Author's Notes: Thanks to sweetysauce, Guest, Guest, Raquel9, huddys, Guest, grouchysnarky, Abby, ParijanTaiyou, CUDDYownsPPTH, Gemilh, Alex, Alana, IHeartHouseCuddy, and gemdevisine for taking the time to read and review. I appreciate the encouragement you've given me to continue on with this story. This chapter is set during the events of "It's A Wonderful Lie." Given the nature of this fic, this chapter includes sexual situations.

Disclaimer: the characters aren't mine.

Darker Inclinations
Chapter Five: Waiting For You
By Duckie Nicks

It takes considerable willpower to hand the case over to his team. She knows he'll be interested in treating this patient; it's not a matter of the problem being too easy for him to solve. But that is precisely the issue for Cuddy: he'll want the case, and until it's solved, it will be all he thinks about. He won't think about her.

Knowing how childish and pathetic that sounds, she forces herself to let go of her reservations. She can't withhold patients from him, so that she has his undivided attention. That would be more than just a little absurd. So she takes the case to his team and distracts herself from Saturday's inevitable cancellation by doing her own work. Predictably though, by the time she truly focuses on her job, House comes storming into her office.

"Gold-digging wench," he accuses obnoxiously, shutting the door with his cane.

She doesn't look up from her paperwork. "I take it you've read the memo I sent out this morning."

"Checked my email before I left for work. Fifty dollars?" he asks with dismay.

"It's –"

"You better be prepared to earn that," he warns.

She shakes her head. "That's not how this works, and don't argue. You have a case." He should leave, but instead he steps forward, sits in the chair across from her. Finally, she looks up. "I said you have a case."

"I heard you."

"Then you're still here because –"

"I'm not finished looking at your breasts."

Cuddy takes the segue to her body and uses it to her advantage. "Saturday will come soon enough," she tells him, knowing that saying that will elicit reassurances from him.

"Saturday's a long ways away. Show me some nipple."

"No." He looks like he's about to object, so she asks, "Does this mean you're still planning on coming over on Saturday?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"You have a case."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, boss." In spite of the sarcasm, he doesn't seem offended. "Knowing that you're my reward for curing my patient will make me that much quicker. You have nothing to worry about… although if you'd like to remind me what's at stake, I am more than willing to drag you into the bathroom and –"

"Don't talk like that when all it will amount to is teasing."

"It's not teasing if I'm more than willing to do what I say."

"You can't," she reminds him.

"Okay. Then I guess I'll get started."

He stands up to leave, but Cuddy motions for him to sit back down. "Not yet. I –"

"I'll be there on Saturday."

"We'll see, but actually, what I was trying to say is that I think your team is trying to celebrate Christmas. Someone's been redecorating your office." He looks at her, the boredom obvious in his eyes. And though she's been hoping to get to her point a little more gracefully, she knows he won't play along long enough for that. She tells him immediately, "You said you were getting me a Christmas present."

"Get to the point, Cuddy," he says in that rough voice that makes her wet.

She shifts uncomfortably in her chair. "I want to know why."

"Because I think it's necessary."

"But why?"

He seems confused, asks, "You need me to explain why people give gifts to one another? Really?"

"Just tell me."

"You've been irritated that I've spent my time focusing on Wilson. This seems like an easy way to demonstrate that I can think of you as well."

With anyone else, the explanation might have seemed sweet. With House it sounds like anything but kind. His voice is cold, the words precise, and the logic behind them simple. There's nothing romantic, nothing endearing. He's being honest, but somehow that's hardly any comfort.

"You think presents are the appropriate way to show –"

"Don't make it sound like I'm trying to buy your affection," he says sternly. "We both know you give me that for free." When that's not enough to convince her, he explains, "There's nothing underhanded about it. Gifts require thought and consideration. I buy you some piece of crap, you'll know that I don't know you or worse that I don't care about you. I give you something nice, maybe you'll consider believing me when I tell you that I do care about you."

Cuddy sighs, shakes her head a little. "I know you do."

He doesn't challenge her, though she knows she has given him reason to doubt her honesty. Relaxed, he says, "Then let me demonstrate that that belief is well founded."

"Okay," she half-whispers. "So… does that mean I have to get you something?"

"Nope."

"But if I don't get you a gift, are you going to take that to mean that I –"

"I really don't care," he tells her, the fact that he's over this conversation more than apparent. "And I won't be offended if you don't, because we both know you have it in your power to make it up to me. Or should I say that I have it in my power to make you make it up to me. Doesn't matter. Bottom line: it's your choice. But I should warn you now that if you get me something I don't like… well, it's your ass, isn't it?"

She swallows, cautiously asks, "Are you telling me this because that's your plan? Or are you just saying those things, because you want to leave and you know that it turns me on and I'll make you leave right now because of that?"

"Why can't it be all of the above?"

"Okay," she says with a nod. "Go to work."

He hesitates. "We okay?"

"Yeah. Go treat your patient."

By the time her office door closes behind him, she has decided a gift is necessary. Right now he doesn't care, because he wants to see what his case is about. But in a few days, when the newness of his patient has worn off, he'll fixate on her and the choices she makes. She's banking on that; she wants the attention. Possibly making him think that she doesn't care about him is not something she wants though. She needs him to see that she is invested in this relationship working, in spite of all the reservations she's had… has. If he's hoping to prove his commitment with a gift to her, she doesn't see why she can't do the same. It seems so easy.

It quickly becomes clear that it's not. Once she decides to embrace the idea of a present, she realizes she doesn't know what to get him. His tastes are obvious and yet unclear. He loves music, specific artists, and more importantly, precise records. Although she's tempted to go to his apartment and see what he has, the fact is only he knows what's missing in his considerable collection. Anything she buys him has the risk of being something he doesn't want, doesn't need.

With six days remaining between now and Christmas, Cuddy has enough time to find a good gift. Even if she takes Saturday out of the equation, she still has plenty of time to consider what she wants to get him. But none of those available hours will coincide with when she's at work. It just has to be that way. So she puts House out of her mind and returns to the task at hand.

Days later however, she still hasn't figured out what she wants to do. She decides a book is the safest choice. Some obscure medical tome would be easier for her to pick out than a record she has no clue about. But she hasn't found the right text yet, and with Christmas quickly approaching, she worries she won't find what she wants. And with Saturday looming over her, she knows she's running out of time, knows that House is.

She's only seen him once in the last few days, briefly in the clinic. She's heard he's become obsessed with his patient's apparent refusal to lie, seen first hand that he's equally fixated on denying her the money she's demanded for the nursing staff. His patient is still dying, and his attentions are on trivial issues. Without even discussing it, she knows it means he's bored with the medicine. He's distracted. It will take him longer to solve his case.

When Cuddy finds him in his office Friday night, she is aware of the state of things. But she's not there to yell. He expects her to when she slips into his office. He makes that clear in the way his body straightens defensively in the Eames lounge he's currently sitting in.

"Relax. I'm not here to tell you to do your job," she says, nudging his feet, so she can sit on the ottoman and talk to him.

"I'm waiting for test results," he explains, not that an explanation is necessary. "And I'm thinking."

"I have no doubt of that."

"My team is boring me," he confesses. As he says this, his hand slides off his lap. His arm dangles off the chair. From the door, a person wouldn't see anything, because his hand isn't visible. But she can feel his fingers on one of her legs. He starts to stroke her.

She doesn't move, but all she can think is that this is so dangerous. His team could walk in at any moment….

"What are you doing?" she asks quietly.

"Touching something that belongs to me." But quickly after, he reassures her, "It's late. No one can see me, and I've got my eye on the door. If my team heads this way, I'll stop. Or you can stop me now with one word."

She shrugs, sighs. "No, it's okay." She doesn't have the energy to refute his logic.

He stops anyway, brings his hand back to rest in his lap. "You're here, because you think I'm distracted, but I'm not. I'm used to having a team to weed out. This seems kind of boring by comparison, but the whole 'I don't lie' thing is kind of interesting. I guess."

"It's been days. If you haven't caught her lying once, I don't think you will."

"So I've been told." His irritation is proof that she's not the first to tell him this. "And that doesn't strike you as odd?"

"Maybe, but… I honestly don't care either way."

He doesn't seem surprised by that. "You're tired. You should go home."

"I will. But I was thinking, maybe you shouldn't come over tomorrow."

There's probably a nicer way of stating it, a smoother method of getting to the point. She doesn't feel like hedging – not with this. It's difficult enough to admit that he needs the day to treat his patient and she to find a gift for him. She doesn't have it in her to say it in the appropriate way.

"I can do two things at once," he says calmly, not offended by her suggestion, not welcoming it either. "We don't have to cancel."

She wants to believe that, but she doesn't. "House, you don't want to be with me and have to leave. I don't want that. More than that, as much as I'd like you to spend time with me, I know that you would be blame me if something happened to your patient while you were with me."

He shakes his head immediately. "That's not true."

"It is," she insists calmly. "I'm okay with that. We both know that there will be times when our jobs take precedence. This is just one of those instances."

He hesitates to agree with her. "If I say okay… you won't twist this to mean I didn't want to be with you, right?"

"I'm the one suggesting we cancel. It's all right."

"Fine. I won't come over. When do I see you next?"

"I don't know." She tries to think of a good date – something that's far enough away to give him time to solve his case, something that's close enough to keep her from going insane.

"I don't work on Christmas."

She frowns. "I do. But –"

"Call in sick."

"I'm not doing that. The clinic will be swamped. You know that. And I was going to say that I'm not scheduled to work on the twenty-sixth, because I agreed to stay through the twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth to oversee the –"

"The twenty-sixth it is then," he says abruptly, cutting her off. "Spoiler alert: I'm calling in sick."

She looks at him with dismay. "You can't –"

"It's already done."

"Then you'll have to work the clinic on Christmas for a few hours."

He rolls his eyes but doesn't protest. "Fine."

Having bought herself another day to find his present, she is in a good mood then. She even goes so far as to ask kindly, "Want to talk about your case?"

He shakes his head. "You should go home."

"Are you sure?"

"Yup."

"Okay." Without even thinking about the ramifications, she leans forward and kisses him. She senses his surprise in the way he tenses and cranes his head back a little. For a brief moment, she thinks he'll get over it, return the kiss.

Instead he gently pushes her away. "You're not thinking this through. Go home."

She knows he's right. The need to kiss him is always there, but if she's given into that desire at work, he's absolutely correct: she hasn't thought it through.

"I'm sorry," she says immediately. "I shouldn't have done that."

"I am irresistible. It's understandable."

She smiles but doesn't laugh. "I'm gonna go."

"Okay."

"Day after Christmas?"

He nods his head, and she leaves, not entirely pleased to have tomorrow to herself. She uses the hours to look for something for House, but she hates that this is happening at all. He could be here. He could be spanking her, having sex with her. But instead he's at work, and she's looking on the Internet for a gift she doesn't want to give him.

No, she corrects as soon as she thinks it. It's not that she doesn't want to buy him a present; that would be overstating how she feels. She just wants him. That he can't be here is maddening in and of itself. That she has to spend the time away from him thinking about him, what he wants, adds an extra element of torture to the next few days. Every time she asks herself what he wants, she can't help but fantasize about the most obvious desires he has.

They have.

She makes herself wet imagining him above her, driving himself into her repeatedly with enough force to make her cry. She pictures him spanking her, humiliating her, even degrading her at times. That shouldn't be as hot as it is, but there's no denying the power the thought has over her. She can't pretend it doesn't make her want to touch herself until she comes repeatedly. And each time her thoughts take this turn, she has to war with herself to focus on the task at hand. Although he hasn't forbidden her from masturbating (the idea of which makes her scoff), she has chosen to wait for him – for his hands, his mouth, his dick. Somehow abstinence seems more intensely satisfying than giving her body what it wants.

By the time it's Christmas, she can barely stand it. In the end, she purchased a first edition text from 1701, which details the medical uses of opium and includes, apparently, one of the earliest English descriptions of drug addiction. And with the book carefully wrapped and sitting on her dining room table, she no longer has even that small quandary to occupy her mind. She has work and him; that's all she can think about, and it goes without saying that the former does little to distract her from the latter.

There is a brief reprieve from him, in the form of House abandoning his clinic duty. He's successfully diagnosed his patient, so why would he stick around? She lets him go, knowing that he'll leave even if she forbids it… especially if she forbids it. He has to, to be honest. It would be suspicious if he stayed. In any case, she has seen him treat the same young woman in the clinic at least twice this week, and every time he leaves the room with her in it, he has a smile on his face. He doesn't notice Cuddy when he does it, but she's certainly not blind to what he's doing. If she lets him leave, she's willing to put up with the extra work to avoid being a witness to his obvious flirting. So that's what she does.

Given what he's been doing, she thinks she shouldn't want him as badly as she does. She should want to slap him, not scratch her nails down his back and nip at his neck while he screws her. But all his behavior does is make her want to remind him as roughly and harshly as possible that he won't get anyone else to do what she's willing to do with him. Thankfully, her job forces her to focus (at least a little) on something other than how long it's been since they've had sex.

When she finally manages to leave work however, she's tired and irritable. Her sexual frustration is beginning to turn into outright agitation, partly the result of his behavior, mostly the product of her own exhaustion. It's not that late. Having been at the hospital since Christmas Eve, she thinks it should be ten or eleven o'clock at night. But it's only a little after seven when she gets out of the hospital.

She drives home carefully, not letting her desire to lie down affect her speed or the choices she makes. It's icy out, the ground covered in a dark, unattractive sludge from snows past. Tired though she may be, there is a need to be safe. She is aware of that. The cold air helps her stay focused on that fact, and she's able to make it home without issue.

The second she pulls into the driveway, she sees his bike. He's not on her front porch. It irritates her, the way he just lets himself in whenever he wants. As she gets out of her car, she feels the annoyance ripple through her. But when she goes inside the house, she has no desire to get into a fight with him. In fact, she has no interest in talking to him at all. Even though she sees the light in the kitchen on, she purposely ignores it and heads to her bedroom. Without even changing, she lies down.

A minute later, House is getting on the bed next to her. "You didn't come say hello."

She doesn't open her eyes. "I thought we said the twenty-sixth," she mutters into her pillow.

"We did." He strokes her cheek. "But then I thought after a long day, you might like to come home to a hot meal and someone who –"

"Was flirting with that woman in the clinic," she interrupts. She thinks she sounds angrier than she is.

"What are you – oh," he says, clearly remembering who she's talking about. "The prostitute." His hand on her cheek, he can no doubt feel her jaw clenching. "Trust me, if I touched her, you would know. She came to the clinic with contagious ecthyma. She's currently playing the Virgin Mary in a nativity scene. She's not bad actually if you ignore –"

"Wait a minute." She's tired, and she hopes she's not understanding him right. but part of her knows that's not the case. "You saw her in –"

"She was in the clinic. She handed me a flyer. You know better than anyone how hard it would be for me to resist the irony of that. I had to see it for myself." She scoffs at the idea that he was forced in any way to pursue this woman beyond seeing her in the clinic. "It doesn't mean anything," he insists. "I'm here. Did you even notice what I did?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Doesn't matter," he says dismissively. His fingers glide along her cheek down until he's touching her throat. "It's your mouth I'm going to come in later. You have –"

"You're not coming in anything."

"Don't be an idiot. Did I find the hooker interesting? Yes. Was there a single second that I thought 'Well, I have an extremely hot and amazing girlfriend, but this prostitute with the sores seems like more my type'? No. You're the only person I want to be with."

That alone is probably enough for her. But he doesn't leave her forgiveness to chance.

"I can see why you're unhappy with me, but if you knew how much I've been thinking about you…." He leans over and kisses her hair. "I gotta tell you: I was really looking forward to Saturday. How could I even consider someone else when all I've been thinking about is all the things I wanted to do to you? Want to do to you."

She doesn't say okay or apologize for her reaction. She believes him, she guesses, but there's no point in making a big deal of forgiving him as though this has been a real fight. "Did you say you were making dinner?" she asks, changing the subject.

"I am."

"Do I have time to sleep a little bit?"

He nods his head, strokes her hair. "You do. You're going to need your strength."

What he means dawns on her slowly, but he elicits no response from her. Seemingly unable to move, she quickly falls asleep.

When she wakes up, she's cold, confused, and hungry. Before she glances at the clock or even sits up, she fights with her clothing to take it off. Her skirt digs into her skin. Her bra is askew, one breast no longer in the cup. Eyes closed, her fingers work impatiently to free herself. When that doesn't work, she finally gets out of bed. Now, she can undress easily, and only once she's naked does she glance at the clock. She barely slept for a half hour. As she picks up her discarded clothes and puts them in the dirty laundry, she gauges her own energy level and realizes she didn't need more than the thirty minute nap she got. She's groggy but awake. A quick shower later, she's more than ready for whatever House has planned.

That's why she hesitates to get dressed. She'll be naked soon enough; it seems silly to put clothes on only for House to take them off her. Out of habit, she pulls on a pair of black leggings and a cream-colored sweater anyway. She figures it would read as desperate (although not unappreciated) to leave the bedroom naked, so she gets dressed. But knowing what will happen, she doesn't bother with underwear or bra. He'll just take it off her soon enough, and again, the gesture will be one he enjoys. After combing through her hair, she heads out of the bedroom to find him.

He's in her living room, on her couch. And across from him, standing in the room, is a Christmas tree. She stops in the middle of the hallway to take it in. The modestly sized pine has neat rows of white lights threaded through the bright green branches. Round, red ornaments stand out against the backdrop of the tree, and Cuddy isn't sure how she missed the festive sight when she first came home.

"You got a tree?" she asks in surprise, crossing the distance between House and herself. "How did I miss that?"

One hand holding a glass of red wine, the other reaches for her. As he pulls her onto the couch next to her, he asks a question of his own, "Do you like it?"

She nods her head slowly. Having never celebrated Christmas, Cuddy hadn't imagined there would come a day where she would. There had never been a desire to do Christmas, as evidenced by the fact that she always worked on the day. Curling up next to House, she guesses that if this issue had come up in the past, if a boyfriend wanted to celebrate, she would have; she was proud of her Jewish heritage, but she wouldn't have minded respecting her partner's beliefs. And yet that situation had never arisen, because she can't remember ever being with someone at this time of year.

"It's nice," she admits. "I didn't realize it could be so peaceful." Her legs tucked under her, her head ends in his lap. If he minds her damp hair against him, he doesn't say anything. His hand just starts to rub her shoulder and back.

Immediately he notices. "No bra?"

"I didn't see the point if you're going to take it off soon enough. No underwear either."

"You're not serious." But even as he says it, his hand is sliding down to her ass. As though he's searching her for weapons, he pats her for some sort of indication of a panty line. He doesn't stop touching her when it becomes obvious there isn't any underwear to feel. His fingers simply slow down, linger along her crack. "You are serious."

She's not sure why she notices it then – the book on the coffee table in front of her. It's been right there the entire time, but she's been focused on the tree. Now she sees it, her present to him opened.

Her eyelashes flutter shut as though the truth will be easier if screened behind her eyelids. Picturing the words she wants to say, she tells herself to remain calm, to not give into the inexplicable anger she feels over his behavior.

Opening her eyes, she says carefully, "You opened it."

"I got curious. I was going to rewrap it," he confesses. "But you woke up before I had a chance to –"

"Why would you do that?" The question comes out okay – a little irritated but not so angry that it escalates the conversation to a full fight. She manages to undermine herself though when she rolls over onto her back. The abruptness of it makes her seem more pissed off than she is.

The impression has House revealing the truth instantly. "I didn't think you were going to get me anything. The way that conversation went, it didn't seem like you were interested. So I didn't think about it until I saw the gift. Then I realized that it would be a problem if I didn't like it."

"There would not be a problem," she says, rolling her eyes.

"You would be upset that you hadn't gotten it right."

"That's not a problem."

"I want you to be happy," he says plainly. "So I opened the present. I wanted to be prepared in case I hated it, so that I could lie to you and –"

"And I want you to be honest." She wants to laugh at his reasoning but doesn't. "I would rather you say you hate it than – and since when do you care about hurting my feelings?" she mocks. "You think I'm so fragile that I can't handle you telling me that you don't like something I gave you?"

He sneers at her description. "You were taken aback when I said I was going to get you something. You felt pressured to respond in kind. You didn't have time to search for your gift carefully. You were already mad cause of the non-virgin Mary. If I hated the present, I don't think it's much of a stretch to think that that would piss you off."

"As opposed to opening the gift beforehand. That was going to make me –"

"I freely acknowledge I could have handled this better."

"Acknowledge but not apologize."

The fact that she won't let the matter drop is painful for him to accept. By now he must realize that saying sorry is necessary. Even if she's not that mad, it's important for her to hear him do more than admit his mistake. He knows this… but it takes him a minute or more to muster up the courage to say, "I'm sorry for opening up the gift before you gave it to me."

"Okay." It's enough for her.

"That's it?"

She smiles, reaches up, and strokes his cheek. "Do you like the book?"

"I do," he says enthusiastically. "I'm amazed you could find something that old in such good condition."

"Learn anything useful?"

House seems distracted. It's intentional, of course, so that he can say, "You're not wearing underwear; my brain is somewhere between your pants and your pussy, so I –"

"You're hopeless."

She sits up to kiss him, but just as she leans into him, he says in a gentle voice, "Thank you."

"I'm glad you liked it."

He bypasses her mouth so he can touch her neck with his lips. "Want your present?" he asks, kissing her.

"I thought this was." She gestures to the tree, but she also means the dinner he has cooking. If that's not the gift, she's unsure what is – and why he's felt the need to take on all of this extra work.

"No. That was a last minute thought after…." He doesn't finish the sentence.

"After what?"

"We already discussed where I was today. You really want to talk about that again?"

"No." He doesn't say it, but she realizes he means the prostitute. He saw the woman outside of work and then he went to the store to buy the tree and the dinner.

Cuddy doesn't suspect an affair. If he cheated on her, he wouldn't lay proof of remorse out in such an obvious manner. And his curiosity for this prostitute has taken enough time away from what Cuddy has been dreaming about for nearly a week. So when she says she doesn't want to talk about it, she means it. "No, I don't."

"Good, because nothing happened. Nothing will. If you want to keep wasting your time worrying about something that will never occur –"

"I said I didn't."

There is a moment of tension between them. The topic clearly irritates them both, guaranteeing that they will fight if they keep discussing the matter. The thing is, although she keeps bringing it up, she doesn't want to ruin the mood. She doesn't want to be caught up with doubt and suspicion and the fear that he has no idea how powerful this relationship is for her. But his behavior is foreign to her. His nonchalance is unnerving.

"Why is this so easy for you?" she asks, changing the subject without transition.

The question surprises him. "Easy?" He shakes his head. "You're confusing calmness with ease. I'm no better at this than you."

"It doesn't seem like that."

"You make fewer mistakes than I do. Perhaps if the situation were reversed, I thought you were flirting with another man for instance, you would see I'm not any better equipped at this than you are." She mulls over the sentiment, her silence immediately putting him on guard. "I would advise against testing that theory," he warns.

She offers a breathless, light laugh. "That's not what I was thinking of doing."

"Good."

He's utterly serious, and seeing the possessiveness in his eyes, she feels better. If he wants her that much, it makes her think that this incident has been unintentional on his part.

House seems to pick up on her relief, because he's ready to get back to the point at hand. "So… you were about to earn your Christmas present as I recall."

"Earn?" She raises an eyebrow in disbelief. "I thought the point of a gift was to give it without –"

"Not this time."

"I didn't make you earn your present."

"Not my fault you can't keep your gift hidden before it's time to –"

"That's not fair."

If she inadvertently sounds childish, he has no problem intentionally copying her tone. "Poor Cuddy. So mistreated."

She isn't moved, doesn't back down. "I want my gift. I've already earned it."

He isn't put off by her petulance. She realizes then that he's right: she has confused calmness with ease, because she can see that nothing she's doing is making him outwardly upset. The obnoxious man she knows at work is, in the end, very good at ignoring attempts to get a rise out of him. But at the same time, she knows him well enough to understand that he is not happy. Not exactly anyway. His features remain relaxed, but the disapproval wafts off of him like an overwhelming cologne.

Most of that is purposely dramatic. There might be a tiny part of him that hates how she doubts him, but most of what he's showing her is intentionally faked nonetheless.

Before she can even react to it, she feels an arm curl around her waist. "You know for a second there, I thought maybe, just maybe, this time by yourself would make you want to behave," he says in exaggerated disappointment. "But I must be wrong about that."

"I'm not doing anything," she lies, knowing it will get a reaction from him. It's hard to explain why she wants to do that, why she enjoys it as much as she does. Nevertheless, this is what she wants – to push him until he's compelled to react.

"I see. I leave your pussy empty for a few days, and you forget how bad this can get for you." If he's trying to intimidate her, he fails. It's the last straw for him.

The arm around her forces her to roll over onto her stomach. Hands under her armpits, he pulls her until her ass is over his lap, and before she can even pretend to fight, he's yanked her leggings down to her thighs. "You can let me know when I've re-jogged your memory."

He doesn't give her a chance to say anything. Even if she wanted to tell him that she's remembered, there's no opportunity to. This is as much a punishment as it is a reminder.

The first smack on her ass is particularly hard. She hasn't been spanked in a while (or at least what feels like a while), and she's not prepared for how much it hurts. An inkling of arousal skitters through her, but that doesn't negate the pain. He slaps her again, so forcefully this time that she can feel the heat spreading through her bottom. After the third spanking, when the surrounding flesh jiggles from the blow, she's tempted to say she's had enough. She keeps quiet.

When he spanks her for the tenth time, she begins to feel her body crave the next slap. It hurts, and yet she feels drawn to the pain and the heat. Still, the very next time his hand connects with her butt, she starts to cry. She didn't even realize she was that close to tears until she can feel them slipping over her cheeks. And then, as the pain spreads through her once more, she breaks.

"Stop," she cries.

He pauses. Unsympathetically, he says, "Tell me what I want to hear."

The words are mumbled. "I remember. I remember."

"Good." But he doesn't let her up. If anything, he uses a hand to keep her exactly where she is. She wants to ask if he's done, but that won't make things any better for her, she knows. "Now let's make sure you don't forget."

Though she doesn't fight, her instinct is to do so. In the interim, the pain has receded to a dull burn. Her pussy has just gotten wetter. And now she doesn't feel the need to draw this punishment out; she just wants to move on to the part where they have sex. But they don't act on her timetable here. At work she can demand whatever she wants from him, but he is the one in charge of their relationship. She has given him that control freely. Ignoring her initial reaction, she will continue to allow him control.

That doesn't stop her from speaking however. "How much more?" she asks, knowing exactly how he plans on making sure she won't forget.

Predictably he answers, "However many I want." He punctuates the thought by spanking her again, reminding her why she wanted him to stop to begin with. But in the same stroke, he also reminds her why she wanted this kind of relationship at all. As painful as it is (and it does hurt, given how hard he is hitting her), it feels right.

It's what she wants… even when it isn't.

The heat spreads to her thighs. Within a few slaps, she's crying again, but she doesn't ask him to stop. And he doesn't. He hits her over and over, each smack making her want him more, makes her wetter. Her clitoris begs to be touched. Her body craves his on top of hers, his dick inside her. But he just keeps spanking her.

The pain and pleasure mix together. She's no longer sure how many times she's been slapped. After a certain point, the ache is such that she can't distinguish when he's spanking her and when his hand is drawing back. It all hurts. It all makes her want to come.

She waits for the next time he'll hit her, but just when she's ready to beg him to continue, he stops.

"On the floor," he orders, pushing her off of him.

She nearly falls to the ground. Only because she's so close to it already is she able to slide off the couch with any ease. But that's not good enough for House. He smacks her ass one more time to get her attention.

"Move. Over there." He points to an open spot on the ground near the Christmas tree.

Her leggings dropping to her knees, she crawls to where he wants her. Her ears are filled with the soft sounds of him slipping his pants off.

"On your back," he demands.

She hesitates to listen however. Although it's clear what he intends to do and that is something she wants, the fact is: her backside hurts. She's not sure she wants to place her ass on the floor.

But he takes her reluctance as resistance before she can explain. He does not approve. Quickly he stalks towards her and grabs her by the hair. Jerking her head to look at him, he gives her a chance to see his irritation.

Snidely he asks, "Have we not learned our lesson?"

"I don't want rug burn," she explains.

He shoves her head away from him. Turning around he grabs the afghan off of the back of the couch. Unceremoniously he drops it onto the floor for Cuddy to crawl onto. This time she doesn't wait for the order to listen. She knows what he wants. His erection makes that perfectly clear.

As he eases himself to the ground, she slowly turns over onto her back. In the back of her mind, she thinks they're getting older. But that thought is completely erased when her ass makes contact with the scratchy blanket.

She knew it was going to hurt, but she's still unprepared for how intensely her bottom stings. Instinctively, she wants to turn over to alleviate the burn. However, she doesn't dare. He'll punish her if she does. She'll look weak if she does. Most importantly, it will prolong the amount of time before he has sex with her. That's not something she's willing to accept.

Besides, after a few uncomfortable seconds, the ache recedes. Her body gets used to the feeling, and it's not so bad. Pulling off her sweater, she notes that part of her is disappointed that the sensation is already escaping her, like he never did it at all. She's tempted to ask him – no, to provoke him for the punishment to be drawn out longer (she'll never ask). But he'll know it's what she wants, and then he'll simply take his time with that. Since she wants her gift (not to mention sex), she isn't interested in delays.

He senses her enthusiasm, clearly, because he smiles and asks, "Aren't we eager?"

"I didn't say that."

The back of his index finger runs along her slit, his knuckle easily becoming coated in her juices. "You're practically drooling on the floor. You know, if I'd known you got this wet from being spanked, I would have started doing that a long time ago."

"Funny. I always assumed you would get off on that," she tosses back at him.

As though she isn't naked in front of him, he disagrees, "No you didn't."

"You're not that complicated or mysterious, House."

"Then you're an idiot," he tells her as he shifts his body on top of hers. Slowly pushing his dick into her, he says softly, "You could have come to me years ago for this."

"Believe me," she says breathlessly. "My biggest regret."

Even though she manages, it's hard to think of a response when he's inside of her, touching every inch of her warm cunt. The extra weight on top of her forces her ass against the ground harder, and with each thrust, the ache returns. It's a delicious reminder that makes her want him more. But House isn't in a hurry. His pace is steady but relaxed. His hips push against her roughly enough that their bodies make fleshy sounds every time he drives himself into her fully. He's taking his time though. He's giving her only enough pleasure to make her want more.

Part of her understands why he's taking his time. She remembers what he's promised her; he plans on having sex with her every way imaginable, and so she supposes he needs to pace himself. She wishes he wouldn't.

And he knows it. Oh, she has no doubt about that. But he just takes his time anyway. When she tries to push her hips up against his to meet his thrusts, he sags against her intentionally. He continues to fuck her, but now, she has no means to speed this along. He's too heavy, and so she's forced to stay in this space where she's close but not close enough.

He bows his head and pulls one of her nipples into his mouth. Frustration doesn't make the sensation any less sweet, and she moans in delight. His tongue laves over the sensitive flesh until it's formed into a tight bud. Then he traps her nipple between his teeth and lightly tugs. If she could move against him, she would arc her back and call his name at that moment. Since she can't do what she wants, she presses the back of one of her hands against her mouth to silence herself.

Although his face is buried in her chest, he manages to see this. Immediately he lets go of her nipple, and one of his hands grabs hers, forces it away from her face. He changes angles and hits a spot within her that nearly makes her come right then and there. With his next thrust though, he seems to steer away from that part of her. She's not sure how he manages to do it. She's tight, and he's big, but somehow he has enough control to know exactly how to keep her from orgasming.

"You're... an asshole," she pants. He kisses near her mouth but again denies her what she wants by never quite giving her that deep kiss she's looking for.

"Oh am I?" he taunts.

"Yes." The answer makes him slow down even further until he's barely moving inside her. Her muscles tighten around him, trying to maintain the level of pleasure that was there only moments ago. But it's impossible to be as satisfied as she was. "Stop doing that."

"Okay." And he pulls out of her completely, rolls off of her entirely.

If it weren't so infuriating, Cuddy would be amazed at the level of self-control on display. Since it is absolutely pissing her off, she's not impressed in the slightest. "What the hell are you doing?"

He's lying on his back, his cock still hard and now dripping pre-cum and slick with her juices. He puts a hand behind his head and relaxes on the ground like he isn't erect. She hates him so much when he says, "You told me to stop."

"That's not what I meant," she snarls when she sits up.

"No?"

She crawls over to him and straddles him. With a hand on his chest to hold him down, she grips his cock and then quickly sinks down on top of him. Before she can move, he tells her patronizingly, "My, you do need a dick inside of you, don't you?"

She has nothing to say to him about that. If there's a jibe she can make right now, it's the last thing she's looking for. In a way, this was probably his plan all along, Cuddy suspects. He would never ask if she missed being with him. He would force her to show him. Even though they have barely been apart, he would want to see. And she has no reservations about giving him what he wants.

It doesn't bother her that when she starts moving against him, he's smirking back at her like what a predictable and good little toy she is. She knows that by the time she's done with him, he will be the one shouting her name.

Unlike him, she doesn't go slowly. Her hips raise enough so that only the tip of his dick is in her, and then she sinks down on top of him once more. She shows her body no care or concern, but she doesn't need it. Her pussy couldn't be wetter, and when she gets a good rhythm going, nothing else is more important than that. She just wants him so much in that moment.

When his hands rush to her hips to bring her down on his cock with added force, she knows she has won. He may like to pretend that he is above wanting her in the frenzied way she has shown she wants him, but that act can only last for so long. Self-satisfaction is quickly tossed aside in favor of focusing on what she's doing.

She feels the feverish pull within her after a few long minutes and begins to chase after it. Her fingers eventually press harshly into his chest. It's this little bit of force that makes him ejaculate deep within her.

He thrusts up against her erratically. Initially, the shift in depth and angle is unwanted. If she weren't so close to coming, it would be fine. But now he's actually making it more difficult for her, which is, to put it mildly, unappreciated. He clearly can't help it though. As he gives himself over to the orgasm coursing through him, one look at him proves that he's completely unaware of the effect he's having on her. That just irritates her further.

She rocks against him dominantly, forcing him to give her what she wants. It takes him a few seconds to come back to her and realize what she needs. When he does, there's no hesitation on his part. Immediately, his thumb meets her clit and, fingers splayed against her mound, begins to rub her in insistent circles. Finally, finally, with everything just how she wants it, the need inside of her grows until she has no choice but to come powerfully.

She tries to make the mindless pleasure last as long as possible. But eventually, she stops bucking against him and allows her body to press softly against him. Her head on his chest, she closes her eyes momentarily. Her internal muscles contract at erratic intervals, and she can hear her own heartbeat pounding in her ears.

She should move off of him, she realizes after a minute or two. His penis is softening inside her, and their bodies are sweaty, uncomfortably so. He's bristling beneath her like he'd actually prefer she get up. And she will… just not right this second.

House is surprisingly tolerant of the closeness he doesn't really want in this particular instant. His hand sweeps through her hair, brushes it off the back of her neck. His lips eventually find the top of her head, and he presses a few kisses into the dark strands. If he wants her to get off, he isn't making it easier for her to do so.

In that moment, her jealousy seems so petty to her. Truthfully she's felt that it's always been. But his affection makes that fact even more potent.

Part of her whispers then that if she moves, she'll get her Christmas present sooner. It's an unconvincing argument however.

The only thing she wants is here, beneath her.

To be continued