I usually didn't stay up into the wee hours of the morning and watch television with my wives or Amber because they always had those sappy chick flicks playing all night. If it was adapted from a Jane Austen novel, had clipped and proper English accents, or had Helena Bonham Carter, Hugh Grant or Kate Winslet in it, the women in my life could recite the damn things forwards, backwards and sideways. My third wife watched the Emma Thompson version of Sense and Sensibility about a hundred million times since she had a thing for the fellow who played Mr. Palmer.
House had a laundry list of recorded monster truck shows, wrestling and soaps left to watch. I didn't particularly care for any of them but anything was better than watching Gwyneth Paltrow struggle to breathe in a corset.
I dozed off to the sounds of playboy billionaires and conniving gold-diggers hopping in and out of every bed within a fifty mile radius. I really should have called it a night but House's arm was around me and it felt too nice to leave behind for a cold, lonely bed. Maybe I would stagger to bed in a little while if I got too tired or got sick of listening to corny soap dialogue such as "I will you destroy you, Laura". But I was comfortable and was more than pleased to be with House, even if I was half asleep.
"You still alive there, sport?" he asked, mercifully switching over to a movie that had blood, guts and car chases.
"Sort of," I mumbled against his shoulder.
"Why don't you go to bed?"
"I will later."
"Don't drool all over my shirt or I'm sending you the dry cleaning bill."
"You aren't exactly intimidating me with your empty threats." I snuggled a little closer into the rumpled shirt that hasn't seen anything but cold water and minimal detergent since it came into his possession and could have sworn I heard him chuckle.
His fingers began to thread through my hair, fingernails lightly scratching at my scalp. Good Lord, that felt so nice. A sign that House really does care about me. A silent way of acknowledging that he was aware of my wants and needs in our admittedly bizarre relationship. Or maybe House was repaying me for the shoulder rub from earlier or he was just felling particularly friendly at the moment. Whatever it was it felt really damn good and I didn't want him to stop.
"Mmmmm…," I noised without realizing until I heard his voice again.
"You like that?" A combination of amusement and salaciousness tinged his words. Even though my eyes were closed I could picture the wicked grin I knew was currently plastered across his face.
"It's okay," I replied with badly disguised disinterest and earned another chuckle.
Those musicians fingers continued to weave their way through my hair. A puff of his warm breath against my cheek, then another. He was no longer watching the movie. Something much more interesting had his attention. A shiver went up and down my spine and it wasn't because I was cold.
Sometimes the right thing to do was to surrender before the war even had a chance to start. I would have waved a white flag but I was too lazy to take off my shirt. Besides, in a few minutes I was pretty sure he would do that for me. His musky scent surrounded me like a thick fog and the room was getting hot.
"You're such a lousy liar, Wilson." The salaciousness in his voice had increased tenfold.
"I am?" I said, letting him play me like his piano. So close to him and wanting to be closer. It was so maddening, so glorious, and so like House to see how long he could drag it all out before my self control became a distant memory.
"Your need to be needed. It's so blindingly obvious. You like it when I have my arm around your shoulders or my fingers running through your hair because it means I like having you out here with me. After three divorces it's nice to have tangible proof that there's someone in the world who wants you, isn't it?"
I had to admit it was.
"It's nice to have proof that there's someone willing to overlook your worst flaws and embrace the best?"
It was more than nice. It was fantastic.
"That proof has an addictive quality to it, right? That's why you didn't want to go to bed. You needed your fix."
"I didn't want to be alone."
"I understand," he said with complete sincerity. "Why do you think I haven't gone to bed yet?"
"Because you're an insomniac?"
His hand reached under my chin and tilted my head up until our eyes met. Brown versus blue. Blue always won. That damn wicked grin of his was back, the one that made my legs turn to rubber and my core feel hollow and weightless. "Because I enjoyed being out here with you. My other fix."
A quick goodbye to my self control, then I crushed my mouth against his, savoring the fact that I was the only who could claim that wicked grin. A moan from the back of his throat…I felt it more than heard it. That moan was for me and because of me. I kissed him deeper as I felt his hands drift down and pull at my shirt, all but ripping the damn thing off. This was my favorite part, watching House's version of self control fade into the horizon, watching his desire for me make his breath shallow, his pupils dilate, and his ability to speak coherent sentences vanish.
"Time for bed," he gasped, and that was the last thing he said that didn't involve screaming my name at the top of his lungs.
We stumbled to the bedroom, a tangle of limbs, his hands all over me, our mouths barely breaking contact. He took my white shirt off of me and left it in a crumpled heap next to his blue one. No need to wave it in surrender tonight. He knew as well as I did that blue always won.