As the kiss went on, House wanted to reach for Foreman's hips, stroke his thumbs over the points of Foreman's hipbone before slowly pulling Foreman's dress shirt out of his pants. Wanted to slide his hands under the fabric and curve his fingers around Foreman's sides, feel warm skin and firm muscle quivering with the unsteady rhythm of his breaths. God. The thought made his hands twitch, but House kept them still; he still wanted to make Foreman wait, was curious to see how much Foreman would show that he wanted him. How much Foreman would let him see. House wasn't sure that he'd like what Foreman revealed, if he revealed anything more, and he wasn't sure that it wouldn't secretly terrify him, but, now more than ever, he was curious about it. It was already bizarre to see Foreman treating him this way. It might have started as a challenge, but House felt when the challenge fell away, when Foreman released his wrist and slid his hand over his arm, up to his neck.
Fuck, he couldn't decide what he wanted Foreman to do. A part of his brain whispered against allowing Foreman to touch him like this, and kiss him like this--an effort to save himself from revealing to Foreman how damn pathetic he was, how much he needed Foreman to do this. But, God, it felt good, Foreman's hands on his shoulder, that light rub over his muscle, the sound of Foreman's voice, thick and aroused. God. When House felt Foreman's hips push forward, the unmistakable shape of Foreman's erection pressing against his leg, his capacity to think disappeared, and he jerked out of the kiss, tipping his head back against the door to draw loud, hitching breaths. Oh, God. Fuck.
House wanted to reach down and trace the shape of Foreman's cock through his pants, push him to want him even more--admit it--and it was getting more and more difficult for him to resist. Hell, it was getting difficult to ignore his own erection and arousal, and House diverted his own attention to try to refocus, leaning his cane against the door frame before taking off his coat. He tossed it at Foreman's couch, not caring that it fell short and landed in a heap on the floor at the back of the couch, and leaned down to meet Foreman's mouth again, no harder than before, but more adventurous, sweeping his tongue inside Foreman's mouth. He told himself it didn't count as giving Foreman what he wanted, that he was only resuming what they'd already done, even as he leaned into Foreman, his hands pushing himself away from the door--barely a nudge, but the pressure was there. He couldn't fucking get enough and, despite the nagging doubts in the back of his mind, he didn't want Foreman to stop. God, he really didn't, and House wasn't above trying to make sure he didn't.
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Fuck, he couldn't decide what he wanted Foreman to do. A part of his brain whispered against allowing Foreman to touch him like this, and kiss him like this--an effort to save himself from revealing to Foreman how damn pathetic he was, how much he needed Foreman to do this. But, God, it felt good, Foreman's hands on his shoulder, that light rub over his muscle, the sound of Foreman's voice, thick and aroused. God. When House felt Foreman's hips push forward, the unmistakable shape of Foreman's erection pressing against his leg, his capacity to think disappeared, and he jerked out of the kiss, tipping his head back against the door to draw loud, hitching breaths. Oh, God. Fuck.
House wanted to reach down and trace the shape of Foreman's cock through his pants, push him to want him even more--admit it--and it was getting more and more difficult for him to resist. Hell, it was getting difficult to ignore his own erection and arousal, and House diverted his own attention to try to refocus, leaning his cane against the door frame before taking off his coat. He tossed it at Foreman's couch, not caring that it fell short and landed in a heap on the floor at the back of the couch, and leaned down to meet Foreman's mouth again, no harder than before, but more adventurous, sweeping his tongue inside Foreman's mouth. He told himself it didn't count as giving Foreman what he wanted, that he was only resuming what they'd already done, even as he leaned into Foreman, his hands pushing himself away from the door--barely a nudge, but the pressure was there. He couldn't fucking get enough and, despite the nagging doubts in the back of his mind, he didn't want Foreman to stop. God, he really didn't, and House wasn't above trying to make sure he didn't.