A/N: Hi all, thanks for your lovely reviews. This story has gone and taken a walk on the 'M-rated' side of life, so I will be changing the rating from this chapter onwards. Sorry if you put this story on alert and this is not your thing. On the other hand, if this is your thing, then enjoy and don't forget to leave me love!

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It was barely a conscious decision, but House felt almost powerless to resist. He didn't clearly remember how he'd managed to convince her to come inside with him. She stood there, in his doorway, her mouth curved in a slight smile, and before he knew it his lips had crashed on to hers and his arms wrapped around her, pulling her into him. He was vaguely aware of his cane clattering to the floor and of spinning her around so she stood inside the apartment, kicking the door shut behind them. The kiss was passionate, yet tentative, both of them seeming on uncertain ground. Funny, it wasn't what he'd expected from her. Not that he felt himself so irresistible that she would simply abandon all reason in his arms – House knew that with a damaged leg and a rapier tongue he wasn't every woman's idea of the sexiest guy alive – but she'd been so flirty over dinner, so suggestive, it was odd that now she was holding back. Still, he knew what it was to be all talk, given that he himself was prone to that, especially when it came to sex.

But his body was reacting. She was undeniably hot. It had been a long drought for him, and he hoped he could hold it together long enough to show her a good time. He pulled her tighter, his growing erection pressed into her belly, and under his mouth her lips parted slightly with a little moan. Taking it as invitation, he deepened the kiss, rubbing his tongue against hers, and she moaned again. Her head tilted back, taking him, inviting him deeper, her hands pressed into his back, and House was aware of her breasts pressing against him.

Finally, desperate to draw breath, he broke away from her mouth and looked at her. Her eyes were closed, her lips swollen, and he felt her swaying slightly, as if she might fall over if not for holding on to him. He saw her eyelids flutter, but before she could open them he dipped his head to her neck, pressing a kiss to the sensitive skin under her ear, tasting her, kissing her, nuzzling his chin into her throat.

"Greg, we shouldn't—"

He heard his name, barely a whisper, and ignored the rest. It shot a pulse of heat straight to his groin. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this aroused this quickly. It was age, he guessed, and medication, he was sure, that generally dulled his sexual senses. But right now he felt like a young man: almost painfully hard, and desperate to get his hands on her bare skin.

He reached down to the hem of her dress, ruching the fabric as his palms moved up her thighs, over the fine nylon of her stockings, the lace at the top, the creamy skin above that. She shivered and one of her hands ran up the back of his neck and buried itself in his hair.

House worked up her neck to her ear, nibbling on her earlobe. He took it into his mouth for a brief suck, aware of the solid, heavy weight of the diamond against his tongue, refusing to let himself think about what it meant. Now was not the time to start wondering if he was a better kisser than his father.

"What do you like?" he asked, his lips moving against her ear with the words.

Only someone as practiced at reading human reactions as House was would have noticed her response. She stilled, for a brief second. Her breath caught and her hands gripped tighter, but only her fingertips pressed harder, not her whole hand.

For House it was a telling moment. Not that he knew what it meant – not yet. It could be something simple: perhaps she thought he was asking for dirty talk and she didn't like that. Or perhaps her tastes ranged to the kinky and she wasn't ready to share that yet. He pulled away from her neck and looked at her. She didn't meet his eyes. No, it was definitely more than anything like that.

"I need to sit down," he said and pulled her over to the sofa.

He sat down heavily, as he always did, and she kicked off her shoes and then straddled him, hitching up her dress to reveal those beautiful legs. Her "we shouldn't" had clearly gone out the window. When she leaned in to kiss him, his hands went straight to their previous position, stroking the soft skin revealed at the top of her lacy stockings. His hands went higher, moving under her dress to cup her lace-clad bottom, tilting her hips so the apex of her thighs rubbed against the zipper of his jeans.

"Yes." Her breath caught in a desperate plea, her hands scrabbled against his chest and he felt her pick up his rhythm, pushing herself against his hardness.

He swore under his breath, the pressure was painfully wonderful, and he was again reminded of how long it had been since he'd felt like this. He knew he couldn't continue it for much longer or he'd come in his jeans like a desperate teenager – the very idea was both thrilling and embarrassing. It was time to slow things down. For him, anyway.

House took his hands away from their pleasant job caressing her butt cheeks and gripped her arms. She might be tall, but he was far stronger than her – in upper body strength anyway – and it didn't take much to pull her from his lap and throw her on to the sofa next to him. She gave him a puzzled frown, but when he picked up her leg and put it behind him, she smiled. Now she was laying on the sofa, resting back against the arm, and he sat between her legs. He twisted to face her, and ran his hands up the outside of her thighs, over her hips and the crushed mess of her dress, over her waist and up to her breasts. He was frustrated by the fact that tailored, high-necked dress did not allow any kind of access to her bra or the treasures within it, but then he figured perhaps that was a good thing right now. He satisfied himself with massaging her through the material. That was pretty good anyway.

Kitty threw her head back and sighed. She covered one of his hands with her own, briefly helping him squeeze her, before running her fingers back up his arm as far as she could reach, caressing the cords of muscle there.

House leaned back and pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee. He slowly trailed tiny kisses and little nips along the inside of her thigh, tasting her creamy skin, wondering if this would actually achieve the slow down he was looking for. He could smell her arousal, could see a spot of moisture on her panties, and he had to close his eyes before it was the undoing of him.

He brought his hands away from her breasts, needing them to support himself, and he kept going with his kisses, pressing closer and closer to her heat. You will do this, he told himself, and you will forget about the boner in your pants for just a few minutes.

As it happened, he did forget about his erection for a moment. Because as soon as he pressed his mouth to her lace-covered mound, he heard a muttered "no" and she sat up with a gasp, pushing herself away. In doing so, her foot kicked into the sofa for purchase, but slipped against the leather and ended up buried in his gut.

"Ooof." House felt the connection take his breath away. He wasn't really hurt, just taken by surprise, and as soon as he sat up and wrapped his arms around his stomach, he realised he was okay.

"I . . . I . . . don't like that." Her voice sounded small, almost childlike.

"Clearly," he said, rubbing where her foot had connected.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said, seeming to just realise what she'd done. She leaned forward and put a hand on his shoulder. "Are you all right?"

"I'll live," he said gruffly. "Next time, a 'thank you for your kind offer of cunnilingus but not tonight' would suffice."

She reddened. "I'm really sorry."

He frowned at her. "You don't like it?" House figured everyone had their personal predilections, but the violence of her reaction was unusual.

"I just—" She broke off and looked away from him, surveying his apartment instead. When her eyes returned to his, House wasn't sure what to make of her expression. "I just . . . I don't do that. So you shouldn't have to. I won't . . . reciprocate."

"What, you don't do blow jobs?"

Again, her reaction was barely perceptible, but House picked it up. She flinched at the words.

"No," she answered quietly. "I don't."

It wasn't that big a deal. On the couple of occasions he'd hired hookers it was only ever for blow jobs. He wanted to have sex with Kitty. The kick to his gut had distracted him for a while, but perhaps that hadn't been a bad thing. Pleasingly, he was still hard and still keen.

House shrugged. "Okay."

A change seemed to come over Kitty. Her face lost its vulnerability and she smiled at him, that sexy smile that had been driving him nuts over dinner. At some level, House recognised that she was putting on a mask, but then she stood up and reached behind her, pulling on the zipper of her dress, and rational thought fled. With a shrug of her shoulders it fell to the floor revealing a curvaceous body clad in a black lace bra, matching panties and those stockings that sent an extra pump of blood to his cock.

Bringing his eyes up to her chest, House could see the faint white line of an old surgical scar tracing down between her breasts, highlighting her sternum. But before he had a chance to ask her about it she straddled him on the sofa again and pushed him back against the arm, leaning in for another searing kiss. He could feel her fingers begin to work on the buttons of his shirt; the slight scrape of her fingernails against his chest was maddening. He was glad he wasn't wearing a t-shirt as well, because as soon as the buttons were undone she pushed the shirt open and bent her head to kiss his chest, licking and sucking his nipples. It was arousing both because of what she was doing and because he couldn't wait to do the same thing to her.

"Fuck," House whispered, and wound one hand through her hair. He pushed the other inside the cup of her bra and pinched an already firm nipple between his fingers, enjoying the way her full breast filled his hand, her sigh in response. Kitty stretched herself over his body and had his good thigh between hers, rubbing against him. Her movements made her stomach brush over the increasingly demanding bulge in his jeans and her fingers stroked lower on his chest, down to his stomach, circled his navel. House was almost panting in anticipation of her reaching his jeans and finally freeing him.

That was when the random thought that had been pinging around in his brain for the past few minutes seemed to reach a synapse that actually took in its meaning.

He only ever hired hookers for blow jobs.

With the lightening speed his brain usually used to make connections for diagnosing, two thoughts suddenly crashed over him.

The first was sex for money – that was what she was doing. Now he could see it: she had come to his office with the express purpose of seducing him, of roping him into the stupid PRC job and getting that trust fund by appealing to his penis instead of his brain. And it had nearly worked. Like any stupid guy, House had let himself be led around by his dick. God knew what he might have agreed to in post-orgasmic glow with her by his side.

The second thought was less concrete, more complex, and yet just as sharp. It involved piecing together lots of little facts and information he had gathered, just like he did with diagnosing a difficult patient. But the pieces fell together to form one indelible conclusion.

Kitty had been a hooker. Maybe she still was. His father had met her – had hired her, probably – and she'd become his mistress, his escort. She'd said that he'd saved her, House remembered that clearly: perhaps his father's beneficence had enabled her to leave that life behind.

House pushed Kitty off him and scrambled to sit up. She looked at him, her eyes lidded with desire, her mouth swollen, and House was nearly – so very nearly – swayed enough to leave the conversation until after he'd buried himself inside her and relieved the aching pressure of his balls. But curiosity trumped almost everything else in House's life, and right now, that included orgasms.

"You were a hooker," he accused, triumphant that his powers of deduction had yet again succeeded.

House was astonished by the play of emotions across her face. She was confused, then angry, then embarrassed. And then finally – excruciatingly – crushed. She seemed to whither in front of his eyes. House saw the tears that welled in her eyes before she blinked them away.

Without a word she stood up and gathered her dress, turning away from him to slip it over her head and do up the zip.

House was confused. "Wait a minute. I don't care about that." He paused. "Well, I care about the fact that you were about to fuck me to get half a million dollars for your stupid foundation," he corrected. Then he gave a short, bitter laugh. "Actually, I should probably be proud of the fact that I'm a half-million-dollar lay."

She ran her hands through her hair, neatening the disarray from their make-out session. She searched the floor and found her shoes, quickly twisting her feet into them.

"Wait," House said, irritated. He hadn't expected this instant reaction. Yet again, he'd spoken because he was overcome by the need to express his own thoughts, with no consideration to how the other person might react or feel.

"You don't have to worry," she said, looking at the floor. "I'll never call you again. I'll drop the idea of you being Chairman of the PRC and I'll tell the board that you have declined." Then her eyes met his and they blazed with anger and hurt. "In return I ask that you refrain from sharing your particular insight with anyone. Good night."

House's mouth worked with unsaid words as he watched her pick up her purse and let herself out. The door closed behind her with a dignified click.

"Aw, shit," House muttered. Now he wasn't going to get laid. And, even worse, now he was totally fascinated by Kitty Brecht.