Author's Note: I've wanted to write something like this a long time, and Dragynflies's birthday has provided the perfect opportunity. It's a departure, so if you don't like it, please don't stop reading my stories altogether.

He debates a long time before finally picking up the phone. Then he hangs up before he finishes dialing her number. Four times. This time he hears it ringing on her end. His heart is thundering in his chest, and he's about to hang up when he hears her answer.

"House?"

"Cameron." On the other end he can hear her shallow breathing. He imagines how she must look right now: barely sitting, poised for flight, tension showing in every muscle. If he's misread her, this could go so wrong—he could lose her and his job instantly. He fights with hanging up, listens to her breathing. "Unlock your front door, take off your clothes. Kneel on the bed with your back to the door and do not move." He waits for some kind of objection, but hears none. "Now." He hears the receiver drop into the cradle.

He pours himself a finger of scotch and wonders how long he can make himself wait before leaving.

oOoOo

For a second she sits by the phone, eyes closed and smiling. "Finally," she breathes.

All day long she'd been kicking herself that her chance had come (again) and she'd botched it (again). But she is lucky after all; he's figured her out despite her lies. She bounces off the couch and unlocks the front door, then scampers eagerly to the bedroom. She strips and tosses the clothes in the basket in her closet. Her pose on the bed is careful: back to the door, on her knees, with about half of each calf hanging over the edge. Dark waves hang around her face, blocking her peripheral vision.

She waits.

She has no idea what to expect. He might be planning to fuck her; he might be planning to leaver her waiting for days. He might be planning to spank her.

The idea of some discipline in the boudoir has always got her hot, but until tonight she has seriously doubted she ever wanted the reality of it. Now though, she is so turned on she thinks she will do anything he says and beg for more. She has never been this turned on. She is so wet that she can feel a tickling drip down her inner thigh. She wants to wipe it away. She wants to touch herself, fuck herself. She could come so easily right now, but his words are echoing in her mind. "Do not move."

She doesn't.

oOoOo

Earlier that day, at PPTH…

Cameron sits at the conference table, silently working on her charting while Chase works a crossword and Foreman eats his lunch. House comes up behind her. "New iPod? What are you listening to?" Her hand moves to grab it, but he is faster. When he reads the display, his mind starts churning with what this might mean, but he tries to sound casual as he tests her. "Soundtrack from Secretary. Good movie?"

"I just like the music," she sputters. "I mean, the movie's alright. I just like James Spader movies. And Maggie Gyllenhaal."

"Huh," he says. He returns the iPod to the table, and escapes to his office. Her answer was too fast, too earnest: she was lying. It was too easy to draw conclusions about a young, brunette, ingénue doctor listening to the soundtrack of a film about a young, brunette, ingénue secretary. Engaging in BDSM. With her boss. Whom she loves.

Images from the film flood his mind, with himself and Cameron inserted. Cameron bent over his desk. Cameron eating from the palm of his hand. Cameron tied against a tree while he fucks her, hard.

He will think of nothing else the rest of the day.

oOoOo

She hears him open the door and walk in onto the hardwood floor of the living room. Her head involuntarily turns to look behind her, but she catches herself and jerks it back. Her alarm clock has been annoyingly out of her vision, and she has managed not to peek; she has no idea how much time has passed since his call. She lost count after about fifteen minutes, and she guesses it may have been as long as three hours.

Really it was closer to one and a half.

Now she spends all her energy on listening. On trying to detect what he's doing out there.

House takes off his shoes for stealth. He walks slowly and silently to her bedroom door, and allows himself the briefest of glances at her. He holds his breath for a count of ten seconds, then looks again. And stares. Turning his back to her and returning to the living room takes all his will. He sits on the couch. Waits.

He's fully hard, throbbing. His whole body throbs; he can feel his pulse in every extremity. He's torturing himself with waiting for her, to the point that he is in agony. He decides on fifteen minutes, and he thinks that these fifteen minutes will be worse than the whole three years he has already made himself wait.

He only makes it through five.

Now he is walking fast and purposeful to her bedroom, and she hears him coming. She hears the pound of the cane as it hits her floor, hard, then hears the noise suddenly come to a stop when he's standing right behind her. She shakes with anticipation.

She sighs heavily when she feels his large right hand at the middle of her spine. Then it slides down the dip of her back, onto her right buttock. He gently squeezes, traces his thumb back and forth twice on her smooth white skin, then lets it rest there. 'Ohmygod he's going to,' she thinks. When she squeezes her pelvic floor muscle he feels her ass shiver under his hand.

Abruptly she does not feel his hand on her, and she braces for the impact. His hand swings back and there is a loud thwack of skin on skin and she shakes and gasps. Her chin jerks as she realizes he has not hit her, but his own left palm.

She feels his hands on her hips. His touch almost burns: his skin is impossibly hot from the slap, like the skin of her face has been since she heard it. Since that moment her perception of the scenario has changed from 'christ, that might be sexy' to 'ohmygod, give it to me NOW.' She bends her knees slightly and her ass grinds against the fly of his jeans.

He steps back from her and removes his clothes. She squeezes her eyes shut tight and listens carefully, trying to predict his next move. Seconds tick by and she wishes she had counted them.

Without warning she feels a slap on the right side of her ass, and he's happy that her sigh sounds exactly like ecstasy. He hits her again, still nowhere near hard enough to really hurt. It merely pinks up her pretty skin, and drives her mad with lust. He hasn't said she must be quiet, so she whispers, "I want you."

He presses the head of his cock to her and slides in tantalizingly slow. When he's inside, she sighs contentedly, "Oh." Then a clap as he slaps her. "Oh!"

She grips the sheets and forces herself back into his thrusts. They fuck hard and hungry because every second since he called has been like full sex—hours of foreplay. She's dripping sweat down her face, arousal down her thighs. She's noisy; he loves it. He feels like he's going to explode and he does, "Cameron," slamming into her and rubbing her clit, feeling her clutch his cock and spasm under his fingers. They collapse into a sweaty, panting heap of arms and legs.

Each of them loves this closeness as much as the other would wish. They hold each other; observe the other's heart rate and respiration. Privately gloat at how they've affected each other.

Suddenly he kisses her forehead and stands. She kneels on the bed and sits back on her heels, watching him dress like a puppy who knows her special person is leaving. He moves to her dresser. "I'm going to pick you out some pajamas," he says. She is elated and relieved that it's not all over. He rifles through the drawers, taking a casual look at all of her things and then making his selection. "Here, I want to see you in it before I go."

She slips into the clothes he hands her: a tiny pair of white cotton bikini-style panties and white knee socks.

He gulps: he's not sure he'll be able to leave. "What time is your alarm set for?"

"Seven."

"At seven o'clock, the phone will ring. Pick up the phone and hold it to your ear, and I want to listen to you make yourself come."

Cameron's whole body shudders and her eyes flick closed. She exhales noisily, and nods. Unexpectedly he folds her in his arms, kisses her hard and deep. He leaves her standing dumbfounded for a moment.

Then she comes to her senses; locks the front door and turns out the lights. She pulls back the slightly rumpled bedding and climbs under the covers. She falls asleep with her hand in her panties, waiting for the phone to ring again.

FIN