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Whoa!
by snark_bait
Shoes, 160 Dollars
Dress, 1100 Dollars
Hair and make-up, 100 Dollars
The look on your boss's face when he sees all three together...priceless.
~
"Whoa!" he says, and I almost blush, I can't help but smile.
I realise how much I've changed since I started working here, because I'm cocky enough to not look away.
I can't believe the smirk this smile has turned into.
If he said to me right now - Do you think we should go to my place, get buck naked and fuck like rabbits? - in that tux, I'd find it hard not to reply with a firm `do bears shit in the woods?'
How the hell could I refuse?
~
I'm home now, what a night.
I'm lying on my sofa, I'm so wiped out I haven't even taken my dress off.
It was ridiculously expensive but I don't have the energy to move. I have a quick look at the clock; it's just gone five in the morning.
But I feel wired; I don't think I can sleep just yet. I think I'll put some music on.
I get up and put Massive Attack's greatest hits on. It's laid-back and ambient, so it helps me to relax.
I'm glad I asked Foreman to help me pick out a decent stereo when I moved in here.
It's a really good one, and the sound bounces nicely from wall to wall and... I've closed my eyes so I can hear all of the hidden sounds you can't hear when your eyes are open.
That's nice, I like letting the music roll over me.
I'm thinking back to when he yanked his bow-tie off, lazily. I'd loved to have helped him get out of that tux.
It's all I can think about actually.
It's painfully clear now, that I'm not over him. Not even close.
I get more comfortable on the sofa and I imagine the sun rising outside as `unfinished sympathy' starts playing. I can't resist reaching over for the stereo remote and turning it up.
It's blasting out now, the neighbours are probably going to kill me, but I feel really good, and, it sounds better the louder it gets.
I sigh and close my eyes again.
Secretly, if I'm honest, I enjoy sparring with him. I didn't realise how much I enjoyed arguing until I started working for him.
When I left, I wasn't sure I would forgive myself for leaving him the way I'd found him.
I wonder if he thought the same thing about me, and that's why he wanted me to come back.
I'll probably never know.
Whenever we quarrel - which is practically every day - I find the idea that I might actually win an exchange with him, exhilarating. It's also like playing with fire, and sometimes it hurts.
Words cut deep.
His seem to vibrate through me with more tone than a sound system turned up too loud in a nightclub.
I'm not sure if I like the feeling or not because the words are supposed to cause a reaction, so that means he picks them just for me. He has me in mind when he puts them together and lets them roll off his tongue.
His eyes wait patiently for my reaction, his frustration showing when I don't, and his satisfaction showing when I do.
Everything I need to know is said from his eyes, and the position of his head.
If he'd have asked me to go back to his place, wearing that tux...
I'm letting my hand travel slowly down the fabric of my dress, I feel embarrassed at how...horny, House in his tux has left me feeling.
One of my high-school teachers once told me I lacked imagination.
Right now, I'm finding it really easy to imagine my hand, is actually his, those long fingers creeping down, seeing how far I'll let him go.
My eyes are still closed and I imagine he's watching me, that shit-eating smirk on his face.
Eyes slightly narrowed, taking everything in.
The rate of my breathing, the rise and fall of my breasts, because he's a dirty bastard.
Or so he'd like people to think. Maybe he's not, maybe he's all bravado, most men are, but right now my version of House is having very dirty thoughts...about me.
This is so embarrassing; I can't help but grin at what I'm about to do.
He's sat on the edge of the sofa.
He smiles when I sigh - ever so gently - because his hand is resting just, above, my navel.
And then it starts travelling further down.
And then his hand is slowly pulling up the hem of my dress, and I almost open my eyes.
But if I do, he won't really be there.
He yanks the bow-tie off again and grins, then his other hand helps to push the fabric of my dress up ...it drags smoothly against my skin, until he has it bunched up, and it's level with my...
His right hand slides slowly up my thigh, until he reaches my underwear; he rubs the elastic between his thumb and forefinger.
And then he plants - Just one kiss - on the top of my right thigh.
Then he's playing with my underwear again, teasing the elastic away from my leg slightly so he can slide a hand under.
He does it on both sides, and then - with the back of his hands against the elastic - he pulls them down, all the way, until he's pulling them around my ankles,
And he tosses them away.
His hands quickly slide back up my legs...rippling his fingers along until he reaches my thighs again.
Then his tongue takes over, I always knew it wasn't just for cutting people with.
He hitches my dress up, I help him, it's bunched under my chin now.
His tongue is on my thigh, he slides it down, until he's pulling it along the smooth skin of my inner thigh.
It's so close.
It's almost there.
It's almost brushing against my...
And then there is an frighteningly loud pounding at my front door, and I jump slightly and yank my dress back down
I'm flustered, and House is gone.
I pad barefoot to my front door and open it.
My neighbour is PISSED -And...do I know what time it is? Do I know it is just after five in the goddamn morning - and, am I having a rave or something? - and did I, or did I not say I wasn't a student?
Yes I know all of that, but does he know I answered my front door whilst I wasn't wearing any underwear?
Probably, because I've just turned around and my black thong is hanging from the lamp by the sofa.
My cheeks have just flushed bright red.
I'll turn the stereo off now.
I'm going to bed; I'm far too tired to carry on with what I was doing before I was rudely interrupted.
But I'm going to finish when I wake up.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of Fox Television, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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