Damn it.

House moved down the hallway, a large lanky juggernaut; people saw his expression and moved out of his way with alacrity. He ignored them, his gaze 
set on some distant point, his thoughts moving at superconductor speed 
across his mind. As he lurched on, he considered his arguments, laying them 
out carefully in his head, congratulating himself on the clear logic behind them, 
the solid validity of each salient point.

He swung towards Cuddy’s office, only to see it was empty. In frustration, he tamped his cane hard on the linoleum floor, the sound loud despite the rubber 
cap on the end of it. House looked right and left, hoping against hope to catch 
a glimpse of She Who Deserved a Yelling At, but neither direction yielded 
anything, and as a last resort, he grudgingly slipped into her darkened office 
seeking out the day planner on her desk.

Long ago House had figured out her code; it amused him to be able to 
decipher the cryptic little notes Cuddy thought were so secure. T/JL/4 was easy--‘tennis, Jane Lindon, four o’clock’. Some were a bit harder: ZZZ/DC/L 
turned out to be ‘board meeting, Donors Committee, lunchtime’. She had 
symbols too—Wilson was always a little volleyball; Chase was a butterfly net. 
He himself was a stick drawing of a cane; he was grateful she hadn’t gone for 
the obvious, at least.

House scanned the agenda and frowned. New notation: M/PT/teardrop.


Very odd.

House looked at the notation again and let his mind race; the argument about 
the patient treatment could wait a bit—this was intriguing. M, M, M . . . 
Meeting? Management? Money? He wondered. The nonlinear synapses 
jumped in immediately: mudpack? Manicure? Masturbation? That last thought brought a brief flicker of a smile over House’s thin mouth. Riiiiight.

Cuddy already had a symbol for that, he knew.

Carefully he looked over the notation again, and one piece clicked into place. PT—Physical Therapy. He frowned a bit more. Physical Therapy for what? 
She was too good to overdo her workouts, and he hadn’t heard any gossip 
about injuries. Cuddy might have been checking up on the department, but 
the teardrop made him doubt that idea. No, this was a personal notation, he 
was sure.

House sighed, and closed the day planner. He scanned the desktop for 
further clues, letting his gaze move across the tidy, feminine décor in a quick 
sweep. Framed nieces, glass trinkets, nameplate, coffee warmer, airline 
boarding pass printout . . . Carefully he picked up the latter, reading off the 
pertinent details: Round trip to Chicago over the weekend, first class.

Chicago. House lifted his chin and set the pass down, moving purposefully 
towards the door.


Cuddy carefully unwrapped the towel from her hair and gently shook it out. 
The heat of the sauna had done her some good, but the tension across her shoulders still ached, and she moved gingerly, hoping the massage would 
help. The last thing she needed before heading to give her speech in Chicago 
was to be too stiff to move.

Fortunately, Ingrid had an opening, and considering the way she felt, Cuddy 
had no compunction about booking the time. A good rubdown, some hydration 
and she was sure to be relaxed enough to deliver the opening remarks to the 
North American Hospital Management Conference tomorrow. Cuddy made 
her way from the sauna to PT room three in her bare feet. Once there, she 
stiffly climbed onto the padded table and lay face down after tugging the clean 
drape low across her hips. The room was semi-dark, with the light filtering in 
through the frosted windows and vertical blinds; Cuddy willed herself to relax a 
bit as she tried to get comfortable on the naugahyde surface; to distract 
herself she softly muttered the opening to her speech.

“The history of hospital management has been a long and often arduous one, 
and the majority of progress in this area remains unappreciated—“

The door opened behind her, and she sighed, breaking off from her speech 
and closing her eyes happily. “Ingrid. Thank you for taking me this morning. 
I’ll make sure you get compensated for the hour if you fill out a supplemental 
time card.”

The soft touch of a hand trailed along her flank, and Cuddy sighed, already beginning to relax. She settled down, her hands folded under her cheek, and 

House looked down at the sleek expanse of Lisa Cuddy’s bare back; the soft 
swell of her breasts rounding under her ribcage; the shallow trough of her 
spine and bit back a groan. There wasn’t an ounce of excess anything on the woman, and velvet warmth of her skin simply begged to be touched. Cuddy 
had swept her hair over her right shoulder, and the pale angles of her bones 
made perfect wings in the low light. House felt a growing urge to bend down 
and kiss her neck. Point of fact he felt a LOT of growing urges, but in a 
moment Cuddy would turn and see him if he didn’t act fast.

Too bad that somebody had just given Ingrid the afternoon off, with pay.

House plucked one of the squirt bottles of oil out of the warmer on the counter 
and drizzled a few splashes artistically across her shoulders; the seductive 
scent of heated tangerine rose up. Cuddy gave a happy little sigh and House pushed his jacket sleeves up, smirking to himself. He lightly stroked both open palms through the oil and up her back, spreading the lubricant smoothly, 
noting that his open hands were almost big enough to cup the entire area. He rubbed.

Cuddy tensed for a moment against the firm pressure, and after a few long 
minutes finally began to relax; the slow rush of liberation under those skilled 
fingers felt like magic, the release so good she felt like crying for a moment. 
Slow glides moved along either side of her spine, culminating in a tender 
kneading of her shoulders at the end of each stroke in a heavenly sensation.

She gave a long moan, flexing her toes happily. “Ohhhhh my God, this is 
amazing . . . You’re hitting all the knots just right . . . . “

House made a little hum of affirmation, trying to pitch it high and keep up the masquerade a little longer as his palms slid over Cuddy’s smooth skin. The 
heat of it was unexpectedly arousing, and the citrus mingled with a hint of 
musk now; the rush of sensation leaving him aware of how petite Cuddy’s 
frame was, how sweetly, gorgeously naked she was under the drape.

He kept stroking, letting his fingers slide from her shoulders to her neck and 
House gently squeezed the slender base of it, letting his thumbs caress the 
knobs of her vertebra. Cuddy moaned again, a low animal tone that drifted 
into his ears and dropped straight into his boxers. House fought not to moan 
himself, aware that his hands were beginning to move along Cuddy’s shoulder 
blades in little circular motions, curving around her ribs to brush against the 
outer bulges of her breasts.

Cuddy sighed languorously, almost purring. “Mmmmmmmmmm, nice. 
Please—don’t stop.”

House forced himself to slow down; he reached for the bottle again and 
drizzled more oil onto each hand, then returned to delicate strokes, working 
his way down Cuddy’s lean flanks. Christ he was getting seriously hard now. 
The sweet flare of her fanny rose up from under the drape and he could see 
the dimples at the base of her spine, unarguably one of the more adorable 
sights he’d ever seen. He wanted to lick them, and keep nibbling up and 
around her ass, making her giggle and squirm. House loved Cuddy’s giggle; 
he’d only heard it once or twice, but it ranked high on his list of Sexy Sounds.

Then, without opening her eyes, she reached back and tugged the drape 
down, exposing the rest of her torso. House paused, slightly stunned, 
desperately hard now. A fully naked, oiled up Lisa Cuddy on a padded table in 
a dark room with a locked door.

In that instant House KNEW that there was a God, and this was a damned 
fine way of proselytizing, oh yeah. He drew his hands down along the small of Cuddy’s back and rubbed the bottom of her spine gently. She wriggled in 
response, and her low laugh rumbled out.

“I don’t suppose you do rump rubs, do you? I’m trying not to sit so much on 
mine these days, but I ooooohhhhhhhhh--“ she trailed off as House obliged, 
stroking forcefully, squeezing, if the truth be told. He tried not to give in to the 
urge, but honestly, Cuddy’s ass was begging for it; gleaming with oil and 
wiggling so cutely there . . .

“I-Inngrid?” came Cuddy’s breathless, slightly alarmed question.

House drew in a breath and quietly hissed out, “Shhhhhh!” in such a 
commanding tone that she actually hesitated. House let his hands slide 
happily over the firm globes of Cuddy’s caboose, indulging himself for a long, glorious moment. Prrrrrime, ooooh yeah, most definitely. Muscled and taut 
and God he was going to lose it here if he didn’t . . .

House closed his eyes and did a lightning fast assessment. //ASS-essment,// 
his own mind taunted him on the current situation. Cuddy was going to realize 
it was him—there was no escaping that end. //END,// his mind chimed in 
again. So the key was to make sure she was so aroused herself that she’d 
choose him over throwing him out on his butt. //BUTT--You are SUCH a booty hound, Greggo,// came his own snide inner thoughts once more.

He stretched his fingers, cupping her cheeks and stroked carefully, rubbing 
the muscles until he felt them relax slightly. Then, in gentle, feather soft 
strokes, House began to focus on the backs of Cuddy’s thighs. His erection throbbed now, and it took willpower to keep his touch light, but it worked. 
Cuddy squirmed a bit more shifting her hips, and clearing her throat.

“Um, Ingrid . . .”

House took a breath and slid his thumbs along the insides of her thighs, 
letting the oil trickle down as he stroked. A darling puff of dark fur peeked out, 
and House chuffed a little, aware of how tightly his cock was pressing against 
his jeans now. His fingers moved faster; he felt small tremors move through 
her muscles and her thighs opened a tiny bit; reluctantly.

“I don’t think . . .” Cuddy gasped out, “That this . . . is—“

House slid his hands down the back of her legs to her knees, pushing them 
apart; Cuddy yelped and pushed up on her palms, twisting to look over her shoulder.

She froze.

Naked. She was naked, on her stomach, her legs wide, with Greg House 
looming behind her, his hands slick from the massage, his eyes glittering a dangerous shade of blue and that was one holy HELL of a boner he was 
sporting against his jeans, she thought dizzily. This was unreal. Not 
happening, the stuff of nightmares and fantasies.

“Lisa,” he breathed, and she heard it then; desire, yes, but also shame and 
regret; a joke gone much too far to take back at this point. House shifted, 
wiping the back of one wrist under his chin, his gaze still drinking her in.

Cuddy moved. Quickly, before she could think, talk herself out of it, talk him 
out of it, she rolled over and sat up, reaching for his arm. The minute she 
gripped him, Cuddy tugged, and House glanced down at her fingers around 
his wrist. With a stunned look he stumbled forward just as she slid off the end 
of the table, and—

There. They. Were.

Cuddy naked and slick, pinned against the edge of the massage table by 
House’s greater height. She tipped her face up, aware of how dry her mouth 
was, how she could feel her pulse in a mad throbbing echo through her.

“You started this, you FINISH it, Greg,” came her voice, almost calm, but 
lower, huskier. She rubbed one hand down his inseam, caressing the hot 
ridge and making him groan aloud. House dropped his hands on either side of 
her, trapping her against the table. He bent down and breathed in her face.

“Fantasy number one, Lisa. Doing you. Christ you have no idea, none, what a turn-on it is to see you standing here at work, completely naked while I still 
have clothes on. You’re mine oh yes--my toy, my naughty, naughty plaything 
and I want you so much I’m seconds from going it alone here if you know what 
I mean. Take my pants off. Now.”

Smiling, Cuddy reached for the rivet on his jeans, plucking it open and 
undoing his fly. She tugged the denim down past his knees, along with his 
blue boxers, revealing an arrogant shaft of flushed red. Lightly she circled her 
hand around it. House thrust himself into her grip, his eyes half-closed with 
pleasure at the sight; the touch.

Cuddy laughed. Carefully she turned and bent over the massage table, 
shifting her ass and looking over her shoulder in a slow, wordless taunt.

She licked her lips.

House growled. He pressed himself forward, one big hand pressing on the 
small of her back, the other guiding himself between her lean thighs. He thrust, plunging into the honeyed slickness there, and the sweet squeeze drove a pleasured groan out of his lungs; a duet to Cuddy’s soft, melodic cry.

“Sexxxy,” House managed, rocking forward, his splayed, oiled palms over the dimples at the base of Cuddy’s spine. “Your skin, your spine, your damn 
adorable ass, Lisa—“

She gripped the edge of the massage table, bracing against the hot thrusts as House drove himself into her in slick, deep plunges. The feel of his hands, the 
burn of his eager prick tugging and stroking her hot flesh, rocking her against 
the padded curve of the table . . . Cuddy pushed back eagerly, hungry for him, 
the low fire in her belly flaring up now, searing through her. She writhed, 
tossing her hair, gasping as she closed her eyes and within a few scant 
minutes let the blazing rush of orgasm surge through her, leaving her 
clutching the table with her nails, moaning loudly.

House was a goner. The feel of Cuddy under him, taking his cock, squirming 
and crying out, her long hair tumbling over her bare shoulders, his hands 
pressing just over those pert asscheeks as he rocked himself into her—all of 
those swept him up and drove him through a crescendo of lust the likes of 
which he hadn’t felt in years. He arched, his fingers curling around Cuddy’s 
waist in a possessive grip, and his groan rose up from his balls.

He slumped over her spine, chest heaving, sense of balance utterly gone as 
he pressed his stubbly cheek to one small shoulder blade, breathing in the 
scent of tangerine, and under it, the wilder, spicier scent of Cuddy’s lust. For 
long minutes neither of them moved.

Finally, House sighed and pried himself off of her; out of her while reaching for 
the stack of towels on the counter. He took long gentle swipes to clean her, humming as he did so; Cuddy shyly looked over her shoulder, her eyes soft 
and grey now, her smirk deep enough to show her dimples.

“This never happened,” she announced.

House blinked a little and wiped himself clean, grimacing as he tucked himself 
back into his jeans and zipped up. He gravely pulled the drape up from the 
floor and wrapped it around Cuddy, tucking it neatly around her curves and 
angles, taking a moment to kiss her shoulders and softly work his way up the 
side of her neck to lick her ear.

“It never does,” he agreed. “And I certainly don’t think it ought to happen 
again, later tonight, at your place. I won’t bring a bottle of wine, and you 
shouldn’t ask me to stay overnight so I won’t massage you again.”

“Right,” Cuddy sighed contentedly, “because it’s pretty clear you’re NOT a touchy-feely hands-on doctor.”

House slid a hand under the drape, and whispered softly to her. “I blame it on 
not enough positive strokes from my chief administrator, but we’re working on 
it. It’s—“

“—Touch and go?” Cuddy smirked, and kissed him before he could reply.


House index