All In (Take Two)

“Show me,” he demands gently, but firmly, locking the door behind his back; you can hear it click, even from across the room.

You sigh. You try to make it clear that you’re not amused, but it’s difficult to hide the little shiver; the tremble of your hands as you plant them on the blotter of your desk.

“House—“ you warn him. He leans back for a moment against the door to your office, and while he’s big, he can’t block out all the panels of glass, all the window spaces to your inner sanctum. And now he’s got that look on his face.

Trouble in stubble; you remember it well.

This is the look that got you into this damned predicament in the first place—this look, and your own stupid confidence. How many years have you gone up against House in poker for the fundraisers? How many times have you had your self-assurance rattled by him playing you like the sucker you are?

Long enough to know better, you admit glumly to yourself. It galls you because for the most part you’re a sharp player and nobody’s easy mark. You’ve sent grown men home crying, and cleaned up more chips than a Frito-Lay factory. You are GOOD at poker.

Unless House is playing.

So now you’re stuck, because your last bet against this man had nothing to do with chips, or markers or wagers of a financial sort, oh no. House had plenty of money and the stuff bored him. He talked you into a bet of another sort, and after a few last slurps of your gin and tonic, the terms of the wager seemed . . . amusing. Childish, but fun, in that one upsmanship way you and House have between you for so many damned things.

So you listened to his naughty request, knowing full well that the natural boat in your hand gave you the better odds, even if he filled his potential straight. You gave him a good view of the girls when you leaned forward and told him he needed to get ready for two extra weeks of clinic duty.

That was when he got the look—the same heated glitter in his blue eyes that he has right now, even as the tiniest of smirks tugged at the corners of his mouth. You should have suspected right then and there that the man had you as good as plucked, but noooo, pride goeth before a fall and all that jazz.

You had threes over sevens. House had nines over Jacks.

And now, you’re stuck showing him a pair—YOUR pair--whenever he wants to see them.

Stupid bet.

Honestly, the man’s no better than a pervert, and this is the second time today he’s demanded a peek at your . . . lingerie. You know this is going to get old, and fast, but welching out on the bet isn’t your style; he’s bound to get bored sometime soon.

You hope.

With a sigh you rise up and come around the desk, reaching for the buttons on your jacket, glad you’ve got quick fingers and a good excuse to shoo him on his way afterwards. House smirks openly now, and moves to tug on the cord for the blinds, closing them rapidly. You scowl a little to cover the unexpected quiver between your thighs and look up at him.

“You’re nothing but a dirty old man, you know.”

“It could have been worse. I could have insisted I meant ‘pair‘as in your panties, Doctor Cuddy,” he reminds you, with a little leer. “Lucky for you, I can’t resist a balcony view.”

“Lucky for you I don’t press harassment charges,” you respond, but it’s a hollow threat and you both know it. You’ll stick to the terms of the bet, come hell or high water, because despite how stupid and demeaning it is, you feel a sense of--pardon the pun—titillation at knowing House is ogling your body. Shameful but true, and the little boost to your ego IS there.

House likes your chest. Certainly enough to gamble for it.

So you make a little show of undoing the buttons again, and tugging open your jacket. The black shell blouse under it is silk and lifts up easily to show off the matching lace and net underwire bra that so sweetly nestles your chest.

House makes a growly noise deep in his throat, and you realize the first time you did this he was across from you in the parking lot this morning. Now he’s a hell of a lot closer; you can practically feel his breath on your skin, and you’re . . . oh God, perking up, as it were. Here you are, holding up your blouse and damned because it’s pretty apparent your nipples are clearly outlined against the netting.

“Chriiiiist, you have a great pair,” House breathes and the gust of his words brushes over your exposed skin, making it all pebbly. Making your nipples get even tighter.

This is a bad idea. You flex your fingers and clear your throat. “Okay, show’s over . . .” you waver, but even as you say it, he bends down and you feel the brush of his face as ohGODhekisses . . . .

You’re dizzy now; eyes closed, arching up as House slides his lips over the upper curve of your breasts. He’s got his hands around your back which is good because he’s going to need to hold you up at this rate. Dimly you’re grateful he’s being gentle and his whiskers are lightly brushing, gliding as the wet suckly kisses move to your cleavage.

GodGoditfeelsSOgood. The smell of House; clean masculine musk, a hint of dispenser soap and coffee. You let go of the blouse and blindly move your hands—to shove him away, yes, but the minute you touch those lanky shoulders you’re clutching instead, swaying as his tongue slides between your breasts and he moans into the warm little squeeze there.

You turn your head; need to talk to him, make sense . . . but now his mouth is moving up your throat, a long wet glide . . . and you’re quivering now, poised, God, almost ready to . . .

And with a tug and a push you manage to waltz a few steps backwards and take House with you, knocking a good bit of stuff off your desk. Your hands are all over him, and he’s gasping; thrilled, shocked, and blatantly aroused. Carefully you guide his big hands to cup your chest as you nibble his earlobe.

“Upping the ante—“ you warn him huskily. House pushes his hips against yours and growls again, his breath hot on your damp skin.

“Fuck—“ is all he manages before you let him plonk your ass on the desk and push your thighs apart. Fumbling, more kissing and when you get his jeans and boxers down House has already managed to shred your panty hose.

“Hey!” comes your protest, but he merely grins and tugs the rip wider, pushing aside the wet panel of your panties to brush the fur under it.

“Oh I’m in--“ he rasps, sliding a big finger into you. “Damn it, WANT you—“

And you slide your legs up around his hips, pulling him down, reaching to guide him, knowing this is wrong and bad and exactly what the two of you need. He pushes into you, big, hot, hard--

“All in--“ you order him, clawing at his back, “Come on, Greg, ALL in—“

And that sets him off as he surges into you, pounding in a hard deep rhythm that rocks the desk under your thumping ass—infarction or not, this man can fuck. You cling to him, squeezing him, biting his wet sweat-salty throat, licking and kissing as the sweet torque of heat tightens deep between your thighs, an even tightening surge with every thrust, every grunted profanity House groans.

“Bitch, God, Oh yeah, yeah, so Goddamn tight, Lisa, mine, fuck, fuck oh yeeeeah—“ and in that last desperate howl against your mouth, you feel yourself clench hard as the blissful surge of your orgasm rolls through your stomach and over your skin like sweet, sweet fire. House slams hard into you and deep inside you feel the searing pulses of his semen.

He’s heavy, but you don’t mind. He’s sticky and a little musky now, and you’re pretty sure you’re going to have a wet spot on the back of your skirt, but there’s a spare in the closet, along with some deodorant and a bottle of Motrin for those new sweet aches you’re starting to feel.

You caress his hair even as he pushes up from you, and this time the blue of his gaze is filled with a sense of bewildered wonder. You reach up and cup his scratchy chin.

You love this man.

“My pair,” you tell him smugly, “beats your ace in the hole, House.”

And he laughs, right before he kisses you.




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