A/N-This is my Season 2 fic (Late season 2, post Stacy and pre-IVF. The only season I have to write something for yet is Season 1.

***Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of House, MD.

This fic includes adult content.

The team debated as House stood by the whiteboard. He was mid-eye roll when Cuddy walked into his conference room and handed him a folder. She nodded at the team, with a look that may have represented a smile in some distant galaxy, and was nearly out the door seconds later.

"You approved?" House scoffed with horror after reviewing the contents of the folder.

"I assumed that was why it was on my desk," she answered flatly.

"You don't have any questions? Reservations? Moments of pause?"

"No, I'm trusting your judgment. Do the procedure and let me know if you need to do further testing," she said courteously before she was out the door.

House's frustration dropped him heavily into his chair and he held the folder up to his mouth, tapping his lips with the corner of it.

"You didn't want her approval, did you?" Foreman asked. "Why ask to do a test that you don't really want to do?"

"Besides the obvious, why would an apparently healthy woman start taking anti-depressants?" House continued.

Cameron picked up the patient file and quickly leafed through it, "She's on anti-depressants? That's not in the file."

"Smoking cessation, anxiety disorder," Chase suggested, leaning back in his chair so it was tipped on two legs.

"Migraines…OCD," Cameron supplied, still systematically leafing through the file to see where the information was recorded.

Foreman, hands tented in front of his face, lifted his fingers away from his mouth and added, "Sleep disorders and sometimes neuropathic pain, depending on the actual drug."

"Yea, yea. What else?" House pressed for answers.

Cameron looked at him, appearing out of suggestions, and offered, almost apologetically, "Actual depression?"

House turned and stared at the whiteboard. "Do a kidney biopsy and run an ANA."

"Kidney biopsy?" Chase questioned with disbelief.

"Is our patient on anti-depressants?" Cameron followed up.

House shook his head, "Nope. See you kids in the morning when you show me the results."

As soon as House approached, Wilson put his left arm protectively around his plate. House sat in the booth across from his friend and looked around the cafeteria conspiratorially. "Something's wrong with Cuddy."

"Still refusing you a lap dance for every hour of clinic duty? Oh, the injustice," Wilson wryly retorted.

"Have you seen that new nurse in geriatrics?" House nodded toward the food line.

Wilson turned to look at the line and House grabbed a handful of potato chips, smugly enjoying his victory. Keeping the handful of chips in his hand, House crudely ate whichever bits of food jutted out between his fingers. "Can you at least pretend to be an adult?" Wilson asked, tossing a napkin toward his sloppily eating companion.

"Something's wrong with Cuddy besides the missing victory lap…dance."

"She seems fine."

"She's frumpy."

"Cuddy is never frumpy."

House pointed toward the door, "See for yourself."

"I'm not letting you paw at my food again," Wilson warned. House continued to stare and Wilson finally relented, commenting, "She looks fine."

Distracted by Cuddy, House answered, "She's wearing that sweater again. She never wears sweaters."

"Yes, she does."

"Not like that. She wears sweaters you can still see her nipples through. In that sweater, you can't even tell if she has boobs. Or hips. I'm not even sure if it's actually Cuddy."

"Perhaps you should have spent more time over the last few years looking at her face instead of her…," Wilson dropped to a whisper, "nipples. She's fine. She's probably just cold."

"No, she started with the current frumpiness almost two weeks ago."

"I have not noted an increased frumpiness about her."

"You also spend time looking at her face."

"Hey," Cuddy said as she approached, a forced smile on her lips. She looked at House's hand, full of partially broken chips, and grimaced before shaking her head, "Cafeteria out of plates again?"

"Store out of sweaters that don't make you look like a grandmother?" House countered.

Cuddy nodded, "Well, it's been fun," before she walked away.

"See. She's not normal."

"She does seem a bit…off," Wilson answered. "Give her a few days. She's probably just stressed."

"When Cuddy is stressed she gets extra-Cuddy, not less-Cuddy."

Wilson shrugged, "I can talk to her."

"Forget it. I'll give her a few days," House said, opening his hand and dropping the remaining chips all over Wilson's tray and brushing his hands together to remove the leftover bits of salt and potato.

Cuddy stopped to refuel her car on the way home and ran into the convenience store for a few things. When she returned to her car, House was leaning against it. She was still two rows of gas pumps away and he shouted into the wind, "Do you have any idea what the side effects are with almost any of those SSRIs?"

"Your patient's depressed?" Cuddy said more quietly as she hurried over.

"In a way."

"In a way? So she's on SSRIs for something other than depression?"

"By 'in a way' I was referring to the patient, not the depression."

"Wait…what? House, hurry up. I want to go home. I'm tired."

"Tiredness is a symptom of depression."

She patted the top of the car, "What do you want approval for now? You think there's a drug interaction or a problem with her SSRIs?"

"Why would an apparently healthy, successful, well-adjusted woman need anti-depressants?"

"I don't know, House, depression can strike people who seem to have everything going for them, it's not always about being sad about something. And SSRIs are used for all kinds of things besides depression. Is she trying to quit smoking?"

"I really don't think so."

"Maybe the best course of action," Cuddy said as she grasped the door handle, "would be to ask her."

House leaned against the car door so she couldn't open it and said, "I am asking her," while he stared right through her.

"I don't know what you've been rifling through or hacking or spying on. I'm going to do you a huge favor, and pretend you didn't approach me about this. And you are going to do the decent thing, and not approach me about this again."

"Decency is so boring. I don't want favors, I want answers. Why?"

"I want to go home. I think you're having a misunderstanding brought about by the fact that you don't know how to mind your own business."

"That is possible. Why don't you correct my misunderstanding anyway?"

"I'm going home," Cuddy said as she jerked the car door open into his hip, "good bye."

Only an hour later, Cuddy sat in her living room, wrapped in her largest, most comfortable bathrobe when her phone rang. She walked across the room to pick it up and answered, "Cuddy."

"Do you have any idea what some of the side effects of anti-depressants are?" House asked at the other end of the phone.

"You just don't know when to quit, do you?"

"Never."

"What makes you so sure they're mine?"

"Oh, I know they're yours. Look at you, it's nine o'clock and you're already wrapped up in albino Sasquatch fur."

Cuddy looked suspiciously out her window, squinting at a car that could have been his. He clicked on the interior light and waved. "Go away," she said so that he could see and hear her, "sitting in your car, watching me, has crossed into creepy territory."

"You're watching me too, but I don't think it's creepy."

"You were watching me first. I'm only watching you because you were watching me."

"OK. I won't watch you from my car. I'll come in," he said as he pulled the handle and the door began to open.

"No!" she practically screamed, holding one hand out to stop him from considering an approach.

"Afraid you can't control yourself around my ruggedly masculine presence?"

The emotion left her face and he could tell what she was going to say before her words followed after a short transmission delay, "That's obviously the reason."

"Fine. As hot as the Sasquatch fur is…put something else on and then you can come out here."

"Not tonight, House," she said, reaching for the nearest lamp and turning it off, "good night."

Cuddy answered her phone as she sat at her desk. Before she could even say her name, House said, "Do you know those pills can prevent you from getting or sustaining an erection?"

Looking out from her office between the open slats of the blinds, she could see him limping his way closer. She calmly extended her middle finger, and she actually heard him chuckle as he walked through the door. Still talking into the phone, he added, "Which do you feel would be more frustrating…not getting an erection at all or getting one but not sustaining it?"

"Still a woman."

"Either way it sounds frustrating, doesn't it? I wouldn't know because I don't have problems like those, but I thought perhaps you could shed some light on the subject…from a medical standpoint."

"How's your patient?" she asked testily as he sat down and hung up his phone.

"Even if you really are a woman, the fun parts of sex can go away. Fun parts like, oh, I don't know, sensation and orgasms. I've heard a lot of women like those two things. If you allow me to do a quick examination-"

"Why are you here? Is this about your patient?"

"Are you sure I have one right now?" he looked up with one eye pinched shut while the other eye searched for an answer on the ceiling.

"Yes."

"Then I'm sure she's fine. Because if she wasn't fine, someone would be calling me about her and telling me that she isn't fine."

"Go check on your patient."

"Your mother is at your place. Isn't she?"

Cuddy shook her head while she tried to work, but finally admitted, "Yes."

"No wonder you're depressed."

"I'm not depressed."

"OK. Well then, no wonder you're on anti-depressants for no particular reason at all, right after you let your mother move in."

"She's not moving in."

"How long is she staying with you?" House asked as his phone rang. He scowled at the display before he answered unhappily, "What?"

Following House as he quickly limped out of her office, she locked the door and returned to her work.

That evening, on the way home from work, her cell phone rang and, as always, the ring sounded different even though all of her ring tones were the same. "Whaaaat?" She dragged out the question.

"What about restlessness, sleepiness, insomnia…diarrhea, nausea…"

"Your patient?"

"Adverse effects. SSRIs. Keep up, Cuddy."

"If that's all you want, I'm hanging up."

"My leg is killing me and I'm out of Vicodin," he almost whined.

"I seriously doubt you're out of Vicodin."

"I am. Can you bring me some?"

"I'm not an opiate delivery girl. Call Wilson."

"I tried, he's not picking up," House said as he put Wilson's pilfered cell phone on silent and returned it to the coffee table.

"Call someone on your team."

"Come on, Cuddy, they'll want to nurture me and be nice. You won't feel compelled by those human urges."

"Because I'm a heartless bitch, of course. Bye House," she started to say, but she could hear him still speaking so she paused.

"Come on. It's a few hours away from your mom. You know you love donating your time to helping cripples."

"It's a true joy."

"Wouldn't you rather come here for a few minutes than sit with your mother?"

"She's gone."

"She died?"

"No. She went back home. She had carpal tunnel surgery. She was as eager to get out of here as I was to have her go."

"So that should clear up the depression."

"House…"

"Yea?"

"Are you really out of Vicodin?"

"Yes!"

"OK. You'll have it soon."

He hurried around preparing things, reaching clumsily to answer his phone when it rang. His sense of victory dissipated when the pharmacy from the hospital called. The nasally voice on the other end offered, "Gregory House, your prescription is ready for you. Can you pick it up or do you need to schedule delivery?"

Cuddy was really starting to piss him off.

Knocking impatiently on her front door, he was considering his next move when she released the lock and looked out. She sighed, "You're in too much pain to go pick up your own Vicodin, but you aren't in too much pain to come here and bother me?"

"Thank god."

"What do you want?"

"Admit you're taking the pills."

"I could do that, but it would be a lie. I'm not."

"I have proof."

"Then why do you need me to admit it? Be content with your proof."

"Why?" he asked intently.

"I have no idea why you're so obsessed with this."

"I want to know why you need them in the first place?"

"I'm familiar with your just-say-no outlook on drugs in general. But I'm not taking anything," she answered with growing ire.

"What's wrong with you lately?"

"Me?"

"Yea. Over-sized sweaters and nine pm bedtimes are not normal."

She stepped farther into her home when her phone rang, holding up a finger to tell him to wait while she answered the call. Using the moment when her guard was down, he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. She was answering questions, something for the hospital, and he took off his jacket and flung it on the chair in the corner of the living room with his cane.

By the time she turned her attention back to him, he was sitting on her sofa, taking up more space than what seemed possible for someone as narrow as he was. "Come in," she offered ironically.

"What is going on with you, Cuddy?" he asked almost urgently, the joking quality in his voice vanishing.

She sat down on the other end of the sofa, "I can't talk to you about this. We aren't…normal friends who talk about our lives and feelings."

"Why aren't we?"

"You probably hate conversations like that. And we're too adversarial to be friends. Can't talk to Julia because of Mom, can't talk to Wilson because Wilson talks, can't talk to you because of…you. You aren't an inner-most feelings talk kinda guy."

"So what, you're upset that you don't have anyone to talk to?"

"I can't talk about this."

"Then who do you talk to?"

She was leaning forward, elbows on her knees, and looked over her shoulder at him, searching his demeanor for answers. He was disarmed, almost open, but definitely waiting for her answer. "There isn't a lot of room for confidants where I sit," she commented.

"Wouldn't it be better to try to have some confidants or at least one that you can turn to when things are really bad instead of taking antidepressants?"

"I'm really confused, House, because no one takes pills like you do."

"I don't want you to be like me."

"It's not a narcotic."

"Some people need them. You do not need them."

"And I'm not taking them."

"So why are you arguing that you need them?"

"I'm not. I'm just saying that I can see why I would want to."

He nodded his head, the honesty of that moment almost its own presence in the room. "What happened that made you think about it?"

"Nothing, nothing happened I'm just…"

"You're what?"

"I don't know."

"Sad?"

"Not even sad. Just…I've always known exactly what I wanted to do next. I've pushed and worked and driven myself to exactly where I need to be. And now…nothing."

"You don't know what you want to do next?"

"I have no idea."

"Is that really a problem?"

"At some point, I won't know where the challenge is anymore. I wanted my own hospital. I have it, it's beyond successful. At some point trying to keep you in line will become boring."

"I would never let that happen," he said with the tiniest smirk curling one side of his mouth.

She smiled fleetingly over her shoulder and said, "Things are just…feeling-less."

"So you are taking them," he announced like he had made a discovery.

"No. I'm just saying that I've thought about it."

"Maybe you're just bored. I hate being bored."

"If that was actually the case, what would you tell me to do?"

"Find a case, torment Wilson, torment you. You should try Cuddy tormenting, it's a great hobby."

"Believe me," Cuddy chuckled, "I torment her plenty."

"You can come for poker night tomorrow."

"That's OK. I don't think those guys want me, some woman, hanging around during their game."

House stared at her, his expression beyond incredulous, "Men don't want their wives and girlfriends hanging out at poker games, but hot, single women with a lot of money are pretty much always welcome."

She almost smiled, facing him, her back leaning against the arm of the sofa. She crossed her legs at the ankles and stretched out her legs, her feet only a few inches away from him. He wondered, for a second, why she was relaxing her guard around him.

"You don't want to start taking pills," House said seriously, "not you. Or maybe…maybe I don't want you to have to take them. I need them, I don't have a choice. You do. I'm glad I have Vicodin, but there are drawbacks too."

"Side effects? Is that why you have this obsession with side effects?"

"I want you to know what you're getting into. It isn't even the actual side effects for me. It's the unofficial ones. The side-side effects."

"Like what?"

He turned toward her with the face of careful consideration, took a quick inward breath and reached his hand out toward her ankle. She was dizzied more than anything, as she watched his long fingers extend fully. The tips of his fingers made contact first, but as he moved upward, his fingers and the warmth of his palm were flat against the underside of her left leg. She stared as his hand conformed to the shape of her leg over the stretchy-soft pants she was wearing for sleep or exercise, skating smoothly from the narrow lower part of her leg and curving around the shape of her calf. She choked out the only word she seemed to know, "Hey."

He wasn't sure if it was a warning or a question or a request for him to stop because, apart from sounding nervous, her tone held no other discernible indication of what she was thinking. His eyes met hers for only a second, and her look was one of utter shock with underlying terror, so he looked back at her leg and tilted his head before he explained, "It's a metaphor."

She was partially sitting up, her body engaged and ready for immediate flight. Before she could retreat, his fingers pressed more firmly into her tight calf muscle while he subtly moved against her leg. The tension dropped from her face a bit, not because she felt more comfortable, but because the touch itself was very relaxing. "Does that feel good?" he asked, making attempts to sound clinical or at least objective.

"Of course it does," she defensively replied.

He smirked, looking up at her, "See, now you're irritated. Irritated isn't bored and it isn't feeling-less."

"Where's the metaphor, House?" she was trying to sound stern, but relaxation and intrigue were shaping her eyes.

One hand still on her calf, he grabbed a blanket and bunched it up under her leg before he continued rubbing it. "Does that feel just as good?"

"No."

He pulled the blanket away, allowing it to fall on the ground. "You don't want everything to feel like that, do you? Live life through a filter?"

His touch grazed the back of her knee, the delicate and ticklish spot there, before moving steadily down over her calf again. Rubbing more firmly, he was digging into the muscle, watching while her lips parted just a little to allow for her heavier breaths. "Very few moments in my life involve men showing up at my doorstep to massage my leg," she tried to tease, but her voice was weak.

"Only because they see you as untouchable," he commented almost offhandedly. His left hand curled around her right leg, nudging her legs apart just enough to allow his right hand to easily move up her thigh.

"I am not untouchable," she responded immediately. When he moved just past mid-thigh, she asked, with all of the authoritativeness gone from her voice, "Is this still the same metaphor?"

She wanted to sound firm, wanted to sound as if she was giving him a warning or even teasing him for letting his interest in her show a little, but none of those things were conveyed in her voice. Her mind began searching for the reasons why the man whose talented fingers were moving up her leg should not be allowed to touch her. Her professional position, her duties and even her name were becoming difficult to recall as her head spun. Her pulse became evident in her ears, against her ribs and between her legs. While she should have been wondering whether or not what was happening was a good idea or a catastrophic turn of events, her mind was instead lost in sensation and anticipation. In each moment she was certain his hands were going to leave her body or he was going to say something to draw attention to the fact that she was so easily tempted.

In spite of the apparent ease of her response to him, he waited for the moment of clarity that she would no doubt have. Enjoying the access while it lasted, he inched just a bit farther and awaited her refusal. When she didn't complain or appear to be horrified, he allowed himself to notice everything. He felt the heat emanating from her body that only seemed to get hotter as each moment passed. Through the thin, soft, stretchy fabric, his fingers could sense the details of each muscle, but for all of that contact and all of the access allowed, it just fueled his will to feel the softness of her skin directly. He felt, in a way, disallowed by the limitations placed by her clothing. Searching her face again, he saw the stunned concern in her eyes and he was compelled to have her. At that moment, the thought of denial seemed more than he could accept.

He braced his fists on the cushion of the sofa next to each of her hips, she could feel the shifts in the furniture beneath her as he approached. Anticipating a kiss, she turned toward him slightly before he moved beyond her mouth to her ear and then to her neck. With such a simple move, his refusal to allow their lips to meet, he could feel her hesitation shift to invested need. "Does this feel good?" he asked against her skin.

Her arms wrapped around him, one hand holding the back of his head close to her body so he'd continue licking and nipping along her neck. He moved along her shoulder to the dip between her collarbones, only making contact with the pieces of her that were exposed above the shirt she was still wearing. "Uh-huh," she bobbed her head quickly.

His palms pressed flat into the sofa while he moved down, his chin dragging down the flatness of her breastbone, his face lingering momentarily between her breasts. She was not wearing a bra, just a thin cotton top, and when his head shifted against her to feel the soft fullness of each breast on the sides of his face, she could feel the places where his stubble poked through the weave of the fabric and met her skin. He lifted her shirt a little while she leaned back farther, his lips and chin met her stomach while his hands left their braced position.

Climbing her ribs with his fingers, his hands moved to the underside of her breasts, feeling the delicateness of long worn fabric over the softness of her skin. His fingers formed a c-shape around her nipples but his thumbs and the pads of his fingers refused to touch them. Each thing that was missing from the experience made her ache.

Before the desired extent of contact was made, his hands were gone, they were already conforming to the dip in her waist and the outward curl of her hip and it seemed only logical, no necessary, that his fingers would wiggle under the waistband of her pants. He heard a hesitant sound emerge from her, but her hips lifted from the sofa so he could easily free her legs from the clothing. After lowering himself onto the carpet in front of the sofa, he pulled her panties and socks from her body. She was still wearing her top, her nipples pressing fully against the shirt when he looked up at her while he flung the pants and socks behind him without concern for where they would land or how difficult they would be to find.

Hands on the underside of her hips, he pulled her forward on the sofa so her ass was partially off of the seat, and he steadily guided her legs around his neck. His initial instinct was to refuse to meet her gaze because he did not want the trance to be broken between them, to have her shove him away and hurriedly cover herself, but he wanted to know her consent was full. Her chest was already shifting fully over her anxiously excited breath.

His tongue moved once flatly over her sex, tasting the moisture that was overflowing from her body. Allowing his tongue to slide through her folds, he reached just a bit inside her, purposefully ignoring her waiting clit. While probing shallowly into her body, his hands explored other places: her knees, outer thighs, hips and tummy. He patiently reminded her of erogenous zones that she had forgotten about, and easily pointed out a few she never knew she had in the first place. She no longer had any idea if it was the places he was touching, the way he was touching them or if it was more about the fact that he was doing the touching. He curled his arms around her legs and let his hands, just centimeters away from her sex, part her legs even more fully.

When he moved his attention to where she desired it most, her hand roughly gripped a handful of his hair, the intensity of the long-sought touch increasing the actual sensation. He was slow yet persistent, applying enough pressure to make her squirm under him without shoving her too abruptly toward orgasm. Moving with the skill of someone who already knew exactly what she liked, while still trying new things and collecting information, he was studying her, carefully paying attention to responses so he could look for other things she might enjoy. He was solving her like a puzzle, moving pieces into place strategically to decrypt the secrets that were kept from him. He was just preparing to let caution go, to allow his tongue to flick more quickly against her so she could come against his face, but for one moment he curved his lips around her clit, gently pulling her into his mouth.

While his mouth softly sucked, he felt her legs tense as her thighs began to shake next to his face. Her back arched roughly, that one hand that was in his hair was pulling him closer, her other hand dug into the muscle of her own thigh. Her hips jerked, entirely involuntarily, her sex twitching against his mouth while her moans made clear the extent of her rapture. Her torso was moving with waves of pleasured sensation before he ceased his attention and her thighs fell open powerlessly. She had absolutely no control, no influence over the strength of her response to him.

With his mouth still covering her sex, still warmly and inactively against her, he waited for her to calm for a few moments and started with the tiniest moves, soothing presses of his tongue against her. She bent her leg and put one heel on his shoulder, prepared to push him away when the touches would become too intense to feel nice, but he didn't rush her recovery. At that point, he wasn't even touching her for her benefit, he just wanted to continue to taste her, to be so trusted that he could have his tongue in her body while she was sprawled willingly before him.

She was starting to move beyond recovering to aroused again, a fact that was clear enough because of the way she was shifting against him. She was not spent or tired, she was more intense, more aroused. Pulling his hand from her leg, she guided his palm along her torso, directing it under her shirt to her breast. Her hand covering his, he allowed his palm to make contact with her nipple, finally addressing a need that he had teasingly withheld. Her reaction was sharper, more pleasured because of the way she had longed for that particular sensation.

After she allowed him to reawaken her body, she pushed him back, slipping down off of the sofa and onto him. "You want to go to my room?" she asked, "I have a bed."

He stared up at her without responding, his mind stuck on the fact that her swollen and soaked sex was against his jeans just over his erection, her breast was still in his hand and when he ran his tongue over his lips, he could still taste her. He could feel her body above his, so close they were nearly in contact, and his entire will wanted to be lost inside her. He lifted his pelvis from the floor up toward her, his need to press his body into hers dwarfing the irrefutable knowledge that his fucking jeans kept them completely separated.

"I think you should come to my room," she affirmed, pulling off her top.

Placing her fingers against his abdomen, she shifted her body against his in a way that only served to awaken thoughts in him that were already piqued. His eyes were locked on the perfect breasts before him and the way they moved with her body. He braced his hands on the floor to lift his upper body so he was sitting, his mouth clamping eagerly over a nipple, his tongue smoothing over the rippled skin that he tugged into his mouth. The way she moaned sent his hands to her lower back, his fingers extending along the slope of her body and reaching onto her ass. Pure instinct dictated that he press her against him, that he grind their bodies together to answer the call of a primal urge that refused to wither on the grounds of logic or reason.

Her hands went to his face, holding him still so he couldn't withhold a kiss for a moment longer. Their lips were instantly parted, their tongues meeting in ways that suggested and remembered with near desperation.

She pushed him down, he was still sitting upright but leaning back, his hands braced against the floor and holding his weight. Her fingers reached under his shirt, her nails scratching along his skin while she took her opportunity to touch the forbidden human who was always just a bit too far out of reach even when he was right next to her. She was sitting on his left leg while she backed away from him, her tongue trailing from his chest down his stomach. Her touch was so pleasant and scant that it almost tickled, and he watched while his skin dipped slightly under her tongue. Her hand palmed his arousal, not at all gently, through his jeans and he groaned almost soundlessly.

He still hadn't spoken, hadn't answered her offer to accompany her to the bedroom so, as she popped his button and lowered his fly she offered, "Want me to convince you?"

He lifted more than willingly to help her get him out of his clothes. Starting at the base of his sex, she licked and kissed slowly along the underside. Her other hand moved far too softly along the places her mouth was not touching, following her mouth's pace with pleasurably agonizing patience toward the tip. He wanted to watch, he had to watch, everything she was doing, but he could barely stand the tension that built from the combination of actually seeing something he'd fantasized about so often, coupled with the physical sensation of her touch. After finishing her progression along his length, she let her tongue lick along the tip, providing more tantalizing stimulation that still felt insufficient.

She felt his waning control, in an unexpected moment wrapping her lips around him and smoothly sliding down, taking him more fully in her mouth, her hands curving around him so every inch of him was warmly enclosed. His hands were digging into the carpet, his fingers rigid while he tried to control his desire without entirely losing himself. Physically lifting her away from him, he was surprised to see her disappointment. He lowered her onto her back on the carpet and guided her legs around his waist. She was astounded by his self-control, but it wasn't self-control that stopped him. Her mouth felt better than anything he'd felt in a long time, but in the back of his mind sat the fear that if he came like that, during the time it took him to recover, she would realize her mistake and push him away. More than he wanted her mouth on his cock, he wanted to be inside her, to feel her body wrapped around his, to watch her face when she came.

He was taking his time moving toward her, trying to give his body time to wind down from the very near peak it was at seconds earlier. "I would like to go to your room," he whispered.

"OK," she nodded, her pelvis lifting toward his warm body.

"But now that I'm touching you, I don't think I'll be able to stop."

"Then you really shouldn't stop," she answered quickly, her toes curling in anticipation.

He moved forward, he could feel his body poised at her entrance, already sensing the dripping wetness that awaited him. She pressed up a bit, her consent clear, and he pushed into her. He could feel the way her warm sex clung to him while it expanded to take his thickness. She gasped as she took him inside her, he moaned at the slick grip of her body and they both felt an intensity, a fullness and sense of completeness that neither had expected. He started to move but she whimpered just a bit, both delighted and overwhelmed by their connection. He paused for a moment to kiss her, to allow her body to relax around him just a little. He choked down the urge to tell her that he wanted to be the only man who was allowed to fuck her, but even at that moment he knew he wanted her for himself alone. "Is this feeling-less? Do we feel like…nothing?" he asked.

She shook her head, "This is definitely not feeling-less."

She was hot, sexy and tempting, and then in the next moment, vulnerable and affectionate. The combination drew him into her. Rocking underneath him a bit, she urged him to continue before he went mad with need. There was no time to be spared, but it didn't mean he rushed or was sloppy with his attention. He was urgent and devoted, pulling almost entirely from her before he plunged completely back into her body, each time wanting to fill her completely, to meet any and all needs that she had while allowing himself an indulgence he did not think he would be permitted. As she relaxed, her desire emerged more fully while she responded without any sort of reservation. She didn't bother to hide her complete and total desire for him and that reaction made a woman so nearly his ideal all the more attractive.

She started to come, fully aware of the feeling of him filling her, reaching into her depths, and the way his body pressed down against her clit every time he'd move completely into her. As if it wasn't obvious from the rhythmic pulses growing inside her body, it became perfectly clear when she actually gasped, loudly, "I'm so fucking close, House," and just when her body tipped from the climb toward completion to the powerful peak of orgasm, she sighed, "oh my god you're gonna make me come so hard." While her orgasm captured her mind, he could hear bits of the same phrase in his ear, pieces of, "make me come," between harsh breaths and eventually panted screams, the words were both a request and a description of everything that was happening to her body.

He didn't even want to come yet, he just wanted to savor her coming, to hear, feel and see her getting off, but the moment of powerlessness seized him when he could no longer dampen his desire or ignore his own body's demands. He held onto her tightly, her arms and legs wrapped around him. He could feel the cold of his retreat and the warmth of her, coupled by the pulses of her body while his own brain disconnected entirely except for the most instinctive and primal parts of his being. The momentum of their bodies would no longer allow him to prevent his own orgasm, something that would leave him shaken for longer than physically necessary. Even as the thunderous perfection of release subsided, he wanted to continue moving inside her, and the closer he came to full consciousness, the more he realized that he didn't want their connection to end.

He rolled just to her side when he couldn't continue any longer, but she followed him, her leg slung over his hip. Tightening his arm around her, he held onto the moment when she was his because when it was over, he doubted any touch between them would be allowed again. The worry of being unprotected had nothing to do with the physical risks they so casually ignored with each other.

Once they were breathing normally and more fully relaxed, he unhappily acknowledged that she was removing her body from his to stand up. He was naked and exhausted on the floor and he felt the sense of hurt rejection gripping him while she looked down from her standing position.

"Did I convince you?" she asked.

"Of what?" he countered as he sat up slowly.

"That you should come to my room."

"Oh that."

"You said you needed to keep touching me, once you started. And you did start. So come back to my room and keep touching me."

He looked up, his eyes wide but increasingly relieved. "Are you sure?"

"Yea," she replied as if it was obvious.

He lifted himself up, standing carefully because his thigh was already tight, tense and weary. She extended a hand, walking in front of him, naked, and leading him back to her room. He was dizzy and confused and, for once, happy that he had wrongly predicted an outcome. They settled into her bed, a place much more comfortable than her floor to rest and he commented, "Keeping you drug free by sexing you up."

"I can't believe the greatest mind at my hospital thinks you can cure depression by 'sexing someone up.' Should I be worried?"

"Only if I request a transfer to the psych department."

She blew out a laugh.

"Admit it," he challenged, "you feel better don't you?"

"Me? I feel great. However, as I already told you, I've had some rough times lately, but I'm not depressed. I didn't take the pills."

"But I don't think you should start to."

"House," she said with slight hesitation, "you are convincing the wrong Cuddy. I told you I'm not taking them. They are my mother's. She's had a hard time since Dad died."

He looked at her, his brow furrowed with confused thought, "You said you thought about it."

"I did. When I got them for my mother, I thought about it. But they aren't mine. The pills I picked up at the pharmacy, or whatever wrapper or fact sheet you found in my garbage or on my desk…belonged to my mother."

"You aren't depressed?"

"No."

"The sweaters at work?"

"I didn't feel like the lectures from my mother about my wardrobe before work every single morning."

"Fine, but what about the tiredness?"

"You try taking care of my mother for a couple of weeks. You'll be tired too. And frustrated. Fed up."

Sighing, he looked up at the ceiling before flinging back the covers.

"You aren't leaving, are you?" she asked worriedly.

He shook his head while he pretended to get up, "Duty calls."

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to stop for a Power Bar and an energy drink. Then, I guess," he shivered exaggeratedly, "I'll need your mother's address. I'm firmly committed to drug-free-Cuddy's."

She pulled him back into bed and smacked his chest, laughing, "Asshole." His eyes were laughing though his mouth barely cracked a smile, and Cuddy wrapped an arm around him, "I think I might want to keep you around for a while. Stay here with me."

"Fine," he surrendered, "But if she has nausea, insomnia and difficulty sustaining an erection, it's not my fault."