vicodincrutch | 095. Diagnosis

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095. Diagnosis

I wouldn't be who I am without looking a gift horse in the mouth. Either someone has paid all women some amount of money to appear attracted or mildly interested or there is a curse going on. Or an out break.

In the event of the first, C-cups and up only.

[ooc; you know you want to.]

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[Whatever. Not only did she understand him, but she could order the lobster too if she felt like it. She didn't live in Paris just to learn nothing. At least she slows them down before he bangs into the edge of the desk; she's not that out of control.]

They don't bite.

[Keeping up with the foreign language game, she hopes he understood her heavily accented French. Staring at them will get him nowhere.]

Thank God.

[The door should be locked. In fact, not only should the door be locked, it should be locked with Angela on the other side, far, far, far down the hall. But it's not, so only if they're lucky will somebody walk in and stop them both from doing something they'll both regret.

Well, at least Angela will, because she's slipping her hands into the back pocket of his pants, tapping out a rhythm on his read end. Looking up at him she smiles slightly. Okay, more like a bloodthirsty shark.]

My hands got bored.

[She glances down at the hand on her breast and then the one on her ass. This is interesting in more ways than one. Her own hands can't stay where they are, not by a long shot, so she brings them forward to his belt buckle, deftly removing the leather strap.]

Are you just going to touch all day or will I have to do all the work?

[Not that she minds, but hey, might as well put who's running the show on the table.]

I'm along for the ride. Joy ride I mean.

[Angela shrugs to that. Whatever. It's not the first time she took the lead. Hell, some of the guys she's been with actually liked that. Rising just a little to press her lips against his, she continues down his jawline, leaving a trail of lip gloss prints in her wake as she popped those little annoying shirt buttons of his.]

I don't know what it is...

[She pauses because what doesn't she know? It's not as clear to her as it should be. Way in the back of her head, there's a little voice screaming bloody murder about red flag, but through the haze of the curse, Angela's consciousness can't hear it. Or maybe it's ignoring it. Her brain says no, but her body is definitely saying yes.]

I don't think I can wait much longer.

Middle drawer underneath the comics.

[That's all she needed to hear. She's leaning down into that mysterious abyss of superheroes on paper and prophylactics when a shrill musical number cuts through the stillness of the office like a hot knife through butter.

Her phone. That was all she needed not to hear.]

I'm ignoring you...

[The phone, not the man underneath her.]

Mmmm?

[Things are getting harder than they should be--no pun intended--because Angela's trying to juggle the treasure hunt in the desk with one hand and trying to reach for that twice-damned cell that won't stop ringing. You'd think people would actually use the voicemail feature.

And House isn't making it easy with his mouth on sensitive areas of her neck.]

My phone...

[You know, that's a good question. Just who is calling. She lets loose a breath of frustration, leaning further back glance at the screen on the phone that somehow made its way to the floor. Two seconds of realization is all she needs before she's reluctantly pulling herself off that good-smelling man.]

Shit. It's my boss.

[It's Beer Drinkers & Hell Raisers by ZZ Top. Maybe that's another omen.]

What? You aren't allowed a thirty minute break?

For lunch.

[Not for following manly scents down the hall and onto a desk to be half naked, looking for condoms under Batman.

She isn't paying attention as she dresses herself quickly, except to remember to put her bra back on, but her hair and her skirt are still shifted into all sorts of directions. Her thong, though? That she leaves deliberately as a souvenir on the edge of his desk.]

I'll be back for those later.

Consider them stashed.

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095. Diagnosis

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