A/N: More slash and Dr. House likes to play by his rules.

Needless to say, after that charming little encounter I couldn't concentrate; the words on the papers scattered all over my desk blurred together. Frustrated, I gracelessly stuffed them back into my desk in no particular order. With his taste still my tongue and my chin still burning I grabbed my coat.

In the garage I noted with no particular surprise that Greg's bike was gone. But that was okay. I knew where he was.

Back in 221B the only light came from the television as one of the Law & Order shows played quietly to an empty room. No sign of Greg, he wasn't stretched out on the sofa as per usual.

I was groping for the light switch when an arm suddenly wrapped around my neck.

"You're late," he growled. A sudden vision flashed across my mind–Greg behind the door, waiting impassively in the dark for me to step inside. Apparently he could find some patience in himself when he really wanted to. "Your fucking paperwork really that important?"

His breath was hot against my neck and was tinged with the scent of bourbon. More scratching from his beard as he leaned in closer. "Answer me," he said, and punctuated his request with a short jerk of the arm at my throat.

"You know I didn't get any paperwork done," I replied, dimly realizing I was feeling too warm in the coat I didn't have time to remove, keys still in hand.

"That's what I thought." He sounded both pleased and amused. I knew he was smiling even though I couldn't see his face. The arm around my neck remained firm.

I reached for the light switch and he jerked his arm again.

"Don't," Greg whispered sharply, his mouth brushing against my jawline. "Don't turn on the lights and don't turn around."

"What is this–"

"Jimmy, shut up," The grip around my neck increased a notch. "You're under my roof, you're going to play by my rules or you're not going to play at all. Do we understand each other?"

"Yes," I gulped.

"Good. Take off your coat and suit jacket. Don't turn around." The arm let go.

"Greg..."

"Do it or you're sleeping in your fucking car tonight." A less-than-subtle jab with the cane told me he was serious.

Stuffing the keys in my pocket, I shrugged out my coat, feeling his blue eyes cutting through the dim light, watching my every move. He was in his apartment, his comfort zone, in complete control and loving every second of it. I was going along just to see how far he was willing to take it and how far I was willing to go with him. I remembered the way he kissed me in my office and licked my lips.

My coat and suit jacket were barely off when his left arm reappeared around my neck. The clothing fell to the floor in a crumpled heap as I was dragged backward until there was a thump of Greg hitting the door.

"You had all sorts of plans for me," he said, his voice low and gravelly. "But you forgot who's in charge around here."

Instead of answering I just leaned back and relaxed in his grasp.

There was a soft clunk as he hung the cane on the doorknob, then my friend's other arm slipped around my waist. His beard was scratching my neck all to hell, purposely, he knew I wouldn't be able to cover it up tomorrow.

"What were your plans?" he asked in that gravelly voice as his hand left my throat and ran through my hair. "How were you going to seduce me?"

"Jesus, Greg..."

"All those years you surely thought of something..."

"I had a few ideas."

"Dinner and candlelight? That sounds like you." He chuckled and I heard some genuine enjoyment and affection in it. "Take your tie off."

"No," I answered just to see how he would react.

"Take your fucking tie off or I'm taking it off and gagging you with it."

My wine-colored silk tie joined the heap on the floor. Greg's long slender fingers fumbled at my shirt buttons.

"Jimmy, do you see any goddamn candles around here?"

"No." I don't know where the candle idea came from and I really didn't feel like arguing about it.

The unwatched television continued to play away in the unoccupied living room.

"That candle shit may have worked with your wives, but I'm hardly your fucking wife."

"No, you're not."

After the fourth button or so he stopped, pushed the collar open, and lightly traced those long fingers up and down from my neck to my sternum, relishing the fact it was driving me absolutely insane. Barely touching my skin yet it felt white-hot.

My breath hitched.

"Your pulse is racing, Dr. Wilson."

"Oh God..." I gasped, closing my eyes.

"My my, it doesn't take much to get you going. You're wives never did this for you, did they? I can tell just by looking at you."

"No, they didn't." It was the truth.

"You like this, don't you? Say it."

"Yes, I like it."

"Say it again."

"Greg, please, just–"

"Twelve years and three marriages, Jimmy. You've waited this long, you can wait a little longer. Now say it." He kissed my neck just needle me even more.

"Yes, Greg. I like it."

"Of course you do. You're not ready to go off like a bottle rocket because you're lying. Turn around."

In the soft flickering light I could see that self-satisfied grin and laser-beam gaze. He was still dressed in the same rumpled shirt and jeans from work that always looked like they had been slept in for two days.

"You're cute when you're all hot and bothered," he said, the grin never wavering.

"And you're a bastard," I told him, leaning into the door where he was still standing.

"I've been called worse."

"Are you happy now? Did you get what you wanted?"

"What do you think?"

Grabbing the scruff of his t-shirt and yanking him forward, I replied, "I think it's my turn."

I kissed him hard, finding his tongue and tasting bourbon.

For this first time that evening he shut up.