He grabbed my breast. He grabbed my fucking breast.
She reacts first as Lisa Cuddy, the administrator: back straight, nostrils flared, blue eyes icy. After twenty years of knowing Greg House - gruff, irritating, magnetic, not-sure-if-I-want-to-fuck-or-punch House - it's second nature. With any other man she would have acted by now with a slap or a similarly-placed hand. With House, she's frozen, calculating correct protocol (of course, there's none with him) but mostly trying to figure out a way to extricate herself without making it obvious that she is enjoying this way, way too much. If he figures it out - Chooses to figure it out, she thinks - she'll lose their game of cat and mouse. He will be the cat, a wry Cheshire grin across his stubbled face as he devours her whole.
She is not worried. She knows he likes the chase, the possibility of slick mouths and grasping hands, more than the reality of constant arguing, emotional blackmail, a final blowout that neither of them would be able to withstand. He needs her too much to admit that he needs her.
Sometimes, when she is alone, she wishes that Greg House was the marrying kind. Then she remembers she would never give Greg House a second glance if he was.
This close, House smells slightly medicinal. She imagines pill after pill disappearing down his throat, melting in his stomach, and seeping slowly from his pores. Beneath that she detects the sharp tang of bourbon and, perhaps, nervous sweat.