House's agreement almost shocked Foreman into stillness, before he let out a short, incredulous breath. Yeah, he was persuaded? That they should do this again? But House didn't seem to even know what he'd said, focusing more on pushing his cock into Foreman's hand. That was even more convincing than if he'd agreed without a fight. Foreman's breath exploded out of him in shaky gasps as he realized just how lost House was in that subtle, uncomplicated touch. He moved his hand a bit faster, tracing House's inseam with one fingertip, then cupping his erection and pressing rhythmically with the heel of his hand. He'd stripped away everything House was hiding behind along with his clothes, and knowing that made him feel fucking powerful.
Foreman could feel House's breath gusting against his shoulder and the side of his neck, each puff of air making his skin stand up in goosebumps. Foreman shivered and turned to the side just enough that he could kiss the side of House's neck, laying open-mouthed, soft-lipped kisses behind his ear. If this was how House acted when he was sober, then Foreman was more glad than ever that he'd insisted, demanded that they do this again. He'd been right, it was better, and he couldn't decide if he wanted to just keep standing here--not three feet from his front door--touching House, maybe opening his jeans and getting his hand inside, or if he wanted House to start touching him back. His cock throbbed, heavy and full, and fuck, he wanted House's hand there, not on his back or his shoulder.
As good as it felt to have House practically melting on him, Foreman still wanted more. His mind was full of images of House arching up towards him, so that Foreman could see that hazy, desperate look that House was probably hiding from him right now. "God, I want to suck you," he said, whispering the words into the side of House's neck, having no idea if House would hear him. It wouldn't do anything for his own arousal, but the idea of having House completely at his mercy, underneath him, while Foreman made him react, made him raw and frantic with pleasure, was stronger than his own need to be touched. "I think--" He cleared his throat, trying to find his normal register. He hated sounding so desperate himself. "This won't work standing up."
Foreman licked his lips and pulled away reluctantly. He wanted to drag House to his bedroom, but he didn't want to force him; House was too prickly about walking. Foreman only glanced at House's cane, behind him, and figured he'd get the message. As incentive, Foreman sat on the arm of the couch and pulled off his shoes and socks, tossing them into the heap where his jacket and shirt had ended up, before starting to open his belt.
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Foreman could feel House's breath gusting against his shoulder and the side of his neck, each puff of air making his skin stand up in goosebumps. Foreman shivered and turned to the side just enough that he could kiss the side of House's neck, laying open-mouthed, soft-lipped kisses behind his ear. If this was how House acted when he was sober, then Foreman was more glad than ever that he'd insisted, demanded that they do this again. He'd been right, it was better, and he couldn't decide if he wanted to just keep standing here--not three feet from his front door--touching House, maybe opening his jeans and getting his hand inside, or if he wanted House to start touching him back. His cock throbbed, heavy and full, and fuck, he wanted House's hand there, not on his back or his shoulder.
As good as it felt to have House practically melting on him, Foreman still wanted more. His mind was full of images of House arching up towards him, so that Foreman could see that hazy, desperate look that House was probably hiding from him right now. "God, I want to suck you," he said, whispering the words into the side of House's neck, having no idea if House would hear him. It wouldn't do anything for his own arousal, but the idea of having House completely at his mercy, underneath him, while Foreman made him react, made him raw and frantic with pleasure, was stronger than his own need to be touched. "I think--" He cleared his throat, trying to find his normal register. He hated sounding so desperate himself. "This won't work standing up."
Foreman licked his lips and pulled away reluctantly. He wanted to drag House to his bedroom, but he didn't want to force him; House was too prickly about walking. Foreman only glanced at House's cane, behind him, and figured he'd get the message. As incentive, Foreman sat on the arm of the couch and pulled off his shoes and socks, tossing them into the heap where his jacket and shirt had ended up, before starting to open his belt.