Disclaimer: I don't own them. I'm only practicing my linguistics of these fascinating characters.

Author's Note: I could think of a few other things I should be writing, but I've had this on my hard disk for a while. I pulled it up, did some editing and thought I'd share. This is set in the season 6 context. There's a Lucas, a Rachel, a heartbroken House and a torn Cuddy. It's slightly mature-ish - nothing explicit enough to warrant an M rating, but still I thought I'd mention it. The quote at the beginning is taken from LeAnn Rimes' amazing song Damn (which reminds me of House and Cuddy).

I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

The Edge
"How'd you learn to draw me to the cliff just to push me off the edge?"

There was a hooker on his lap.

The door was open, a perspicuous wedge of golden light trailing bluntly across his living room floor, licking at the empty corner of the worn sofa. Pomme, French for apple, smelled like too many candied apples at the carnival – the kind that would give him a stomachache when he made it back home, but he had learnt to deal with unpleasant smells. Not every woman he paid to be the flavor of the evening would wear a subtle fragrance tailored to intoxicate his senses. He was pragmatic that way.

He didn't breathe in the strangers.

He was thinking about smells and the uncomfortable way her knee was digging into the side of his maimed thigh when the door swung open on dry hinges. It wasn't sudden or loud. The feat was accomplished with enough hesitation to mimic the handiwork of a gifted thief. The sound barely penetrated his drugged mind, but the light caught on the edge of his blurry vision. Golden, warm and completely out of place where he usually relished in the anonymity of the darkness. He'd found that unseen faces were more easily forgotten.

Alarmed, House went still, steady hands moving from hips to elbows, gently gripping Pomme's skinny arms to slide her off her perch on his lap. She slid to the side easily, like one who had been cast off one too many times. His eyes narrowed on the figure looming in his doorway, squinting to adjust to the shifty shadows. Backlit in the darkness, her silhouette was unmistakable – the slim set of her shoulders, the narrow waist and full hips bundled in expensive winter clothes.

"Cuddy?" he snapped, his tone full of unchecked, misdirected anger borne of the sudden heaviness on his chest. "What are you doing here?"

At the sound of his harsh voice, she reflexively stepped backwards. "I… I'm sorry," she stammered before retreating into the hallway, doorknob in hand, taking away the whisper of light.

The room plunged into darkness again, the comforting obscurity swallowing him whole. Wilson's DVD player blinked blue numbers with impatient promptness. He sat frozen in his warm corner, replaying the breathlessness of her whispered apology. She'd sounded surprised, taken aback like she had been driving too fast on a road that took an unpredictably sharp turn. Pomme laid her hand on the inside of his elbow, leaning close, and he could feel her cigarette-flavored breath coiling against his unshaven jaw.

"Who was that?" she asked, genuinely curious, and the words erased the image of a devastated Lisa Cuddy from his mind.

He came to his feet decisively; Pomme's hand glided down his arm and fell to her side. "I'll be back in a minute," he said dismissively, taking quick long steps towards the door, his fingers firmly clutching his burning thigh. On a whim, he pulled the door open, and the light rushed in like a refugee from the night chill, blinding him. He squinted against the brightness and found her standing a few steps away, just at the entrance to the building, her back turned towards him. One slender hand made a sweeping pass across her face. She was tucked into a long white coat that hugged her in all the right places. He envied the scrap of thick wool for liberties he didn't possess, and he resented her for reducing him to holding an article of clothing in contempt.

With a heavy sigh that turned to smoke in the frigid mid-December air, he hobbled forward, more carefully this time because his thigh didn't wish to be tested anymore. His bare feet hit the cold linoleum ground and he swore in consternation. That seemed to alert her to his presence because she straightened and lifted her chin a notch, pretending to be digging through her large designer purse for a forgotten umbrella that she pulled out one second later. His hand on her bare wrist stopped her from stepping out onto the pavement, but she didn't turn to face him.

"Cuddy," he began, his gruff voice filling the entrance hall with an echo that disturbed the pitter-patter of the incessant rain. He was uncertain of the game they were playing today, but the familiar rush of revisiting their battlefield was painfully addictive. They were masochists, he thought as his hold on her turned insistent, forcing her around, his breath catching in his throat when she finally relented and swiveled angrily. Her eyes were muddled with pink furious veins, the unmistakable track of tears smeared across her pale cheeks. Their gazes met and held for seconds on end, the silence heavy, and then she looked away, lowering sooty lashes over smoky blue eyes. House let her hand go, stifled by how hurting her made him ache physically. "You're crying," he observed softly.

She rolled her lips inwards and averted his stare as fresh tears clung to her eyelashes. In an absurd display of stubborn denial, she shook her dark head, and he let out a low humorless chuckle of disbelief.

"Cuddy," he scolded her, his tone devoid of sarcasm. House reached for her, his large hand engulfing her wrist, and he pulled her towards him. It was never easy with her. Just as fiercely self-barricaded as he was, she fought him for all she was worth, trying futilely to free her hand, and he tightened his grip with both anger and frustration. She railed against his anticipated triumph in the physical contest, but – cripple or not – he was stronger. Another tear rolled down her cheek, and her teeth sank into her bottom lip punishingly. Before he could deliberate over his next move, he had her a few scant inches away, and his hand was covering her cheek, the pad of his thumb tenderly collecting the offending moisture. "Why?" he whispered, studying her stricken features as he moved his thumb to her soft lips, rubbing them apart to stop her from gnawing at them. Her mouth fell open under his touch, but she steeled herself against him, her entire body poised in rigid anticipation of stopping his attempts at compensation. Smart girl, he thought wryly. Smart stubborn girl. She was going to be the death of him – literally.

"My car died on your street," she said finally, her voice husky from crying, her words warming his fingertips.

One corner of his lips twisted in a grim smile. "You're a lousy liar," he chided her, lowering his head so that his nose was almost touching her temple. The smell of her shampoo was intoxicating – clean and floral and Cuddy. They were standing much too close to each other, and he was feeling too much of her, too much of wanting her – just too much. Her breaths curled hotly across his neck, but enigma that she was, she made no move to step back or to push his hand off her face. He had the sudden urge to explain himself, to explain the hooker on his lap, the smell of candied apples on his shirt. It was utterly ridiculous. If anyone had anything to explain, it would be Cuddy whose house was a sanctuary of light, bursting with a child and a man who worshipped the ground she walked on. "Why are you really here?" he asked instead, his long fingers still gliding across her cool cheek. He watched his hand move across her jaw to her neck, under the collar of her thick coat. She gasped when his fingers made contact with her warm skin. "Where's Lucas? Why are you crying?" he insisted.

Her free hand caught his wandering fingers and rebelliously dragged them away from her skin. She stepped away, shaking his hand off, and he let her go, watching her eyes harden to something as icy as the weather. The proud tilt of her chin said she had conquered the weakness that had brought her to his doorstep. He felt something akin to regret. "My car died," she repeated determinedly. "I was just frustrated. Lucas is at home with Rachel. The cab company said they'd need another hour to get here."

She was a quick thinker on her lying feet. He quirked an eyebrow at her and decided to humor her. "Then come in. You can call my cab company," he offered, smiling a falsely innocent smile in her direction.

Cuddy pursed her lips, looking like a deer caught in the blinding headlights of an incoming train. "I don't think so," she said finally.

He measured her lowered chin and diverted gaze for a second too long. "I'll ask her to leave," he murmured, reluctantly moving his feet over the cold ground to crowd her space.

"No," she interjected quickly. "You two can," she paused and swallowed tightly. "Do your thing," she finished. "I'll just wait for them in my car," she reasoned, and it was fairly obvious that her fight or flight response had kicked in. She was about to step out again when his hands closed over her elbows, pulling her towards him roughly before she could plant her feet on the ground and fight back. She stumbled into his chest with a sharp intake of breath, and he caught her around the waist, pressing her warm body to the length of his own body.

She placed her hands on his chest defiantly, her manicured fingers digging into the soft cotton of his white t-shirt. "House," she warned. "Don't," she pleaded as she looked up at him, her gaze fear-stricken because she knew as well as he did that she wasn't going to stop him.

House had never been one to listen, and he was tired of fighting her in a masquerade of lust and denial. All bets were off tonight.

Keeping one arm holding her securely against him, he snared his other hand in her hair and held her head still. He lowered his head slowly, giving her every chance to turn away, but when his lips brushed against hers she was still there, her mouth as warm as the rest of her. She resolutely inured herself to his kiss. Her lips were set firmly, unmoving against his tireless kisses. He tightened his arm around her as if that would weaken her resolve and pressed a small kiss to the corner of her mouth. He kissed the spot again, lips parting to allow his tongue to teasingly trace the delicate line between upper and bottom lip.

It happened all at once. One minute, her palms were on his chest, pushing him away, her lips immobile beneath his own, and the next her fingers were fisted in the worn cotton of his t-shirt, holding him to her. His mouth was open over hers, his tongue buried inside her mouth, hunger pouring out of him like something alive and bursting, engulfing her. Overpowered, she moaned deep in her throat, and the sound shook him to the core. She tasted like green tea and fruit – like winter warmed to a slow sizzle – and he couldn't get enough of her.

House fumbled with the large buttons down the front of her coat and pulled it open, his hands settling at her waist, deftly inching up the hem of her sweater. She pulled away, staring up at him, her red-rimmed eyes glassy with lust and some other emotion he couldn't quite name. She gasped when his hands slid under her sweater, gliding over her bare skin brazenly. Her eyes squeezed shut, and her arms slipped around his neck, holding him closer than sanity allowed. He bent and traced another kiss across her swollen mouth, his hands exploring her skin at leisure, the hard length of his erection nestled against her stomach. His thumb skated across the underside of her breast through the flimsy material of her bra, and she whimpered against his mouth, straight teeth sinking into his bottom lip tantalizingly. She licked the sensitive skin soothingly, and he groaned at the delicious mixture of pleasure and pain.

"Hey… Oh!"

The sound of Pomme's voice prompted Cuddy to spring away, but his arm was quick to hold her in place against him. He was too far in to let her run this time.

"House," she whispered, clearly embarrassed. Though he couldn't imagine why anyone other than him should be embarrassed. He had a hooker in his apartment, and the woman that actively haunted his every fantasy in his arms. "Let me go," she begged, wriggling in his arms. He growled when her restless movements made her rub against his straining erection.

"No," he told her firmly, turning his head to stare at the barely-dressed girl in his doorframe. She had a strangely pretty face, innocent features belied by the emptiness in her eyes. "You should leave," he stated quietly, appropriately apologetic.

Pomme gave him a tiny knowing smile, and he wondered how easy it would be to forget her face. "I'll just get my things," she said before disappearing into his apartment.

He looked down at the top of Cuddy's head. She was staring at his chest, catching her stolen breath. When he settled his hands at the back of her skull, coaxing her to lift it for another lingering kiss, she shook her head and pressed her forehead to his chest. She drew in a deep breath, her nose buried in his t-shirt like she wanted to breathe him in. "We shouldn't. I should go," she spoke softly, the words muffled against his chest.

His heart twisted painfully against his ribs, a riot against every time he'd walked away and every time he'd let her walk away. "Too late," he taunted, his voice a rough desperate whisper against her hair. It was far too late. There were no rules to this new game. Only necessities: want, hunger, love. "Look at me," he ordered, urging her to tilt her head upwards. She complied wordlessly, leaning back to stare into his penetrating gaze. The smolder of desire in her eyes was cloaked under guilt and the thousand reasons why this was a terrible idea. Heedless of the restrictions, he kissed her to soften the unrelenting set of her jaw, tracing a path of light kisses down the length of her neck and to her collarbone. Her hands threaded through his hair yieldingly, keeping his mouth hot on her skin. He followed the plunging neckline of her sweater, his stubble leaving angry marks on her skin. With the tip of his tongue, he moistened the hollow between her breasts. She trembled in his arms and made a soft sound that made him want to push her against the wall and bury himself inside her. He tore himself away because another kiss, another caress, and he would forget about Pomme again.

"I have to go inside for a minute. Wait for me here," he ordered, his arms releasing her as he stepped backwards, hissing at the renewed feeling of the cold ground beneath his feet.

Frowning in concern, she looked down at the source of his discomfort. "You're barefoot!" she sputtered, glaring at him ominously. "Are you crazy? You're going to catch pneumonia or…"

House rolled his eyes at her effortless transformation from wanton vixen to panicky physician. "I'm not exactly cold," he interrupted, looking pointedly at the tent in his pajama pants.

She followed his gaze and began to laugh quietly. Standing on her tiptoes, she cupped his rough cheeks and kissed him chastely on the lips.

"Don't leave," he mumbled against her lips, enveloping her small frame in his arms. She slid all ten fingers into his hair and kissed him again, closed-mouth kisses that he barely returned as he smoothed his hands over her buttocks, gripping the firm muscle with a loud groan. She was laughing in between kisses, pressed up against him wickedly. "Don't leave," he repeated, more assertive, the hungry look in his eyes killing the laughter in her throat.

He disentangled himself from her arms and stepped back because all of a sudden, he couldn't keep his hands to himself.

She nodded like an obedient child and watched him limp back into his apartment. He was so painfully aroused, the thin material of his boxers felt abrasive against his skin. The apartment was still as dark as when he had stepped outside; Pomme was still sitting on the couch, fully dressed. He walked over to the bookshelf against the wall, reaching for the wad of cash he'd left on the top shelf. He counted the money as Pomme left his couch and made her way towards the door. They stopped a couple of feet away, and he handed her the cash with a sheepish smile. "I'm sorry I wasted your time," he said without remorse, and she smiled up at him sexily.

"No, you're not," she told him cattily. "Call me when you're lonely," she whispered, placing her hand on his arm. She let it linger there for a few seconds as they stared each other down.

He wasn't planning on being lonely any time soon, but he grinned nevertheless and followed her to the doorway. She stepped into the entrance hall with him close at her heels, his eyes peering over her head in search of Cuddy.

The entrance hall was glaringly empty. Pomme never glanced back as she stepped out into the rainy night, walking down the street quickly.

Cuddy was gone.

A/N: Thanks for reading! Reviews make me very happy. :-)