his khakis. And now Gregory House was standing in front of her, resplendent in only his boxers and socks.
For a moment, her eyes were drawn to his scar-ugly and large, but yet another symbol of their intimacy, of the trust he had in her. Our scars are what make us human, she thought. Our scars are what make us beautiful. (Were she to repeat that thought to House, however, he might actually laugh her out of his room.)
He noticed her notice his leg and, perhaps embarrassed, turned back to the closet. Now she was staring at his long back, his ass, the surprisingly strong muscles in the back of his thighs. She was undeniably feeling amorous, being this close to him, in this dimly lit room-with him practically naked and her in her sexy dress. (She had struggled with her own outfit-trying on everything from a pretty peasant dress to discreetly conservative shift dress-before finally settling on the skin-tight wrap dress. He’s earned it, she thought.)
To distract herself, she took another gulp of wine, then continued looking around the room. There was a Rothko-esque abstract painting, and a black and white photo of Central Park from the 1940s. But no personal photos, at all. Not of his parents, not of himself. And then she noticed the top drawer of the nightstand was slightly open and a photograph-clearly of a woman-was poking out.
She should’ve ignored it, in deference to House’s privacy, but the photo looked so familiar, she was compelled to explore further.
She opened the drawer-and was shocked by what she saw.
“Why do you have this photo of me dressed as Sleeping Beauty?” she said. (She had worn a corset that day. It gave the vague impression that her breasts were on the verge of popping out of the dress.)
“Snoop much?” he said, turning around, with an accusatory smirk.
“The drawer was open! Why do you have it?”
“To blackmail you, of course. Dean of Medicine dressed as a Disney princess? You never know when such a thing might come in handy.”
“Nice try, House. I’m pretty sure I’m the one with blackmail material in my hands.”
He folded his arms, liking the game.
“Everyone knows I have a permanent hard-on for you. This is hardly a newsflash.”
“So you admit that you masturbate to that photo of me,” she said.
“The heaving bosom is….um, uplifting,” he admitted. “Which tie?” he said, holding up two ties.
He had lay on this bed-the very bed she was sitting on right now-masturbating to that picture of her. She felt herself get hot.
She looked up. He was still standing there, in his boxers and socks, holding up the two ties.
“Come here,” she said.
He shrugged, limped over to her.
Where she was sitting, on the bed, she was basically at crotch level with him.
She put her hands on the top of his boxers, fingered the elastic of his waistband.
“What are you doing?” he said, nervously.
She slid the boxers down a bit, onto his lower hips. More of that light brown hair, jutting out from the top of the boxers.
“Should I stop?” she said.
“No,” he breathed.
He was hard already, which was good, because she pulled his boxers all the way down and took his rather impressive girth in her mouth.
He groaned and closed his eyes. He shuddered a bit and his whole body-save for the most important part-went limp.
“Oh God yes,” he stuttered.
She couldn’t remember the last time she was this sexually excited. To see House in the throes of ecstasy, to know that she had the power to pleasure him like this-it was all too much. She quickened her own pace, exciting them both, until he came, abundantly, in her mouth.
“Oh my fucking God,” he said, collapsing onto the bed.
“I prefer the black tie,” she said, with a giggle.
“Shhh,” he said.
He was on top of her now, kissing her, fondling her, his hands ardently riding up her dress. He pulled her dress past her hips and spread her legs.
“I believe in the golden rule,” he said, putting his face between her legs.
House was so good at oral sex, she vaguely wondered how many women he had been with, but then got too lost in the sensation, of the firmness of his tongue as it lapped at her clit, to even form a coherent thought.
After she came-embarrassingly loudly-they lay side by side on the bed. She was still wearing her dress, although it had been shoved up past her hips. And he was totally naked, save for a pair of socks.
“What time is it,” she murmured, still in a dreamy post-orgasmic haze.
“8 o clock,” House said.
“Oh shit! We better hurry, we’re going to miss our reservation!”
“I don’t think so,” House said, unzipping her dress and taking it off.
Then, expertly, he unclasped her bra.
“What are you doing…” she said.
He cupped her breast with his hand, then took it in his mouth.
“This…” he said.
“But we’re going to. . .”-again, coherent thought eluded her because he was doing this swirly thing with his tongue on her nipple that felt amazing.
“Do what?” he said, moving to her other breast.
“Forget it,” she said. “Keep doing that.”
House spent several minutes lavishing attention on her breasts, then they kissed on the mouth for several more minutes, until he was hard and inside her and they had great, long, mutually satisfying sex.
And then something occurred to her.
“There was never a reservation at Little Bird, was there?” she said, propped up on an elbow, looking at him.
“Um, you want the truth?” he said.
“Always,” she said.
“Okay then. No.”
“So the plan all along was to lure me into your bedroom, seduce me with your half-naked ass, and skip dinner completely?”
“Basically.”
“And the picture of me as Sleeping Beauty?”
“A well planted prop. It got you thinking about me thinking about you naked…which led to you actually being naked…”
“You jerk!” she said, swatting him, pretending to be more angry than she actually was.
“Tell me that dinner at Little Bird would’ve been better than what we just did,” he said, cockily.
“Okay, it wouldn’t have,” she admitted. “But now I’m starving.”
“Stay where you are,” he said. “I shall cook you an unforgettable meal.”
He popped up, still naked, and slipped into a pair of pajama bottoms and a tee-shirt.
“Look at that,” he said, kissing her on the forehead. “Sleeping Beauty in my very own bed.”
She smiled. She was having flashbacks to college: When Gregory House romanced you, it was like you were the only woman in the world.
He made his way into the kitchen.
She lay in his bed, feeling comfy and happy and besotted in a way she hadn’t felt since college.
She heard the rattling of pans and dishes in the kitchen and then smelled the most wonderful aroma. Finally, curiosity got the best of her. She wrapped herself in House’s sheet and made her way into the kitchen.
He was making something that involved pasta and egg and cheese and bacon-a modified carbonara of sorts.
“I told you to wait!” he said.
“I got curious,” she said. “It smelled good.”
“But you’re naked under that sheet. How am I supposed to concentrate?”
“I’m always naked under my clothing.”
“Oh my God, you’re right! How am I supposed to concentrate at the hospital now?”
She chuckled.
“You’ll manage.”
“I’m serious, woman, go put some clothes on,” he said. “I can’t perform acts of culinary wizardry when all the blood is rushing to my nether regions.”
She shook her head, went back to House’s bedroom, found something to wear and put it on. Then she came back to the kitchen.
His eyes widened when he saw her.
“Now you’re in my boxers and tee-shirt? That’s supposed to be an improvement?”
He lowered the heat on his pasta, hobbled over to her.
“Hi,” he said, kissing her luxuriously.
“Hi back,” she said.
“You feel good,” he said, rubbing her hips and waist under the tee-shirt and pulling her toward him.
“Get back to cooking!” she scolded.
He sighed.
“Yes ma’am.”
She hopped up on a stool to watch him. He cracked an egg into the pan with one hand, then tossed the shell into the sink.
“You’re pretty incredible, you know that?” she said.
“You’re pretty incredible yourself.”
“And tonight has been so much fun . . .” she said.
“But…?” he said, picking up on something in her voice.
“But I’ve got to ask…what took you so long to ask me out?”
House sighed.
“Part of skipping the restaurant was my attempt to avoid this conversation,” he said.
“There’s no avoiding it,” she said, firmly.
He scratched his chin.
“Honestly? I. . .don’t know. I know that’s lame but there it is. My subconscious knew I wanted you for myself. But my conscious self was scared shitless.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Usual reasons, I guess. Fear of getting hurt. Fear of rejection.”
“But you knew I liked you!”
“Why? Because we had sex 20 years ago? Because I took advantage of you and kissed you one night when you were in an incredibly vulnerable state?”
Cuddy looked down.
“It wasn’t like that…you were comforting me.”
“I don’t know what I was doing. I was …acting on pure instinct.”
“But when I came to you, told you about Lucas asking me out. I wanted you to tell me not to see him!”
“I did!”
“Not for logical reasons. Because you were jealous.”
“I was. Insanely jealous. Obviously.”
“But why couldn’t you just tell me that? Why do you always have to act out?”
“Because my mother only fed me when I acted out as a child.”
“Don’t be glib, House.”
“Sorry.” A timer dinged. “And…saved by the carbonara. Taste this.”
He twirled a forkful of the pasta and fed her. Of course, it was fantastic.
“You are a man of many, many talents,” she said.
“Thank you,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “So can we eat now?”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll drop it. I just need to know. Are you going to be nice to me tomorrow? Because I’m not sure I can take another day of you treating me like an annoying boss.”
“Then don’t be an annoying boss.”
“Hey!”
He took her hand.
“I will be very, very nice,” he said. “I will kiss your feet, feed you grapes, follow you around with a parasol. Whatever you need.”
“Just smile at me in the hallway,” she said.
“You drive a hard bargain, Dr. Cuddy, but I think that can be arranged,” he said. “Now sit down and let me feed you.”
#####
To make up for his subterfuge, House made an actual reservation at Little Bird for that Friday.
This time, they arranged to meet at the restaurant, 8 pm.
“Wear the cream dress,” House said.
“It’s, uh, at the dry cleaner,” she replied.
“Oops.”
Cuddy had to admit, she was excited about the date. House had been downright adorable all week at work, buying her lunch, sneaking kisses in the lab, holding her hand in the parking garage.
But this would be their first official date. Not just great sex and pillow talk, but two adults, having an actual conversation, in public, at a place with waiters and tablecloths and a wine list.
Cuddy arrived first. She sat the bar, ordered a glass of wine, waited for him.
Ten minutes passed. She glanced at her phone to see if there was a text message from him. There wasn’t.
Then 20 minutes passed, then half an hour.
“Did anyone call for me?” she asked the host.
“No ma’am,” he said, feeling sorry for her.
“Okay,” she said.
“Would you prefer to wait at the table?” he suggested.
“No, I’m fine here.”
She ordered a second glass of wine, tried not to guzzle it.
She looked at her watch. 8:45. Then 9 pm.
She called House, but it went straight to voicemail.
She considered leaving a “where are you?” message, then thought better of it.
There were only two possibilities, both highly insulting.
One, he had forgotten. (That was pretty unlikely. This was the same guy who remembered a glass of wine she had enjoyed three years ago.)
Two, he was having misgivings about a real relationship, but wasn’t man enough to share them with her. So instead, he left her alone at the bar, wearing the dress she had rush dry cleaned, wondering why she ever let that bastard into her heart in the first place.
To be continued…