A few hours later, House and Cuddy were sitting side by side on the floor of his office, with a rather daunting assortment of folders, financial reports, inventory lists, and receipts piled up in front of them.

House had the sleeves rolled all the way up on his Oxford shirt. Cuddy was sweating a bit and she had kicked her high-heeled pumps off to the side.

"A toddler with a piggy bank keeps better records than you do," Cuddy said. "Most of your purchases have no paper trail and the receipts you do have are completely arbitrary."

She pulled one of the crumpled receipts off the floor, as an example.

"$1,200 from Swingers. . .the strip club?"

"Male staff morale was getting low," House explained. "Also, Thirteen's."

"That's not deductible," Cuddy said.

"The next day, we solved the case. Coincidence? I think not."

Cuddy took the receipt, balled it up, and threw it in the trash.

"Legitimate expense?" she said. "I think not."

Cuddy grabbed another receipt.

"$359 from Mike's Music Emporium?"

"Remember that time I blew out my amplifier because of death metal boy? . . .I needed a new one."

"Uh, let me think about that," Cuddy said. "No." She crumpled and aimed again. Two more points.

"That amplifier saved a life!" House said.

"Then tragically, lost its own."
She pulled out another receipt.

"$789 from Elka's Swedish Massage?"

House grabbed it, quickly.
"That's not supposed to be in there," he said, and stuffed it in his pocket.

Cuddy sighed, surveyed the piles of paper, wiped some sweat off her brow.

"Is it just me, or is it incredibly hot in here?"

"It is kind of steamy," House agreed.

"Do they turn off the AC in this wing at night?" she asked.

"I have no idea," House said, looking at his watch. It was past 10 pm. "I'm not usually here this late."

Cuddy took off her jacket. She was wearing a sleeveless silk blouse. She had the most beautiful arms and shoulders—perfectly sculpted, but still womanly. Right now, they were coated in a fine mist of sweat. House was practically drooling.

He looked away.

"I'll talk to maintenance tomorrow," he said.

"Okay," she smiled.

She reached across him to grab a file—her bare arm brushing against his face.

"Sorry if I stink," she said, chuckling.

"You smell great," he said.

"So do you," she said, then immediately looked embarrassed.

They went back to work.

It was no cooler the next day.

"Did you talk to maintenance?" Cuddy said, taking off her sportsjacket. She was wearing an even less-there black camisole.

"I did," House said. "Maybe I wasn't firm enough."

"I've never known you not to be firm enough," Cuddy said.

"That's what she said," House said.

Cuddy rolled her eyes.

"I stepped into that one, didn't I?" she said.

"You kinda did."

She chuckled.

They pored over the papers a bit. With each successive hour they worked together, their body language grew more intimate.

Cuddy's bare feet were now touching House's pants leg and when she leaned over to get a file, she would casually rest her arm on his chest. At one point, she grabbed the pen he had tucked behind his ear, wrote with it, and put it back.

"I'm starving," House said. "You wanna order a pizza?"

Cuddy looked at her cell. It was 9:30.

"I'm supposed to have dinner with Ned," she said. "Hold on."

She called him.

"Yeah, I'm still here," House heard her say. "Oh, you did? I totally understand. Okay. . .I'll call you tomorrow."

She hung up.

"He ate already," she said. "Pizza it is."

He smiled to himself. One phrase on the phone had stuck out: "I'll call you tomorrow." She and Ned weren't having sleepovers yet. At least not regular ones.

He limped up to his desk and pulled a takeout pizza menu from the desk drawer.

"Large pepperoni?" he said.

"House, you know I don't eat red meat," she said.

"I'd say pepperoni has more of an orangeish cast," he said.

"Cute."

"So what do you want on it?"

She wrinkled her nose.

"Anchovies?"

House made a gagging sound and a face like he was about to throw up.

"They're delicious," she said, defensively.

"You've got to be kidding. Who eats anchovies?"

"Somebody must. It's on the menu, right?"

"But they're so. . .salty. . and slimy. . .and fishy."

"I'm Jewish," Cuddy said. "We love things that are salty and slimy and fishy."

"I refuse to eat that," House said.

"Then get half with anchovies and half with pepperoni. This is hardly an international crisis."

House shrugged, ordered the pizza.

It arrived half an hour later.

"$16.75," the pimply delivery kid said.

House paid.

"May I HAVE A RECEIPT?" he said loudly, over-enunciating every word.

"You're learning," she chuckled.

They spread out their picnic on the floor.

House got a bottle of whiskey from his desk and offered Cuddy some in a shot glass.

"Thank, I'm good," she said, sipping from her bottle of water.

"Suit yourself," he said, shrugging.

He watched her eat her anchovy pizza.

"Eww, I can't believe you like that," he said.

"I dare you to try a piece," she said.

"No way!"

"So Ned makes emergency intergalactic rescues and you can't taste an anchovy?"

"Low blow, Cuddy," he said, amused.

She smiled, devilishly, and waved the pizza in his face.

"Take a bite, House," she said, in a God-like voice. "Take a bite."

She moved the pizza to his lips.

"Never, you anchovy pusher!" he said, and he playfully wrestled her to the floor.

Now he was pinning her shoulders to the ground and she was looking up at him—and they were both laughing, in a giddy sort of way.

"You're my prisoner now," he said. "I could make you eat pepperoni. . .I could make you do. . .anything."

She giggled.

"But you won't!"

He leaned toward her. His face was now mere inches from hers.

"Oh, won't I?" he whispered.

"Not if I make you first!" she yelled—and did a pretty nifty maneuver to roll out from under him and pin him herself.

He grinned.

"Impressive Cuddy," he said. Her hair fell in his face. He was strong enough to lift her off him, but of course, he didn't want to. In fact, his primary objective right now was suppressing his boner. He felt like he was 17-years-old.

"Where'd you learn that move?"

"Krav Maga class," she said.

"You're strong," he said.

"And don't ever forget it," she said.

"I never do," he said.

There was something tender and serious in his voice. Cuddy looked into his eyes. It was clear they were about to kiss.

Instead, she hastily rolled off him.

"We should, uh, get back to our paperwork," she said, unsteadily.

"Yeah," House said, and he lay flat on the ground, looking up at the ceiling, trying not to betray his disappointment.

By day three, they had actually made a significant dent in the work. But the office was no cooler and Cuddy didn't even bother to wait until she got overheated before she stripped down to her camisole, then did a seductive little move where she wrapped up her hair in a knot with a pencil in one deft stroke, and got to work.

House could see down her camisole. She was wearing the bra—the red bra—from her office.

He'd already beaten off several times to the image of that red bra. To have Cuddy sitting so close, sweating, partially undressed in it—well, it was almost too much for him to handle.

He exhaled. Tried to think of a particularly nasty case of crotch rot that had come through the clinic earlier.

"Ahhhh," Cuddy said, rubbing her neck. "We've been sitting here so long, my muscles are killing me."

She slowly rotated her head, then stretched.

This woman was trying to kill him.

"May I?" he said. He tentatively placed his hands on her shoulders. "I've been told I have great hands."

"I remember," she said.

And they both blushed.

He began to massage her shoulders and she was making little contented moaning noises that were driving him even more crazy.

"You do have great hands," she breathed.

He massaged her bare neck, then moved his hands lower down her back. On impulse, he reached under her shirt, expecting her to protest, but she said nothing.

His hands moved slowly back up her bare back, then to her shoulders. They migrated forward until he was lightly grazing her clavicle with his fingertips. They were both breathing rather heavily now.

And then House took a chance—one of the biggest chances of his life—and began to massage her breasts.

He was so afraid he had misread the signs—the heat, the closeness, the intimacy— but her moaning grew louder. She arched her back toward him.

"Cuddy," he said softly.

She turned—and her face was slack with desire.

He began to kiss her—and she kissed back, receiving his tongue greedily.

He removed the pencil that was holding up her hair and her beautiful curls swung loose, down to her shoulders.

"I want you so much," he said, kissing her throat and between her breasts.

"Me too," she said. "God help me, me too."

In moments, Cuddy had unbuttoned his pants and shirt and House had hiked up her skirt and removed her camisole. And she was topless, except for that red bra, which was lacy enough that he could see her beautiful breasts.

He wanted to take off her bra and skirt and panties, see her in all her glory, but they were both mindful of the hospital beneath them—which was buzzing with staff and patients and all the normal routines of the late-night shift.

Cuddy unbuttoned House's jeans and pulled out his cock—and he thought he might come just from the sensation of her hand on his dick—and she guided him inside her.

He groaned.

They made love as quietly as possible, but when they both came, the long-awaited release of pressure was simply too much—Cuddy let out a half-yelp, half-scream, and House grunted loudly. Then Cuddy collapsed heavily onto his chest.

They were both out of breath, coated in sweat. She stuck to him.

"Ohmygod," House said.

"Ohmygod," Cuddy said.

She lay on top of him, her chest pressed against his, radiating heat and smelling decadently of sex.

"That was. . ." he said.

He looked up at her—and noticed just the tiniest change in her face.

"A mistake," she said quickly.

It was a like a switch had flipped.

She climbed off him.

"No," he said, grabbing her hand. "It wasn't."

"House, I have a boyfriend," she said.

"I know," he said. "I don't care."

She closed her eyes.

"Don't, House. Don't do this."

"Do what?"
"Don't confuse me."

"That's not my intention."

"I have to go," she said, letting go of his hand. She got dressed, began gathering up all the files, in a sort of officious way. "I think I can finish up the rest on my own. . .Thank you. You've been a lot of . . . help."

She was talking now as though all they had been doing for the last three nights was paperwork.

She left his office.

"Shit," House said.

######

A few days later, Cuddy delivered her final financial report to Don Mackie, the head of accounting.

"It wouldn't necessarily pass muster with the US Treasury," she said. "But for an internal audit, I think it's close enough."

"Did you ever find out who left that anonymous tip?" Mackie asked.

Cuddy squinted at him.

"What anonymous tip?"

"The tip that House's department hadn't submitted an accurate budget report in 8 years. The whole reason for this little audit song and dance."

Cuddy folded her arms.

"No, I never did find out. But I have a strong hunch."

Right after leaving accounting, she wandered over to the maintenance department.

"Hey Lou," she said. "Has Dr. House been by lately?"'

"Yup," Lou said. He was rummaging through a pile of screwdrivers, looking for the right tip.

Cuddy sighed. Well at least he hadn't lied about that.

"So how come you couldn't fix the air in House's wing?"

He stopped.

"You're kidding, right?" he said. "House asked me to turn the air off in that section."

She left his office and marched right to the Diagnostics Department, where House was leading a DDx.

"Everybody out!" she demanded.

"We're in the middle of a . . ." House started.

"Now!" she said.

Taub gave a little whimper and he and the team left the office.

House optimistically started to follow.

She glared at him.

"Sit, House."

He sat.

"Something on your mind, Cuddy?" he asked, ironically.

"Of all the sneaky, back-handed, low-down, unscrupulous things you've ever done, this has to be at the top of the list," she said.

"You're going to have to be more specific," House said.

"You sent an anonymous tip to accounting! You had the air turned off in your office!"

"Guilty as charged."

"You. . .you . . ."

"I what?" he said, looking up at her.

"You tricked me!"

"Tricked you how?"

"You tricked me into"—she looked around the room, lowered her voice—"sleeping with you."

"I tricked you in to sleeping with me? Exactly how does that work, Cuddy? Because you seemed a pretty fucking willing participant—eager, you might even say."

She folded her arms.

"The late nights, the heat. . .you seduced me."

"I could only seduce you if you wanted to be seduced, Cuddy."

He stood up.

"You have this way of . . . twisting things," she said.

He took a step toward her.

"I know," he said.

"I have a boyfriend," she said.

"I know. . .He's a great guy. I hate him." Then he whispered in her ear: "I can't stop thinking about you."

She inhaled.

"Me either," she admitted.

He took his finger, traced the base of her neck.

"So what are we going to do about that, Cuddy?" he said, leaning in, his face right next to hers.

"I honestly don't know," she said, poutily. "And by the way, fuck you, House."

"Fuck you right back, Cuddy," he said. And he smiled.

#####

That night, she broke up with Captain Ned Overstreet.

"Is it because of Dr. House?" he asked.

Cuddy looked down at her feet.

"How did you know?" she asked.

"I saw the way you two looked at each other. Your body language. It was pretty obvious."

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Me too," he said.

"You're sorry?"

"I'm sorry for me and I'm sorry for you. It must suck to be in love with that guy."

Cuddy nodded sadly.

"It does," she said.

THE END

.