"Yeah," he whispered, trying to pull Foreman closer, finally dropping a verbal indication that Foreman could keep going. He didn't want Foreman to be too careful, now that he was more than ready, and he was afraid he'd made Foreman back off too much. He was already feeling the build again, that desire to be touched and fucked, and he wanted Foreman to want this again, want him, and he tried to think of a way to make that happen, nudge Foreman enough to try to push again. Touch him and fuck him like he was trying to wring something out of him. It would have been hot to see Foreman lose control that much, lose it because of him, how badly he wanted to fuck him, if it hadn't hurt, and he wanted to get Foreman to that point again, now that he knew he could take it. Even more, he wanted Foreman to push him to the point where he could lose control. It had been hot before, and he wanted it again. Was tempted to turn over and lay flat on the bed to let Foreman pound him into the mattress.
He slid his hand over Foreman's hip as far back to his ass as he could reach, loosening his grip. He pulled Foreman in--all the way in--moving his hips back harder and let out a soft groan. "Yeah. Oh, God." He rocked his hips in small, jerky motions, clenching around Foreman, fucking himself on Foreman's dick, not caring how desperate it seemed, how much it showed how much he wanted it. How his body was practically begging for it. It felt too damn good to stop. Another small groan slipped, fingers automatically digging into Foreman's skin. His breathing kicked up, chest rising and falling fast, and he leaned his head back against Foreman, shifting back until he was pressed against Foreman almost entirely, head down to his legs. God, Foreman's skin was hot. So fucking warm, and he tried to push himself closer, even though he was already as close as he was probably going to get. It was easier to do this, shamelessly press himself closer, rock back even faster, let his thoughts turn into words when Foreman couldn't see him. Couldn't see the look on his face that he knew was there, the pleasure forcing his eyes closed, his mouth open every time he took Foreman into him. God, he really wanted to make Foreman hot again, drive him that out of control. Even though it had worked to relax Foreman before, kept him from pulling away, House suspected more sarcasm now would have the opposite effect. He couldn't imagine much more than actually telling Foreman what he wanted to get him to that point again. Not asking. Telling. Voluntarily, unprompted. Even if Foreman made him work for it, not give in right away, the words would still make him hot, push the urgency. "Oh, fuck. I want--I want you to fuck me. Make--God, make me come."
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He slid his hand over Foreman's hip as far back to his ass as he could reach, loosening his grip. He pulled Foreman in--all the way in--moving his hips back harder and let out a soft groan. "Yeah. Oh, God." He rocked his hips in small, jerky motions, clenching around Foreman, fucking himself on Foreman's dick, not caring how desperate it seemed, how much it showed how much he wanted it. How his body was practically begging for it. It felt too damn good to stop. Another small groan slipped, fingers automatically digging into Foreman's skin. His breathing kicked up, chest rising and falling fast, and he leaned his head back against Foreman, shifting back until he was pressed against Foreman almost entirely, head down to his legs. God, Foreman's skin was hot. So fucking warm, and he tried to push himself closer, even though he was already as close as he was probably going to get. It was easier to do this, shamelessly press himself closer, rock back even faster, let his thoughts turn into words when Foreman couldn't see him. Couldn't see the look on his face that he knew was there, the pleasure forcing his eyes closed, his mouth open every time he took Foreman into him. God, he really wanted to make Foreman hot again, drive him that out of control. Even though it had worked to relax Foreman before, kept him from pulling away, House suspected more sarcasm now would have the opposite effect. He couldn't imagine much more than actually telling Foreman what he wanted to get him to that point again. Not asking. Telling. Voluntarily, unprompted. Even if Foreman made him work for it, not give in right away, the words would still make him hot, push the urgency. "Oh, fuck. I want--I want you to fuck me. Make--God, make me come."