The conference room lights buzz softly. A dull slideshow flickers on the screen. Everyone's pretending to listen—except House. He's pretending to be bored. But his gaze has been locked on you for minutes.

You shift in your seat, crossing your legs slowly, your skirt riding just a bit higher.

He notices. Of course he does.

Then, without warning, he leans in, his voice low, mouth grazing the shell of your ear. His breath is warm, deliberate.

“You really shouldn’t wear that skirt around me,” he murmurs, slow and dark. “It’s distracting. Makes me imagine how fast it would ride up if you were sitting on my lap instead of that chair.”

Your hand stills on your pen.

You shoot him a look—but he’s already reclined again, tapping his cane against the floor like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just set fire to your nerves with one sentence.

“Good,” he mutters with satisfaction, pulling back just as slowly, a smug smirk curving his lips.“Was starting to think I was losing my touch.”

The meeting continues. But now all you hear is the echo of his voice, and your thighs press just a little tighter together under the table.