House barely felt the drift of Foreman's fingers on his arm; he was far too distracted by the sensations and pressure in his own body, the hot, hot air of Foreman's breath in his ear, even warmer feeling of Foreman's mouth. The heat and weight of Foreman's body. It all spurred him on, and he felt himself tumbling toward his orgasm. So fucking close. Foreman knew it, too--he said so--and House managed to answer with a nod, a small groan, hoping like hell that the smugness in Foreman's voice was nothing more than the satisfaction of his orgasm. Alarm began creeping into his brain the first time Foreman paused. No. No, God, no. Please, don't stop.
He shifted with Foreman, more of his weight on his right side--he would take an extra Vicodin later--and he tried to push his dick into Foreman's hand, give himself some control, just a little more friction, but he collapsed weakly with no way to gain any leverage. Foreman was heavy on top of him and, even though Foreman wasn't making much of a conscious effort to hold him down, House struggled to move at all. Desperation clawed its way up his throat as Foreman slowed, burst out of him in a strained, breathy cry when Foreman stopped altogether, his hand loosely curled around his erection. He grasped at the bedsheets, squeezing his eyes shut, his head shaking with small motions. Oh, God, he wouldn't. He'll keep going in a second. Just give it a second. Foreman wouldn't do this to him. Not when his dick was so hard, throbbing so much that it fucking hurt. Not when he was on the cusp of orgasm, almost dangling over the edge, just waiting for one last push. But, no, Foreman would, the bastard. He would. Fuck, he wanted to come so badly, so damn badly. Wanted to let go, feel that last, breath-stealing rush of pleasure break over him. God, he needed it.
The kiss on his neck, then his shoulder, seemed like nothing but a tease, and all House's mind could focus on was the heavy feeling in his groin, the tension and need for release. His breaths were fast, uneven, catching in his throat around small, pathetic whimpers, and House wet his lips, tried to speak, words mixing in his head, not quite making it to his mouth. Keep. God, keep going. Please, I need--Make me. Make me come. Need to come. Need. Please. He knew those words were the ones Foreman wanted to hear, wanted to drag out of him, and, fuck he was so close to saying them. Blurting them all out in one breathless rush. He would hate himself for it. He swallowed, closing his eyes, refusing to catch even Foreman's blurry profile at the edges of his vision. "Foreman--" he started, his voice not nearly as demanding as he'd hoped. Pathetic. Needy. Desperate. He could hear it, even in his own ears, and he squeezed his eyes shut tighter, hoping he wouldn't have to say anything else. He tried again to jerk his hips enough to let his erection slide just enough in Foreman's hand, but he hardly moved. Not enough. He wouldn't be able to do this for himself; Foreman had him fucking trapped, and every second that passed made House more desperate. "Foreman," he repeated, his voice higher than a moment ago. Fucking pleading, but it might make Foreman crack, give in; it already had once. God, he hoped it was enough. He didn't trust himself to hold himself back if Foreman refused to let him come--let him come, Jesus--until he said more than Foreman's name.
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He shifted with Foreman, more of his weight on his right side--he would take an extra Vicodin later--and he tried to push his dick into Foreman's hand, give himself some control, just a little more friction, but he collapsed weakly with no way to gain any leverage. Foreman was heavy on top of him and, even though Foreman wasn't making much of a conscious effort to hold him down, House struggled to move at all. Desperation clawed its way up his throat as Foreman slowed, burst out of him in a strained, breathy cry when Foreman stopped altogether, his hand loosely curled around his erection. He grasped at the bedsheets, squeezing his eyes shut, his head shaking with small motions. Oh, God, he wouldn't. He'll keep going in a second. Just give it a second. Foreman wouldn't do this to him. Not when his dick was so hard, throbbing so much that it fucking hurt. Not when he was on the cusp of orgasm, almost dangling over the edge, just waiting for one last push. But, no, Foreman would, the bastard. He would. Fuck, he wanted to come so badly, so damn badly. Wanted to let go, feel that last, breath-stealing rush of pleasure break over him. God, he needed it.
The kiss on his neck, then his shoulder, seemed like nothing but a tease, and all House's mind could focus on was the heavy feeling in his groin, the tension and need for release. His breaths were fast, uneven, catching in his throat around small, pathetic whimpers, and House wet his lips, tried to speak, words mixing in his head, not quite making it to his mouth. Keep. God, keep going. Please, I need--Make me. Make me come. Need to come. Need. Please. He knew those words were the ones Foreman wanted to hear, wanted to drag out of him, and, fuck he was so close to saying them. Blurting them all out in one breathless rush. He would hate himself for it. He swallowed, closing his eyes, refusing to catch even Foreman's blurry profile at the edges of his vision. "Foreman--" he started, his voice not nearly as demanding as he'd hoped. Pathetic. Needy. Desperate. He could hear it, even in his own ears, and he squeezed his eyes shut tighter, hoping he wouldn't have to say anything else. He tried again to jerk his hips enough to let his erection slide just enough in Foreman's hand, but he hardly moved. Not enough. He wouldn't be able to do this for himself; Foreman had him fucking trapped, and every second that passed made House more desperate. "Foreman," he repeated, his voice higher than a moment ago. Fucking pleading, but it might make Foreman crack, give in; it already had once. God, he hoped it was enough. He didn't trust himself to hold himself back if Foreman refused to let him come--let him come, Jesus--until he said more than Foreman's name.