When he knocked on her door, exactly at seven, Alice slid the salad bowl into the fridge and headed for the door. She straightened her black ballerina-style skirt and made sure her stretchy black blouse was arranged correctly before opening the door. As he took a step inside, she wasn't quite sure how to greet him, uncertain what level of intimacy they were up to. He solved the problem for her, leaning in to give her a soft kiss on the lips before presenting her with a white box.
"Uh, thanks," she said, surprised. "What is this?" She turned and began leading him back into the kitchen. She needed to hide her blush as well – she was very pleased that he hadn't made an effort this time: no tie. The marl-grey t-shirt and pastel-blue shirt over jeans that hung from his hips was exactly that effortless stylishness that she'd first admired.
"Open it and you'll see."
Alice figured it could only be something from a bakery – it had that look and a slightly wobbly weight inside it. For a moment she wondered if he'd brought some elaborate thing made of jello as a joke. She put the box down on the kitchen bench and opened it, smiling at what she found inside.
It was small, somewhere between a cupcake and a full-sized cake, with chocolate icing and sprinkles pressed into the sides. "Happy Birthday" was written in beautiful script across the top and two letters, "un", had been added in front of "Birthday". The baker had obviously tried their best, but the "un" was so clearly an after-thought it was hilarious all by itself.
She laughed. "Thank you. It's the best un-birthday cake I've ever had."
"But not the first," he asked shrewdly.
She thought about lying, a little white lie to protect his feelings, but she had a sense that he'd not only know, he'd be more offended by the lie than by the truth. "No, not the first. But definitely the best. It makes me want to start with dessert."
"Good, me too."
He dipped a finger into the icing, coating it with sprinkles and what looked like cream from the middle of the cake, holding it up to her face. Alice knew exactly what she was expected to do. She couldn't deny the jolt of pure lust that shot through her, adding to the ache she'd been living with since the night before, but the whole idea of sucking cake off his finger was so clichéd. And, she had to admit, felt like she would be handing over a whole heap of power with just one gesture, letting him set their direction.
So she decided to change the game.
She pulled the neckline of her blouse low, revealing the top of one breast. She took his finger in one hand and painted herself with the cake and icing on his finger, tracing a trail from her collarbone to the lacy edge of her bra, looking into his eyes the whole time. At first he was surprised, then his eyes sparkled with amusement, and he looked down, following the line of icing over her chest.
"You're all sticky now," he said mischievously.
"So it seems."
He made no move to lean over and lick up the icing. She made no move to clean up his finger.
They stared at each other for a while, a battle of wills over something so minor, Alice began to wonder if they'd be stuck in the kitchen forever, unable to move until the other gave an inch. Finally he broke away from her, stepping out from the personal space he'd so thoroughly invaded.
"So, what's for dinner?"
He walked over to a counter on the far side of the kitchen where Alice had set out a bottle of merlot and two glasses. He picked up the bottle and began opening it, acting for all the world as if it was his place, his kitchen.
Fuck, Alice swore silently. Last night, and now this. If she was a guy she'd have had blue balls by now. She gave an annoyed sniff; she had a feeling she'd lost that round somehow, and now she was going to have spend the entire evening with icing over her chest. But she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of wiping it off.
"Cassoulet," she answered, trying to sound nonchalant. "With a green salad and some herb bread." She went to the oven to check on the meal.
"Cassoulet? The French thing that takes hours to cook?"
"Uh, yes. I . . . didn't exactly make that bit by hand, so it's only got to be reheated. But I got it from this great little gourmet food store. It's always good."
"Cool."
Alice expected some kind of lecture for buying take out and was surprised when it didn't eventuate. But then she realised that was just conditioning – Stuart would never have eaten a pre-made meal from a deli, no matter how good it might be.
House walked over to her and handed her a glass of wine, clinking his glass against hers once it was in her hand. His cake-covered finger had left a sticky fingerprint right in the middle.
"Take some more wine," he said.
Not many people would have picked it as a Carroll line, but Alice knew that bloody book backwards. That and it was a nonsensical thing to say in the first place given he'd only just opened the bottle, so it kind of stuck out. He'd replaced the Mad Hatter's' offer of more tea with wine.
She smiled. "I haven't had any yet, so I can't have more." She thought that was about right.
"You mean you can't have less. It's very easy to have more than nothing," he quoted back.
He'd stepped right into her personal space again. He seemed good at that. Alice swallowed hard. The subtext of his little quoting game was not lost on her.
"I want more," she said quietly, not meeting his eyes. She was simultaneously disappointed in herself and relieved as the words left her mouth. She had no idea why she was fighting the almost overwhelming desire to throw herself at him. If she had her way, they both would have their underwear off in the next three seconds. But Alice wasn't the surrendering type. Not to other people, and not even, it seemed, to her own desires.
She hadn't taken a sip, but he took the wine glass from her hand and set them both down on the counter. He proceeded very, very slowly to pull her into his arms, a hand on her lower back to ensure their bodies connected. It was as if he was deliberately drawing out this little victory over her. Then, without closing his eyes, he lowered his head and kissed her.
As a writer, Alice had a good vocabulary and she understood the dictionary definition of what it meant to swoon: to feel suddenly faint from overwhelming excitement, adoration or infatuation.
Yep. She'd have to inform Webster's. It was definitely all of those.
Alice wanted to hurry along his slow, languorous kissing, but for some reason her mouth wouldn't respond to her commands and so she had no choice but to allow it to happen at his pace. She wrapped her arms around his back, holding on to him for balance more than anything, and let him kiss her.
After a while he pulled back and Alice could feel his gaze on her face, but her eyelids felt too heavy to open. Then, like a peace gesture, a little compromise in their battle, she felt him lower his head and lick the icing trail from her chest. Alice drew a shaky breath as his tongue flicked over her skin, and wondered absently if it was possible to orgasm from kissing.
He'd just finished cleaning her and had begun to nuzzle at the lace top of her bra when the buzzer on the oven rang out, letting them know that their dinner was ready.
It was like a bell ringing in a boxing match, and Alice realised that she'd just lost round one. KO'ed completely. But, there were still more rounds to go, and Alice was nothing if not a fighter.
She took a deep breath, mentally sent strength to her wobbly knees, and unpeeled her fingers from their hold on his surprisingly hard and muscled back. It took every ounce of reserve that she had, but she pulled away from him, put a bright smile on her face and then took a long gulp of wine.
"So, dinner's ready," she said, proud there was only a slight waver in her voice.
He frowned at her. "Dinner?" He seemed confused and Alice had a little dart of pleasure at that; he'd been affected by their making out, just as she had.
"Yes. You know, food? Cassoulet? Salad? Nutrition? It's important apparently. Gives you energy. You might need some."
He chuckled and leaned against the counter, picking up his wine glass and taking a drink. He made no effort to hide the not inconsiderable bulge in his jeans and Alice felt the answering slickness in her crotch as she moved over to the oven and bent down to take the pot out.
She wasn't even vaguely hungry. But by God, if it killed her, she was going to sit there and eat this meal and show him that he wasn't quite as irresistible as he might like to think he was.
And then she was going to rip his clothes off and fuck him into the next century.
She pressed the salad bowl into his non-cane hand and, taking the cassoulet and their wine glasses, led him into the dining room where she'd already set the table.
"So, how was your day?" she asked, once the food had been served and they'd begun eating. It was a crappy question, but she wanted to force things back to a level just below molten-lava-hot and small talk seemed like a good idea.
"Fine." He talked, easily, about a patient he was treating, telling her a little more about his practice and the three fellows who worked under him. He was sarcastic and insulting about his colleagues and Alice thought that with that attitude he just might be able to make it in the world of journalism.
He asked her about her day in return, and she told him about the dairy industry research she'd done and about how she didn't think the story was going anywhere. He was actually interested, not just pretending, and asked some insightful questions about her research methods and approach to writing.
The meal passed pleasantly and relatively quickly, Alice thought, given that at every mouthful she stared at his lips, or at his hands as they used the cutlery, and had to keep adjusting herself in the chair, feeling so sensitive she felt she might come if he so much as breathed heavily in her direction.
She remembered what he'd felt like last night, pressed against her, and in her hand, and although that thought made her take in a quick breath, it also reminded her of what had happened.
She put down her knife and fork. "How's your back?"
He gave her a cheeky grin. "Pretty colours."
"But it works? You're okay, not injured?"
"Bruised, but otherwise okay. Your conscience can be clear."
"That's not what I was worried about."
"No?" He cocked one eyebrow in question.
"I just wanted to be sure you were . . . match-ready."
"Ah." He wiped his lips with a napkin and then pushed away from the table slightly. "So is it finally time to stop playing and start playing?"
"Fuck yes." Alice hadn't meant to sound quite so desperate, but at that point didn't really care. She thought seriously about launching herself across the table, swiping crockery and cutlery out of her way as she went, but decided that might be a little melodramatic. Instead, she stood, held out her hand and, once he'd risen and clasped her hand in his, led him straight down the hall towards her bedroom.
"I'm taking no chances tonight," she said and she could hear the determination in her voice. "We're doing it in a bed and you're not leaving until you've shagged me senseless at least twice."
"I like a woman who knows what she wants."
"No you don't," Alice answered promptly. "But tonight you don't have a choice."