Foreman looked down sharply when House stepped in front of him and placed a hand on his chest. He nearly expected House to lift his hand suddenly and flick at his face, a trick for making him look. But he couldn't help himself; House's hand was warm and broad, his fingers splayed just enough that Foreman could feel the strength behind the touch, and Foreman didn't trust House for a second, especially when House tried to turn his own tactic around on him, talking about what Foreman would be picturing. Damn him for being right, for proving all over how predictable Foreman was. He was already leaning into House's hand to get the pressure he wanted and hoping against all rationality that House would slide his fingers lower, the way he'd already done once. The blood was rushing to Foreman's dick, anticipation making him half-hard already. If House was taunting him, then Foreman was going to kill him before he let him out the door. "Yeah, five minutes until I'm imagining you're still here," he said, covering the admission in sarcasm. "Because you're leaving. Or at least, that's what I imagined I heard you say."
House's whisper in his ear made Foreman lose track of any other smart remark he wanted to make. Foreman hadn't been thinking of jerking off--he'd been pissed off, and annoyed, and he could have ignored his dick long enough to get back to sleep--but listening to House he knew that sleep was no longer an option. Wishing it was House--no, more like wishing it was anybody but House, wishing he had enough control over his own damn fantasies to pretend it wasn't House he was thinking of. House's t-shirt brushed against his shin as it fell, and then all Foreman was paying attention to was House's hand sneaking under the waistband of his boxers, the maddening squeeze and release of House's grip, the barely-there rub of his fingers.
Harder, come on. He didn't say the words--he was already astonished that House was initiating a second round. Foreman reached up to touch House's jaw when he kissed him, his fingers resting just under House's jaw to encourage him to tilt his head to a better angle, his palm rasping against House's stubble. Foreman could feel House's pulse, blurring against his own but obviously elevated, and he tongued his way deeper into House's mouth, glad at least that House was reacting, that this wasn't all some dismal, pitiable joke House was playing on him. But House was already touching him more, one hand roaming over his chest and stomach while the other kept up its slow teasing stroke. There was no way he'd go this far if he wasn't getting something out of it, something a lot better than humiliating Foreman. Remembering House on his knees, sucking him, squeezing his ass and pulling him in, Foreman found himself on the verge of a moan.
He was able to bite it back in time, though. He met House's eyes when he pulled back, trying to control the rate of his breathing, the slow look of desire he couldn't quite suppress. He blinked at House's words, frowning slightly. That was what House was still focused on? The fact that he'd called the kiss a mistake? Foreman snorted quietly. So there was House's damn confession. It had meant something to him, obviously, if he was getting this worked up about Foreman's dismissive comment. Foreman leaned in and brought his own hand up to cup House's crotch, feeling incredibly satisfied when he found him hard. "I think," he said smugly, "it'll only be a mistake if we both end up jerking off."
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House's whisper in his ear made Foreman lose track of any other smart remark he wanted to make. Foreman hadn't been thinking of jerking off--he'd been pissed off, and annoyed, and he could have ignored his dick long enough to get back to sleep--but listening to House he knew that sleep was no longer an option. Wishing it was House--no, more like wishing it was anybody but House, wishing he had enough control over his own damn fantasies to pretend it wasn't House he was thinking of. House's t-shirt brushed against his shin as it fell, and then all Foreman was paying attention to was House's hand sneaking under the waistband of his boxers, the maddening squeeze and release of House's grip, the barely-there rub of his fingers.
Harder, come on. He didn't say the words--he was already astonished that House was initiating a second round. Foreman reached up to touch House's jaw when he kissed him, his fingers resting just under House's jaw to encourage him to tilt his head to a better angle, his palm rasping against House's stubble. Foreman could feel House's pulse, blurring against his own but obviously elevated, and he tongued his way deeper into House's mouth, glad at least that House was reacting, that this wasn't all some dismal, pitiable joke House was playing on him. But House was already touching him more, one hand roaming over his chest and stomach while the other kept up its slow teasing stroke. There was no way he'd go this far if he wasn't getting something out of it, something a lot better than humiliating Foreman. Remembering House on his knees, sucking him, squeezing his ass and pulling him in, Foreman found himself on the verge of a moan.
He was able to bite it back in time, though. He met House's eyes when he pulled back, trying to control the rate of his breathing, the slow look of desire he couldn't quite suppress. He blinked at House's words, frowning slightly. That was what House was still focused on? The fact that he'd called the kiss a mistake? Foreman snorted quietly. So there was House's damn confession. It had meant something to him, obviously, if he was getting this worked up about Foreman's dismissive comment. Foreman leaned in and brought his own hand up to cup House's crotch, feeling incredibly satisfied when he found him hard. "I think," he said smugly, "it'll only be a mistake if we both end up jerking off."