House didn't hold back a blustery sigh when he heard Foreman's 'Yeah'. Even less concerned about the broken, high-pitched moan when Foreman began moving his hand again, jerking him off, thumb rubbing just there until House exhaled sharply around Foreman's name, his body jerking with rigid spasms as his orgasm finally, finally crashed over him. Wiped his brain clear. Clear except for the burning-white sparks of pleasure firing in his whole fucking body. God, House could barely breathe, mouth open and trying to draw as much air as possible. Instinctively, House upturned his hand and clasped Foreman's, needing something solid, something real to fucking ground him. He squeezed Foreman's hand, punctuating the breathless, gasped words that had bypassed his brain and were sneaking out of his mouth. "Yeah. Yes. Yes. Oh. God." Not once sparing a thought to how much Foreman saw, how much he heard. All that mattered at that moment was the amazing release of all the pent-up tension and pressure, the overwhelming, almost paralyzing pleasure. Nothing else.
Those thoughts, however, came rushing into his head as soon as his orgasm ebbed and he sagged against the bed, under Foreman's weight. Foreman. He couldn't help but wonder what the hell he thought, how he'd react. He'd practically begged Foreman to finish him off, begged to get fucked, then begged for more. House tried to tell himself it had only been because he knew that Foreman could fuck, could get him of--no other reason--but the argument fell short when House opened his eyes, glanced at their intertwined fingers. The way he'd reached for Foreman's hand--the only part of Foreman that he could easily reach--had been purely instinctive. Automatic. Now, as his body trembled with the exertion and aftershocks of his orgasm, breaths finally beginning to slow and even out, House had no excuse for the fact that he was still grasping Foreman's hand. Like it mattered. Like this had mattered. What the fuck was he thinking? He wasn't, apparently. Couldn't be, if he was fucking holding onto Foreman's hand like he wanted to stay, wanted to actually depend on Foreman to want him around. It was ridiculous, and House opened his hand, releasing Foreman's and gathering a handful of the sheets instead. Stupid. Ruining his post-orgasmic euphoria, and--
No. No. He wasn't about to keep thinking about it. Wasn't going to look at Foreman. He shook his head gently to clear away his thoughts, focusing on the warmth inside his chest, the blissful satisfaction relaxing, loosening his muscles. Foreman was heavy, still inside him, and he should have tried to nudge him off of him--he'd have to clean up soon, at least, peel himself away from the sweaty sheets, the wet spot he'd left--but he let Foreman stay where he was. Something else he wasn't about to think of too much as he let his eyes close, trying to bask in the afterglow of his orgasm as long as possible.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2009-01-05 08:07 am (UTC)Those thoughts, however, came rushing into his head as soon as his orgasm ebbed and he sagged against the bed, under Foreman's weight. Foreman. He couldn't help but wonder what the hell he thought, how he'd react. He'd practically begged Foreman to finish him off, begged to get fucked, then begged for more. House tried to tell himself it had only been because he knew that Foreman could fuck, could get him of--no other reason--but the argument fell short when House opened his eyes, glanced at their intertwined fingers. The way he'd reached for Foreman's hand--the only part of Foreman that he could easily reach--had been purely instinctive. Automatic. Now, as his body trembled with the exertion and aftershocks of his orgasm, breaths finally beginning to slow and even out, House had no excuse for the fact that he was still grasping Foreman's hand. Like it mattered. Like this had mattered. What the fuck was he thinking? He wasn't, apparently. Couldn't be, if he was fucking holding onto Foreman's hand like he wanted to stay, wanted to actually depend on Foreman to want him around. It was ridiculous, and House opened his hand, releasing Foreman's and gathering a handful of the sheets instead. Stupid. Ruining his post-orgasmic euphoria, and--
No. No. He wasn't about to keep thinking about it. Wasn't going to look at Foreman. He shook his head gently to clear away his thoughts, focusing on the warmth inside his chest, the blissful satisfaction relaxing, loosening his muscles. Foreman was heavy, still inside him, and he should have tried to nudge him off of him--he'd have to clean up soon, at least, peel himself away from the sweaty sheets, the wet spot he'd left--but he let Foreman stay where he was. Something else he wasn't about to think of too much as he let his eyes close, trying to bask in the afterglow of his orgasm as long as possible.