A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Houseluvr, a truly encouraging and supportive friend. Thanks to her, Nikita34, and Timbereads for reading and acting as betas for this chapter. Nikita34 offered a really careful reading – thanks!

Caution:

This chapter toys with a bit of smut. It's in the form of a dream and is, I think, in character and true to the story. Because of the dream sequence, this story is rated "M" until next week, when it will return to its "T" rating.


In his dream, she's straddling him.

All of her creamy skin is on display, a visual feast. Her hair forms a curtain around his face as her tongue sweeps across his mouth, parting his lips. The buds of her high, firm breasts are swollen and dark. She grips his face in her hands forcing him to look her in the eye, recognize her feverish desire.

He's never been this hard, this big.

Above him on the bed, she grasps his cock, moving her hips so its head brushes her bush, dips toward the hot wetness between her legs.

She has tied a cloth around his mouth. It stops him from crying out.

If he could, he'd say:

I want to push your legs apart as far as they can go and thrust every inch of me inside you, penetrate you with my rock hard erection.

At first I'll go slowly, fill you while you watch.

And then I'll fuck you.

Just the word "fuck" swells his rod exponentially. He's hard beyond his wildest sex dreams, because in this dream, he's fucking Cameron.

He'd say anything to get inside her.

He'd groan, curse, shout, beg, say fuck. Fuck.

Fuck me.

He wants to touch her, to tease her clit, flirt with it using fingers, mouth, and tongue – the ball of his hand.

To pull her down until her tight hot wetness surrounds him.

To toss her on her back and dominate her with the immensity of his erection.

To mine into her cavern inch by inch by inch, and then pull back and start again – but only if she begs.

If she pleads with him, he'll forge ahead once more, and fill her up, again and again.

But his hands are loosely bound to the bedposts.


Cameron's slight figure leans against the doorframe of House's bedroom. Her arms are folded under her small breasts and her head is tilted a little to the side as she stares at her sleeping boss. She's dressed in his "Can't Buy a Thrill" t-shirt. It comes down to her knees, so she looks like an urchin.

The muted sun emitted from the blinds casts her in its glow: red highlights show in her mahogany hair. It's loose around her shoulders. She bites her bottom lip. Even a stranger could read the look on her face as one of rapt desire mixed with a bit of hope and a bit of sadness.

This she knows:

I should run, not walk, away from him, get dressed, pour myself some coffee, and make us some breakfast, then check for the newspaper and work on the crossword:

Anything but this.

Instead she moves closer to the bed. House's eyes jerk back and forth beneath his lids, so she knows he's in paradoxical sleep and probably dreaming.

Her eyes move from his face to the outline of his erection, its long, wide shape vivid beneath the thin coverlet. Sometimes she feels likes everything she sees is under a microscope. Are those veins throbbing in his penis? Is it her imagination, or is he uncircumcised?

Think like a physician, Cameron, she scolds herself, leaning her hip against the bed. Nocturnal Penile Tumescence is a side effect of REM, when the corpora cavernosa becomes engorged with venous blood --the corpus spongiosum to a lesser extent.

But the visuals have an effect. She remains in a state of arousal. If anyone studied her, they'd notice that the lobes of her ears are swollen, her nipples are erect, and her lips are parted.

Her tummy flip-flops the way it always does when she's near House. Heat spreads through her body. Her clit fills with blood, a bud waiting to unfurl.

I know what I want. I know what I want from him, she thinks.

She is so fucked.


All House wants to do when he wakes is to take care of business. His wet dream wasn't wet, and his distended shaft feels like a sperm whale about to spew.

A little Vaseline, a glossy of Angelina Jolie and some hand action should take care of that, he thinks.

And then he opens his eyes.

A barely dressed Cameron stands by his bedside. Her small frame swims in his extra-long tee, but it's her expression that captures his attention. Either he's hallucinating, or Cameron is checking out his package under the blanket like it's a landmark.

His pathological need to take advantage of finding her in a compromising position rivals his physiological need to get off.

His hand shoots out and he grabs a handful of her shirt. Color floods her face. Her eyes graze his, ablaze with more than embarrassment, although there's plenty of that.

"Are you window shopping, or are you in the market? Because I don't allow loitering on the premises."

Cameron opens her mouth to speak. A fire burns behind his blue eyes. It singes her. She remains silent, but she doesn't look away.

"It must be quite an eyeful, especially when you need a high powered microscope to see Chase's wee Willie Wonka."

Cameron tries to pull away from the bed.

"House, I,"

"Oh, don't look so modest. Not with your love juice baptizing half the examining rooms of the hospital."

"But I just,"

"Are you the only soul on earth to sleep through Sex Ed?"

"Of course not,"

"Then why do look like you just discovered the Titanic?"

"I was trying to make sure that there's one part of you that's not damaged," says Cameron, gaining some ground.

House hikes himself up in the bed so his chest and taut stomach are visible. The blanket slips a little, revealing his belly button and some dark pubic hairs.

"House –"

"What. So now you've seen enough? You're usually more thorough with your examinations. Is it damaged? Well, I'm biased, but by all means, see for yourself. Here, I'll give you a close-up of my,"

House stifles a smile as his brain accesses a lexicon of euphemisms for hard on.

My Wang Dang Doodle, my Lightning Rod Johnson, my Satellite of love, my red hot chili pepper, my one-armed bandit, my throbbing lobster, my Mister Bo Jangles, my Norwegian Wood, my cock-a-doodle-do, my hunka hunka burnin' love.

How can he pick just one?

"My Tyrannosaurus Erectus."

"Let go of my shirt," Cameron says. "Okay. I looked. Don't tell me you're surprised."

She purposefully looks down at his penis once more, and then meets his eyes.

"It's bigger than a breadbox, but smaller than your ego," she says, and she smiles at him. Sotto voce, she adds, "It's not really bigger than a breadbox, but I thought that might get you in the mood."

House cocks his head at her, flicks his eyes across her breasts, and checks out her bare legs.

"In the mood for what?" he growls.

"Our game of 20 Questions. Come on. Get up. There's coffee in the kitchen."

At the door to his room she turns back.

"What's wrong, House. Don't you want to play?"


A/N: In the reviews I've received for this story, some of you beg for smut – or at least physical contact ASAP, others have asked that I continue to develop the relationship between House and Cameron before they get physical. Here's your chance to weigh in. What do you think?

P.S. -- 20 Questions chapter should be up soon….