AUTHOR'S NOTE: Much gratitude to houseketeer for her never-ending quest to help me bring back my muse, and for her terrific beta'ing skills.
Her heels beat a staccato rhythm across the linoleum floor, a steady retreat to the glass shelter of his office.
She's not entirely sure why she's headed in this direction or what she expects to find. The moment House left for court, she left Foreman and Chase with the patient and headed straight for his office. What's puzzling is that she feels a sense of purpose, a sense of need. She tries to understand why, but the reason escapes her.
Her cheeks are still burning from her momentary lapse in judgment. Sighing heavily, she navigates a corner and cringes slightly as she thinks about the hug.
She doesn't know what came over her. What possessed her to break character and pull her boss into a bear hug. Maybe it was the fact that he had finally displayed some sign of remorse. Maybe it was the fact that she had seen some glimmer of hope. Some sign that maybe this case was getting through to him after all. Or maybe it was the fact that she had lost all traces of sanity, and pulled him into a hug when she had spent the last several months attempting to get over him.
Whatever the reason, she knows that she will never live it down. That one brief touch, regardless of how ridiculous it might have been, has caused feelings to arise in her that she had thought long dead. Even now, her arms still tingle from the feel of him in her own.
Sighing again, she finally comes upon the office and pushes open the door. Takes in her surroundings. Realizes in that short amount of time that the diagnostic's office is so completely House. From the clutter strewn about the room to the game boy resting on the desk, everything is him. The thought sends a prickle rushing up her spine.
Before she realizes what she is doing, she has locked the door and closed the blinds. And then takes several steps toward his desk until she is standing in front of his leather chair, her mind on auto pilot. It is only when she draws in a deep breath of air that is so completely tinged by his scent that she realizes what she is about to do. But even then, she doesn't let herself think about it. Instead, she sits down upon his chair and leans back as if it is the most normal thing in the world. Looks at his affects scattered about the room. The magic eight ball resting precariously atop a stack of papers . . . the red and gray tennis ball lying forgotten in a nearby corner . . . the half-eaten Reuben tossed inside the waste bin. Hell, if she is honest with herself, even she is a possession. He had her from the day she started at PPTH, and he hasn't yet let go.
The thought leaves her reeling, and she forces herself not to think. Forces herself not to feel. And allows her hand to start inching toward the waistline of her slacks.
Any other day, she'd check herself in on the third floor. Convince them that she was crazy. That she'd been overworked, subjected to the whims of an ornery boss for much too long, and she had finally lost her mind. Today, the only thing that matters is the release.
Closing her eyes, she reaches down and massages herself through the thin fabric of her slacks. Feels her desperate heat respond to the feel of her fingers, pushing against her hand as the urgency builds between her thighs. Her breathing is becoming shallow. But even then, his scent assaults her nostrils and she knows that she must continue her risky little game.
Uncupping her hand from around her fabric-covered curls, she reaches slowly up and then pushes slowly down inside her slacks. Underneath her panties . . . parting her lips . . . delving inside her moist center.
She has to stop herself from groaning loudly. It is all she can do to keep hold of herself. Not allow his scent, his aura, to overwhelm her to the point of no return. She is at work. Someone could walk in at any moment. She is playing a forbidden game, and she cannot allow herself to get too carried away.
But by then it is too late. Because she has already begun stroking the hard nub of her clit. Rubbing the little button in soft, concentric circles, she leans her head back against his leather chair and closes her eyes. Allows herself to feel the pleasure as it courses greedily throughout her body.
She knows that she cannot make any noise. She is too conscientious to alert passers-by to her current predicament. Instead, she holds her noises inside and focuses on him. On the possibility that he is doing this to her. That he is rubbing her clit; that he is moving to dip inside her opening; that he is thrusting a finger inside her moist, warm folds while his thumb continues to play with her hard nub.
That he is bringing her to climax.
The fact that his presence remains so strong in her mind, that his personality makes up every inch of the tiny space, and that the feel of him is still fresh in her mind, all serves to make the images that much more concrete.
And when she comes, the only sound to escape her lips is his name. A shaky, imperfect whisper, laced with pleasure yet tinged with despair and regret. And then her mind goes blissfully blank.
It takes a moment for her to fall back to earth. When she does, the surrounding environment of his office is the first thing that she sees. Pens littered across the desk. Crumpled paper in the waste bin. Her own legs still spread open across his leather chair.
Everything exactly the same as a moment before, nothing out of place.
No matter what she does, no matter how many things happen in their lives that should lead to inevitable change . . . Nothing ever changes. It all remains the same. And she begins to find this stagnancy numbing.
It is this last that causes his previous statement to resurface in her mind.
Love kills.
She tries to push it away, but House's essence seems to act as an anchor. The thought remains.