A/N-this is just a silly two-shot, something light while I'm writing my more serious fic. This one is my story for Season 4, no depth here, but I hope it's a fun read anyway.

I'll post the next chapter of Newly Renovated Friday/Saturday, since work is killing me.

***Disclaimer-This fic contains adult situations. I do not own any of the characters of House, MD.

-Fingertips-

"Finished with Robeson. He's alert, significantly less green and no longer oozing blood all over your hospital," House announced as he invaded Cuddy's office.

"Fantastic," she answered indifferently.

"No…pat on the back or 'nice job' or 'god, House, you look good today in that tie'?"

Cuddy looked up for a moment, more to scoff than to see if he was actually wearing one. "Made you look," he taunted.

She grimaced and returned to her paperwork. "What do you need? I have a lot to do."

"It doesn't look like you have a lot to do."

Cuddy's office looked just a little bit too orderly. Sure it was always neat, but the pile of papers was gone from her desk, except for the few sheets directly under her pen, and it looked like she was getting ready to leave. Her briefcase seemed fuller than normal though. "Leaving for the weekend?" he asked suspiciously.

She put her pen down and leaned forward on her desk, bracing on her elbows, "Do you need me for something? I just want to get out of here at a decent hour for once."

"He must not be very interesting if you're bringing paperwork."

"Who?"

"What is it? Is it a performance issue? Maybe he's just boring and hideously ugly?"

She closed her eyes and shook her head, "What are you talking about?"

"You're going away for the weekend, so there must be a new guy. But you're bringing work, so he must have one of the defects I just mentioned. Which one is it?"

"His primary defect is that he doesn't exist. There isn't a guy. Or a weekend away. Can't I just want to avoid this place for one weekend while still finishing my work?"

He tucked his lips into his mouth as he thought, making a small popping sound before he spoke, "I find it unlikely."

"There is no guy. Thank you for reminding me of that exciting fact. Just a weekend away from work. I might see some colleagues. Do I need to ask your permission first?"

"Sounds good. Get me a file with information on these so-called colleagues and your tentative schedule, and I'll get back to you in the morning."

"Good job with your case. Now go home, do…whatever it is that you do. Enjoy your weekend, House."

He tapped his cane on the floor a few times and said, "OK," as he stood. He limped slowly to the door and turned back, "You're up to something, I know you are. I can always tell."

"Nothing that would be of the slightest interest to you, I promise," she replied almost sadly as she picked up her pen and returned to the few remaining papers. "Have a nice weekend."

"You too."

House exited Cuddy's office to find Wilson waiting. "Boxing tonight? Beer and Pizza?" Wilson offered.

House looked around, "What about Amber?"

"Working."

"What's Cuddy up to tonight?"

"How should I know?" Wilson answered. "It's the weekend, maybe she's seeing friends or family. Or maybe she started jello wrestling every Friday night. That seems like something she'd be into."

House stared at Cuddy's door, shaking his head.

"I have a night off…a Friday night…and you want to worry about Cuddy's plans? Would you please just ask her out?"

"How is my interest in a coworker's well-being a sign that I want a date? Exactly which part of that means I'm secretly interested in-"

"Secretly?" Wilson interrupted.

Cuddy's door flew open and she didn't look like the relaxed but secretive person House had seen moments earlier. She looked frazzled and frustrated. "Where's…" Cuddy began, pointing at her assistant's desk, "where's…whatever her name is?"

"It's almost six," Wilson responded, "like most sane people, she's probably gone, enjoying her time off."

"Great," Cuddy said, looking back at her own office worriedly.

"What do you need? I can help, I have the evening free."

Cuddy walked toward him for a second, and then looked at House before looking back at Wilson, "You know what?" she said, "you guys go enjoy your weekend. Have fun."

She quickly retreated into her office, decisively clicking the door shut.

"You have no idea what's going on?" House asked Wilson.

Wilson shook his head, "None."

The friends walked toward the front door, House obviously distracted by every unknown that hung in the air. Wilson was talking, trying to convince House to enjoy a boys' night. Wilson thought House was convinced until two staffers dressed in business attire and two members of the facilities crew rushed to Cuddy's office.

House paused a few feet away from the lobby door. He grinned when he saw Thirteen and Kutner walking toward the exit, mistakenly believing their weekend was about to begin. House stopped his fellows before they could leave, "In a few minutes, four people are going to walk out of Cuddy's office. Thirteen, you follow the guys dressed in blue jumpsuits. If they split off, pick whoever's uglier. Kutner, follow one of the other two, I don't care which one. Find out what Cuddy has them doing, then call me."

Thirteen and Kutner both began to hesitate, but House's look left them little room for question. He went to the elevator. "Where are you going?" Kutner asked.

"Wilson's office. Make sure they don't know that you work for me. Call me when you know something."

Cuddy had been looking forward to this weekend for quite some time. A number of women in positions similar to hers were getting together to discuss strategies, relax and network. A friend of Cuddy's was hosting at a nearby hospital, but the room they requested was needed for a doctor who was visiting to lecture. Her friend's request was simple, "It's a teaching hospital, Lisa, surely you must have classrooms. Can't you host it? I'll send my caterer, you just have to give me the space."

It was a big job, but she knew she could handle it. Cuddy worried for a moment about House, but decided the worst that could happen was that he would see her car at the hospital and call her pathetic for working on a day off. It would be fine.

Saturday morning, everything looked perfect. The group would meet in a small auditorium that Cuddy often used for meetings when she had to address her employees. There was podium, comfortable seating, and a space across the back for refreshments and handouts. She was looking forward to not being the center of attention, to having other people run the meetings and be responsible for the show while she just watched. After nearly an hour, Cuddy found herself yawning. While the presenter's topic was interesting, the presenter herself had no gift for public speaking.

Cuddy was barely paying attention to the presenter at all until the woman at the front of the room said, "Can I help you, sir?"

"My boss asked me to be here. She wants me to gain a good understanding of exactly how difficult it is to be a female in a position of power. She's doing a segment later about conflict resolution and she thought she might want me to chime in."

Cuddy closed her eyes, she honestly hoped that if her eyes were closed long enough, it might all go away. She knew the voice, she knew exactly what was happening, but she knew it had to be a dream. Tightening her eyes more fully, she waited. She hoped, god she hoped.

The speaker said, "Who's your boss?"

"She's right there," House said, with his most eager voice.

Cuddy turned, "You don't have to be here, go enjoy your weekend."

All eyes, probably thirty or forty pair, were on her.

"She's always like that," House nodded, "trying to help her employees maintain a healthy work-life balance while she work, work, works. Hopefully all of you won't mind making an exception for a man who really wants to understand."

Cuddy rolled her eyes and whispered to herself, "You have got to be fucking kidding me."

Several of the women smiled at him, and then looked at Cuddy. He made his way down the steps and located her aisle, disturbing the entire row so he could side-limp over to her. She sat up toward him, whispering, "What do you want?"

"Move over one seat," he requested, "or move your stuff."

She looked at the seat next to her, at her packet of materials, and she lifted it, assuming he would walk away rather than attend a meeting. He maneuvered past her, sinking into the seat. "Please continue," Cuddy told the speaker, "I'm really sorry for the interruption."

The speaker began and Cuddy leaned over to House, her thin top brushing against the cold smoothness of his leather jacket, "I'll let you out of clinic duty for a week as long as you send one of your fellows in your place. Is that why you're here?"

When he did not answer, she turned and his face was right next to hers. He was looking ahead, but whispered, "I think I'm starting to like clinic duty. It's a break in my routine where I can really help people."

Cuddy's jaw clenched and she spoke through her teeth, "Then what do you want?"

He turned slowly, speaking with quietly warm clarity, "Could you please keep it down, I'm trying to listen to our presenter."

Over the next two hours, the same speaker droned on, and eventually House started to mutter comments. At first Cuddy scowled, complained and admonished, but as time went on, he was getting funnier, and she found herself smirking and trying to hide blurted giggles. She shifted back and toward him, initially to hear him better, but once she was there, she settled in the back corner of her chair. He was leaning in as well, just a bit, his elbow propped behind hers on the armrest that their chairs shared. She could hear the movement of his jacket when he would shift in his seat in the seconds right before he would whisper something else.

Cuddy was having a good time, she could not deny it. She was anticipating this day would be a pleasant one for several weeks, but for entirely different reasons. House, the very man she should be spending the weekend complaining about with other administrators, was the reason that she was having a good time. She turned toward him at one point, and he expected her to unleash her anger for one of his ruder comments, but she shifted closer and quietly mocked the presenter's last suggestion. House smirked his approval for Cuddy's efforts.

He looked like he rolled out of bed moments before showing up. He was still unshaven, his clothes were wrinkled, but he smelled like he just stepped out of the shower, a scent that was blue, crisp and inviting. When the break came, she was talking to a few other women in attendance and realized her shirtsleeve smelled like him.

He disappeared for a moment during the break, but when she returned to her seat for the second speaker, House was waiting for her. He pulled off his jacket and folded it over the seat in front of him.

She had told him many times that rules were in place for a reason. There was an agreement they had reached ages ago, an unspoken deal that dictated that a couple of centimeters of space remain between them at all times, yet it seemed to not apply in this circumstance. Their armrest was shared and their voices needed to be heard, a fact that necessitated close discussion. They were pushing the elasticity of the agreement but had not blazed over it. Each would have a defense, if they wanted it. She could feel the fault was his since he was the one to crash her meeting, but he could reassure himself that she was the one who actually broke the treaty.

Their proximity was strange and unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. She enjoyed the flutter of excitement, the feeling of being near someone who could provoke such a response. Few people flustered her. During the next break, she should have stood, but she stayed in place and, to her surprise, he did too. She turned, looking directly at him, their faces were uncomfortably close but neither would back away. "I'm doing a session this afternoon," she said as he stared at the subtle movement of her lips.

His eyes returned to her pupils, "I know, I saw the agenda when I arrived."

His elbow was still on the shared armrest, his arm outstretched and his hand resting on his knee. Her elbow was still in front of his.

It was then that she made her move, her treaty-shattering, blatant, bold destruction of an old and respected agreement. She held this world-changing power in the tips of the fingers of her right hand. Her left elbow still in place on the armrest, she turned toward him a bit more in her seat, and her right arm crossed in front of her, her fingers coming to rest on his bare forearm where they remained even after they both acknowledged there was a touch. She tilted her head and said, "What are you going to do? Is this some power play or you merely want a chance to humiliate me?"

House didn't look down at her hand because it was so vivid that he could see it without looking at it. He could feel each of her fingers on his forearm. When he closed each of the fingers of his hand as he thought, he could feel the way her fingers shifted along the narrow, fluttering muscle in his arm. "Hunh?" he scarcely managed to speak through his confusion.

"While I'm speaking, are you planning on humiliating me?"

Her hand still remained over his forearm, her thumb pressing against his skin. There had been touches throughout time, they obviously couldn't prevent it completely, but few were voluntary and purposeful, and of those touches that were both voluntary and purposeful, very few were maintained beyond a few seconds.

He smirked and reclaimed his composure, remembering that he had the upper hand, and shook his head, "Not really planning anything."

"Really, what do you want? Is this about the clinic or time off or more fellows? Is this simply a negotiating tactic?"

He still couldn't move beyond the feeling of her touch and the persistent need to figure out why she was doing it, and even more so why he was allowing it to continue. She had already deposited the metaphorical quarter into the slot so he felt compelled to play the game. He leaned closer, his nose so close to her face that he almost traced her jawline, but he kept the smallest sliver of air possible between their skin, and then his lips paused with equivalent closeness to her ear. "I'm not sure."

"What?" she asked, turning her face only the slightest bit closer and she could actually sense the slightest scratch of his stubble along her cheek.

It was faint, enough to make the touch feel itchy but not enough to provide that pleasantly rough scratch. She looked down for a moment, realizing that the last time they had been this close for so long was when they screwed each other senseless on a night that was irrevocably etched into their history. Her downcast eyes settled on the thin, silky fabric of her top, and she realized that she could actually see her heartbeat in the fabric. Her pulse was rapid and rough, thumping hard enough to send a reverberation from in her chest to her breast, thereby making the fabric covering her body twitch. A bit of intensity built, something anticipative and exciting, and then she realized that this circumstance, like so many between them, was just like the faint touch of his beard. They were encouraging the perennial itch between them through their proximity, but there would never be any resolution, no contact firm enough to really scratch at the surface of their tension.

"I'm not sure what I'm up to," House commented, looking down at the way her fingers curved to follow the shape of his arm. "I thought I was up to something, I knew I could gain something from this, but right now I don't care about the clinic or anything else I can bargain for."

"Then why are you still here?" she asked with curiosity but without derision.

"Lisa, do you want to do your piece of the session first?" the speaker asked.

"Sure," Cuddy answered, still facing House.

House cleared his throat with a moment of seriousness and then he smirked evilly, "Good luck."

She went to the front of the room after the break, occasionally glancing up at him. He realized as she went on that he won already. She was nervous and awkward in a way that only he noticed, she was on high alert, waiting for him to attack. She didn't settle into complacency as the presentation continued, in fact, she grew more nervous, because she had no idea when or where his attack would take place. Her slightly nervous fidgeting, the way she walked around too much on the sexy stilts she called shoes, the way her fingers fiddled with themselves on the podium, or in front of her stomach, the way her eyes moved casually but frequently to see what in the hell he was doing. He felt an awakening twinge, a sharp but fortunately fleeting jolt of arousal when he imagined her nervous, dancing fingers tickling and pressing at her sex while she thought of him.

He imagined that parts of Cuddy wanted nothing whatsoever to do with him beyond a professional association. He was also, in moments, completely convinced that she wanted him with every longing fiber of her being in a way that she probably hated. He easily imagined her cursing herself through the fading pants of an orgasm that she gave herself while thinking of the things she knew he wanted to do. He refused stubbornly to allow his eyes to leave her body for even a moment.

He was quiet during the whole of her presentation, and then, during the question and answer segment at the end, he raised his hand. She wished that he just would have interrupted or called out, because she didn't want to have to actually select him to speak, but as she answered all of the other questions, the women near the front were politely reminding her that he had a question or comment.

His hand was raised high in the air, refusing to drop even when someone else's question was being addressed. It was ridiculously pronounced, his long, masculine arm in a sea of femininely attired participants. Finally Cuddy dropped her head to the side and her hands flashed out by her hips, acquiescing to the fact that he was not going to surrender, "You have something to say, Dr. House?"

"I do," he said, loudly and boldly acknowledging his intent.

He turned in his seat to look around the room and she was certain he was going to tell them all something that was going to horrify her, and she only hoped that the claim would seem so bizarre that they'd all think he was crazy.

"I used to be one of those difficult employees," he said with overly acted sincerity, "but using the same methods that Dr. Cuddy just described, I eventually learned."

He went on for an inordinate amount of time, leading her at several moments to think that the painful part of his disclosure was on the horizon, but a painful moment never came. In fact, the women in the room were silently nodding, congratulating Cuddy for her brilliance and patience, respecting House for his enlightened view on female bosses and his love of avoiding tension.

The ass actually said that their collaborative working environment avoided and reduced tension, knowing fully that Cuddy was a beautifully graceful ball of frustrated concern. When he was finished, he nodded at Cuddy. His speech was filled with the most outrageous lies. No one was there from PPTH, except the two of them, so who would know that House was anything but a model employee. Some of the women in the audience bought the entire act, some were mildly skeptical, having heard of his antics but imagining that maybe Cuddy had found a way to tame him.

As fallacious as his speech was, it did nothing to damage her, her standing or her image. If anything, he made them both seem like geniuses of human behavior. At the same time, he won, enjoying the heightened state of awareness and fear that he drew from her.

Cuddy was surrounded by colleagues who were congratulating her, asking her for advice or to come speak at their places of business. She subtly flinched each time one of them suggested that she present with House by her side. She also heard the morning presenter loudly ask House to return the next day to provide a professional male's perspective on gender roles and sexual harassment in the workplace. When Cuddy looked up at him, he smirked proudly before accepting the invitation.

When Cuddy finished with her colleagues, she returned to their seat and noticed that House was gone. She had no idea how to feel because nearly every feeling she had about House was accompanied by an opposing feeling. She knew she was both relieved and sad that he was gone.

Everyone else had left, she was alone in the room that seemed to echo with emptiness, gathering up the final few things that she needed. She was on the phone, giving instructions to the facilities team for the next day and as she hung up, she heard the sound of heavy glass making contact with the table top behind her. She turned, startled and nervous, and looked at what was placed there. "A successful day," House commented, "you must be proud."

Cuddy picked up the bottle that he left on the table and read the label, "Applejack? You drink this stuff?"

"I was awed by your teaching. It's a traditional token of appreciation for a teacher."

"Apples…people leave apples, not booze that was made from apples," she corrected, smiling.

"Well, when I used to bribe my teachers, I needed something better than a fucking piece of fruit," he said as he reached into his leather jacket and produced two slightly smashed white cone-cups from the water cooler.

First breaking the seal on the lid of the bottle, then pushing the smashed the cups into shape, he poured them each a drink and handed her one.

She looked at the cone-shaped cup and said, "I can't really put this down. Did the entire hospital run out of flat-bottomed cups?"

"Fat-bottomed what?" he retorted. "You don't need to put it down. Work is done and it's a Saturday night. So stop doing stuff and drink your token of appreciation."

She rolled her eyes and took a sip. The beverage was strangely intense for a drink with the word "apple" in its name, but at the same time it had a touch of apply sweetness.

House sat on the table at the front of the room as she leaned an elbow against the podium.

"Why didn't you threaten to fire me?" he asked. "I had a captive audience, I obviously had you on edge the entire time you were speaking. So why not threaten to fire me if I didn't leave?"

"Because you already knew I wouldn't," she responded after finishing her drink.

"I don't know that."

"I think you're reasonably confident. You have done things far worse than crash this meeting and you're still employed. Plus, as much as you think I'm not good at dealing with people, I really am. I know that goading you, making idle threats or trying to push you would only have escalated the situation."

"I think you're good at dealing with people," he said, holding the bottle by the neck to offer her another drink.

"One is enough for me."

"Go slower on this one, this is a sipping beverage. You'd know this if you were cultured like me."

"Sorry I'm not as refined as you," she said, holding out her cup while he poured her another drink.

"I can't hold people up to my standards."

"What are you doing here…drinking with me? What do you want?" she asked as she scooted up on the table.

"You always think I want something."

"I just don't understand your current behavior. Your visit to class. Your presence here now. I can't figure it out."

"By doing nothing today I probably stressed you out more than if I actually did something."

"I don't think that was your intention when you showed up."

"Maybe I didn't have a plan," he countered.

"I have trouble believing that. With you there's always a hidden agenda or a game or a trap."

"As for tonight," he said, ignoring the accusation, "I came in so we could discuss what an enlightened male I am, a feminist really."

"Feminists don't stare at their boss' ass," she scoffed loudly into her paper cup.

"Perhaps you don't know the right feminists. Anyway, I wanted to go over the talking points for the sexual harassment seminar."

"Going to give them tips on how to objectify and harass their bosses?" she teased.

"Technically you're the one in a position of power. And I don't like the way you look at my cane. I'm the victim."

"You really have an amazing ability to spin your stories to suit your needs. How is it that I'm harassing you when you tell people you fantasize about me in the shower or…use my underwear as part of a ridiculous reality show."

"Further proof that I'm a feminist. I fantasize about you in the shower in an attempt to avoid fantasizing about you at work. It's the high road."

Cuddy smiled and shook her head, feeling a bit of the warming tingle of alcohol, "So you fantasize at home so you can get it all out of your system before coming to work?"

"Get it out of my system? Interesting choice of words."

Cuddy put a hand up, "OK, fine, so you can…keep your head in the game."

"That one might be worse, are we talking euphemistically here?" House said, half interrogating, half smirking.

She shook her head, "You're going to find an opportunistic interpretation of anything I say."

"Very likely."

"Does it work?" she asked frivolously, continuing their friendly back-and-forth.

"Does what work?" he asked as he downed a Vicodin with his drink.

"Can you mentally compartmentalize your fantasies so that you only have the ones about your boss when you aren't at work?" she questioned, still playfully.

She was swaying her feet from her spot atop the table, relaxed and calm, and then he answered, seriously, "Not really. Actually not at all."

Cuddy's legs stopped swinging and she looked at him, fully expecting some sort of counter from him that would cut her down or completely ignore the question. Suddenly she could hear the valves flapping in her heart and feel her thoughts swim rudderlessly in her brain, "No?"

"It's like trying to quit drinking when you play five nights a week in a bar. And one of the really good drinks actually walks around in front of you wrapped in inviting labels."

"Do you mind?" she asked.

"The drinks in inviting labels?" he asked, continuing the metaphor.

"Yea," she nodded subtly.

"It's one of the few reasons to come into work instead of solving puzzles over the phone from my bathtub," he joked bluntly, breaking the fragility that hung in the air.

"Regardless of who's in what position or who says what, I guess as long as the interaction is not unwelcomed there's no harm," she stated, reminding him that she had never told him their flirtation was unwelcome.

He could see the fingers of her right hand, just the tips of them as she held the paper cone cup. His mind began to obsess on the feelings of those fingers on his arm a few hours earlier, of the strange disruption in their no-contact protocol. The touch was too long and too friendly and in no way seemed to be prompted by a professional impulse. Watching her fingers curl more securely around the cup, he waited while she brought the drink to her mouth, and a small, satisfied smile crossed her lips. "That's enough for me," she said, balling up the paper cup and throwing it toward a trashcan, missing the target when it went just a little too far.

She hopped down to retrieve the errant bit of garbage, threw it away and then stood next to him, facing the table. She tapped the table with those same rule-breaking fingertips and she looked in House's direction to wait for whatever he was going to say. He was even taller than normal because he was sitting on the table, but that did not stop him from lowering so that he could touch her lips with his own.

She froze as she felt any spaces that separated their lips disappear. He backed up a bit and it looked like he wasn't breathing yet, she knew she wasn't breathing. His head shook only slightly when her fingertips met his jaw and she encouraged him to lean back to her. For a millisecond, their eyes searched each other and then the hesitation was gone. As soon as he was close enough, he felt her nudge open his mouth and he could taste her. He could taste the apple on her tongue, sense her so close to him, feel those fingertips along his face and neck and smell the scarce scent of her remaining perfume.

He was bent down from his seated position on the table, his one hand spreading open between her shoulder blades, the other pausing at the smallest point on her back. She was reaching up to him, trying to get closer to him. Neither broke the kiss, ignoring the irrationality of their positions because they were finally kissing and Cuddy was situated warmly between his knees.

She stopped suddenly, taking two steps back to lean against the wall while she quickly ran her fingers through her hair and tried to look poised. House was confused about her sudden departure until he heard the noise behind then, the doors at the back of the space opened and a youthfully masculine voice asked, "Do you want me to lock up, Dr. Cuddy?"

"No thanks, I'll get it," she responded.

"Are you sure everything is OK, Doctor?" the young man asked, looking at House.

"Yea, everything's…great," she responded, the sound of her truly nervous voice ringing strangely in House's ear. "You guys did a great job, I'll see you tomorrow."

"OK," the young man said as he left.

Cuddy walked quickly to the back of the room, pressing the lower lock shut with the toe of her shoe before she returned to where House still sat, somewhat dazed. She hurried, because she thought he'd be gone if she turned her back too quickly. "You mind leaving out this way?" Cuddy asked him, pointing to the door at the front of the room that was reserved for hospital employees.

"Sure," House nodded.

"I'm going to my office to sober up before I drive home." She walked toward the door and waited, "Are you coming?"

"Yea," he answered, avoiding her gaze, distracted by the momentary flash of interaction between them that was followed by nothingness.

"You should probably sober up before you drive too," she suggested.

"I'll be fine," he replied, pushing his body off of the table so he was standing on the floor and walking toward her.

She was in front of the door he was supposed to use to leave, but she wouldn't budge. Finally venturing a gaze in Cuddy's direction, House froze. She was looking at him, and there was another momentary impasse while they both seemed to strategize. "It would be really irresponsible of me to let you leave," she decided, even though each of them only had a drink or two.

Stepping closer to him, her expression was unmistakably resolute. He had one arm braced on his cane and the other reached over her shoulder, his palm pressing flat against the door. The rules of their interactions had been indelibly broken, so they seemed to be taking turns testing the boundaries of the new rules. Neither wanted to expose too much or make a move that would invite rejection, so their steps were measured.

She looked like she was going to say something, it definitely appeared that words were being formed in her head, but instead she kissed him. He responded, tossing his cane to one side while still bracing his body with the other hand against the heavy metal door.

They could have broken their escalation at so many points during the day. He could have been an ass during their meeting. She could have told him to go the hell away. He could have shooed away her encroaching hand. She could have laughed and walked away when he brought the alcohol that night. All of those small steps brought them to the moment when they were kissing on the table at the front of the auditorium, and even then, they had the moment when they were interrupted by a janitor who wanted to lock the door, yet time and again, they seemed to be heading back to the same spot, but a step or two closer.

She put her hands flat against this chest, moving him away just far enough to push his leather jacket from his shoulders and let it fall away from him. Her move was a radical step forward, so he made his, more certain that this wasn't a game and she was not worried or hesitating. He returned to her, winding his arms around her and pulling her against him. He was tired of keeping score and taking turns.

Turning them around, he backed her into the room again until her body met the podium and she could hear his staggered breath against her ear when his tongue traced the shape of it. He nipped and licked at her neck, allowing his tongue to find the best spots while she willingly tipped her head to the side so he could reach her.

She was startled when he suddenly lifted her onto the slanted top of the podium and stood in front of her. He was standing between her legs, his hand flat against the top of the podium and he was looking up at her. "Take your top off for me," he stated firmly, still remaining in his spot without touching her.

He was so close, he could have easily removed her top, or at least begun to unbutton it, but he watched with lusty patience while her hands went to the top button. He was mere centimeters from her body as she removed it, the same number of centimeters that had once been considered safe was at that point intoxicatingly close and far too far away. He leaned in to touch the defined ribs in her chest, tasting her skin, occasionally brushing his rough cheek against her, his hands still flat against the podium top. His chin brushed against the tops of her breasts just above the silky, navy bra, and then he finally said, "Now the bra."

She reached behind her body, slipping her thumbs under the clasp of her bra to open it and stopping. Unhappiness wrote itself across his face as he watched her hands move to the podium top near his without removing the desired article. "Your shirt first," Cuddy stated as firmly as he had made the same request of her.

He only moved away from her far enough to remove the shirt, his hands crossing over while he grabbed the fabric just below his shoulders and pulled the clothing up over his head. His instantaneous next move was to return to the spot between her legs, with his torso leaning on the podium, but he stopped to look at her. Her perfectly toned upper body that by some miracle did not sacrifice even the smallest modicum of femininity over fitness was still partially covered in the smooth bra. Her skirt was high on her thighs because it worked its way up while they touched.

When his hands came to rest again, they were not returned to the podium, his palms landed on each of her knees. In the next moment, his hands surrounded her legs, his thumbs pressing against her inner thighs. He leaned against his spot on the podium, his hands following the firm curve of her thighs as his fingers slipped under the edges of her skirt. He watched her breath quicken as she stared down at the progress of his hands.

Although her eyes were on his hands and the way he leaned closer to her, his eyes were on her face, watching her excitement. He moved his face to hers, meeting her mouth in a heatedly devoted kiss. Her attention left the meeting place of his hands and her thighs while her fingers moved along his arms, enjoying the access she was given to his body. A day earlier, she was forbidden to touch him, and that night, in the auditorium of her hospital, she was learning about the feeling of the shape of his arms, feeling the curved caps of his shoulders, and allowing her hands to experience the textures and warmth of his chest.

He moved a half-step back again, trying to remember himself, wanting Cuddy to personally remove her own clothing because her disrobing was proof that she was willing, and because it was a sight that was simultaneously beautiful and sexy. "Your bra," he demanded firmly, his hands subtly gripping into the muscles of her legs, pulling her closer to him.

She sat back, allowing her thumbs to make contact with her ribs before they slid around her body and hooked under her bra. She slipped the straps down off of her shoulders and then allowed the rest of the garment to fall forward. Her breasts were the balance of fullness and form. She smiled softly while his brain scrambled. It was startling, the difference between the lascivious glances he gave normally, compared to the look of awe, respect and excitement that he had in actually seeing her partially naked in front of him. His hands moved toward her hips and she pressed one finger to his chest. "Your turn."

He nodded, reaching for the button on his jeans. His thumb absently popped the button open and he awkwardly released the zipper because he was hard and approaching desperation, but he was staring at her on the podium, at the way she kept sliding toward him because of the slanted surface. He shook his head suddenly, overwhelmed again with need, and his hands went to the outsides of her thighs so he could push the skirt higher. It was tight, too tight, because as hot as she looked with the slightly displaced skirt, he did not want to have to fight the article of clothing for access to her body. His hands slid around both sides, searching for the zipper that thankfully slipped away easily and for some reason she allowed him to remove it.

He moved quickly, pushing her panties to the side and tasting the liquid heat of her sex while she gasped out loudly. Door locked or not, it was reckless, and the tension of her partner, of their location, the forbidden nature of everything that was happening, meant that her body was tingling with alertness, preparedness and pure want. She was immediately invested, feeling him carefully slip the panties away from her body while he continued to lavish attention on her. She moaned when he pulled away, standing up and sliding her down the podium so her body was against him. His breath stuttered with anticipation and she signaled her consent with a kiss and a twist of her hips.

He let gravity lower her body onto his while his hands guided her hips. She braced some of her weight on her elbows, leaning back against the podium. Resenting the need for help, he slid one of his hands higher to her back and pulled her torso against his. She whispered his name in his ear as her body already quivered slightly, and he closed his eyes to steady himself as the sensation of being inside her took over. Cautiously taking the two steps to the table and sitting back on it, he was relieved to switch positions without falling and injuring them both. "No more waiting," she said while she twisted her hips.

She took one of his hands, moving it to her breast, taking the lead. She looked like she was seductively dancing against him. She was not loud, but the whispers, gasps and tiny pants were out of necessity and not show, deeply erotic sounds that drove his will. He was captive to her actions, but like he did to her, she stopped as things were nearing their peak. "No more waiting," he said, repeating her words.

She sat on the table and pulled him over to her, her lips finding his shoulder as he leaned and negotiated his body to hover over her. She locked one of her hands with his next to her head, wrapping her legs around him as she gasped while he entered her again. She gazed, contentedly at first, a genuinely happy moment before she was lost in the act of seeking pleasure with him. Their lips skated occasionally against the parts they could reach, often merely breathing against each other. Her breath shook, turning into an elongated sigh and an appreciative, "Oh fuck," that destroyed his remaining restraint and had him urgently driving their bodies together to share the seconds of release that were almost always gone too soon.

They were wound together, bodies entwined on a table top that would never be seen the same way by either of them. They didn't part quickly, but after a few moments, Cuddy said, with a kiss, "We better get out of here. I don't know how the group would react to coming in tomorrow and finding us here, wearing the same clothes."

She tried to sound like she was joking, but there was an undercurrent of valid concern in her statement. They started to get dressed. She checked the time on her phone and realized that it was earlier than what she thought, so she did not rush. She looked at the podium that she addressed her staff from at nearly every staff meeting and at the employee she tried desperately to manage day-in-day-out, and she knew exactly how complicated things had gotten. Then she remembered their meeting the next day.

Her rational mind fretted, but she looked at House, who was getting dressed, looking remarkably lonely, and she approached him again. It was strange for her to be sharing impassioned sex with a person one moment, and in the next moment, wondering if it was acceptable to touch him. He looked at her, his own eyes uncertain as she realized he probably had the same concerns and worries that things could turn horribly wrong. He no longer looked as happy as he did a few minutes before and he said, "Guess that shouldn't have happened."

Acting against reason, she kissed him again, wanting him to know that, as dangerous as it was, she liked the way he made her feel, she liked him.

They could have chalked it up to a moment of passion, a temporary confusion brought on by hormones and sexual tension. It was very easy to discount the entire thing as a momentary blip in their rivalry until they were saying goodbye and a peck on the cheek became her straddling him as he slouched down on one of the chairs in the auditorium. They tried to return to normal again, and he accompanied her to her office so they could walk out to the garage together. The momentary lapse theory was destroyed again when they started fooling around on the sofa in her office.

As morning approached, Cuddy said, regretfully, "I have to go home, get a shower and get back in here before the meeting."

House nodded, again suspiciously quiet and difficult to read. When they were dressed, he kissed her cheek and mumbled, "Thanks. That was really…nice."

"It was," she smiled before they parted.

Then she had plenty of time to wonder what the next few hours would bring. She was certain he would not show at the meeting, then she worried that maybe he would and it would be awkward, strangely most of her wanted him to come. She wondered if they would still be able to flirt and argue and be them, or if the world as she knew it had changed.