I'm doomed. I'm playing brinkmanship… with House over… What word does befit this type of occasion? Engage in sexual intercourse? Copulate? Fornicate? Those are such ugly words. Make love? Don't make me laugh. That sounds like something straight out of a Mills and Boon book. How about get intimate with? Sleep with? Or have an affaire d'amour? That's funnier than the making love bit. And there'll certainly be no sleeping or there better not be – not in a 15 minute time window. I could wax lyrical and say it is beyond words but then' I' would sound like I'm writing a Mills and Boon book. I look over at House. He's probably thinking fuck, screw, hump, beast with two backs. It's just sex, plain and simple. Except there is nothing just plain or simple about it!
So, I'm doomed. If I back out now, and, let me tell you, there's no way I'm backing out first, but if I did, House would make some sarky comment. And he 'wins'. And, more to the point, if House intends to follow through this time I'd lose out in more ways than one. If I make the first move, House can end this with a 'gotcha', embarrass me into the bargain and he 'wins'. Life lesson in 'careful what you agree to' in the first place. However, if neither of us 'blink' we could both win.
As the only way I can win is to out brink the brinkmaster, I'm standing my ground. Thing is, he does look deadly serious… right now bordering on irate. House doesn't know how to start a car. Rather, I know he knows how to start a car, but at the moment, he doesn't know how to start my car.
He has to have planned this, sorry as this is House, schemed this in advance – except he came on his motorbike. Disappointingly, unless I take this skirt off there's no way I can straddle the seat. So, despite the fact it would be faster and what girl wouldn't want a powerful, super fast, well lubricated, throbbing engine between her thighs as a warm up to '15 minutes', we'll have to take my car. House insisted on driving, something about me being too careful to be quick. I suspect he needs the activity to mask his nervousness. That's working out really well at the moment.
Come on House, starting a car's easy - insert key in the ignition and turn until it bursts into life leaving the engine purring. If he can't even do that, what's the chance of him getting me purring?
"Shall I drive?" I ask. Although I'm enjoying seeing a flustered House, if he takes much longer, it will all become a moot point. Leaving aside my other meetings this afternoon, I can't reschedule my two o'clock meeting – it's a board meeting. I know that's two hours from now but, still, at the rate he's going…
"No," he barks. I smirk. Finally, it turns over.
"Reverse," I yelp, as we narrowly miss the car in front.
"I know," he snaps, shifts it into the correct gear, manoeuvres out of the space, yanks it back into drive and floors it – all without looking at me.
He is definitely nervous. A cool, calmness descended over me as I soaked myself in coffee. You know how time slows down under certain stressful conditions? So, it was with a certain detachment that I watched the coffee spread across the table, over the edge and slosh onto my skirt. House was quick enough to slide sideways and avoid a similar fate. Shame, it could have been a good excuse to get his pants off – to check for scalding, you understand. Then again, it could have been a good excuse for him to beat a hasty retreat.
I switch on the cd player forgetting I had a B52s disc in there. He hates the B52s. I leave it on to see if he'll say anything. He seems oblivious.
He fiddles with the air conditioning unit. It's already at max and I can feel the icy air blowing out of the vents. There's a glistening layer of sweat on his forehead.
"Are you warm?" I ask, with a certain gleeful devilment.
He stops messing with the controls. Instead his fingers start drumming on the steering wheel. That lasts all of two minutes then his hand moves up to the neck of his t-shirt and he runs his finger round as if it's too tight. Shame he doesn't wear a tie. I'd love to unknot him and slip it off. I used to be good at it - and tying them. I imagine a quiet, shared, intimate moment just before we go back to work… who am I kidding? Intimate moment! I scoff to myself.
"House . . . that was my street," I say, as he drives right passed it. We decided to go to my house so I could change out of my coffee stained clothes. I know that black hides a multitude of sins but I don't want to reek of eau de coffee or even eau de sex for that matter, in a board meeting. That, and I know my nanny will have taken Rachel out for a stroll at this time of day.
"Shit! Why didn't you say something sooner?" he snaps.
"How many years have you known where my house is? You've managed to find it in various stages of being drunk, drugged or with skulduggery afoot, but now you don't know where I live? You should have said you need a navigator," I snark, which quickly turns into a squeak as he makes an illegal U-turn to head back towards my place. He screeches into the drive.
Despite the wrong turn we've made it in ten minutes. So we've got fifteen minutes to do the '15 minutes-ing' leaving fifteen minutes to get back to work. It should all fit in perfectly… in more ways than one! If House really intends to go through with it.