Thank-fucking-God Foreman couldn't see his face, House realized, and tucked it against to Foreman's neck, further out of sight. He parted his lips against Foreman's neck, pressed his tongue to his skin, and sucked gently, shifting closer. House's hand spread over Foreman's chest before it slid down his body, stopping at Foreman's hip to pull him harder against him. His need was fucking embarassing, but he couldn't help the way his body moved closer, wanting more. Wanting Foreman to want more from him.
And, Foreman did want more, and told him exactly what 'more' he had in mind. I want to suck you. Oh, God. Fucking God, the words were dirty and hot coming out of Foreman's mouth, and House groaned into Foreman's neck, the sound muffled and strained. Fuck. House leaned his forehead against Foreman's shoulder, leaning on him so heavily that House wondered if his weight would cause Foreman to stumble back, fall over. House wanted to believe it was more than physical strain in Foreman's voice when he spoke, reminding him of the obvious point that this wouldn't work while they were still standing.
Yeah, no kidding, House nearly said, doubting that he would be able to stand for much longer. It was already humiliating enough that he was depending on Foreman to keep himself standing; verbalizing it would make it worse. House steeled himself, willing his feet to remain planted on the floor, only wavering slightly as Foreman pulled away. He caught a glimpse of Foreman's glance at his cane, and House nodded silently, reaching for it before he walked as gracefully and steadily as he could to Foreman's bedroom. Fuck, he had to lie down, or sit down, and get out of the rest of his God damned clothes. Foreman would catch up; he knew the way to his own bedroom.
House couldn't shake Foreman's words, and the images made him pulse, his erection thick and heavy, straining painfully against his jeans. He craved more contact, real contact, but it occurred to him that Foreman could probably make him come just by talking to him, telling him what he wanted. House knew he would get absorbed in it--Foreman's words, his tone, the closeness of his mouth when he spoke. His imagination would kick into overdrive, wild, dirty images filling his brain. A part of him felt safe to let go around Foreman. He knew that Foreman was aware that, if he did, House would tense up and refuse to let go again, and it was better for Foreman not to rub his behavior in his face. Another part, however, reminded him of the arsenal of personal information Foreman could use later, but the echos of Foreman's voice in his head, the tense, burning ache in his groin made him disregard any concern about 'later'. Pushing the thoughts out of his mind, House set his cane on Foreman's dresser just inside the door and moved to Foreman's bed. With his back to the door, he worked open his jeans, sighing quietly at the release of pressure against his erection, then pushed his jeans with his boxer briefs down to ankles before he leaned down to step out of them, bracing himself on Foreman's bed with his hand as Foreman took his time in joining him.
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And, Foreman did want more, and told him exactly what 'more' he had in mind. I want to suck you. Oh, God. Fucking God, the words were dirty and hot coming out of Foreman's mouth, and House groaned into Foreman's neck, the sound muffled and strained. Fuck. House leaned his forehead against Foreman's shoulder, leaning on him so heavily that House wondered if his weight would cause Foreman to stumble back, fall over. House wanted to believe it was more than physical strain in Foreman's voice when he spoke, reminding him of the obvious point that this wouldn't work while they were still standing.
Yeah, no kidding, House nearly said, doubting that he would be able to stand for much longer. It was already humiliating enough that he was depending on Foreman to keep himself standing; verbalizing it would make it worse. House steeled himself, willing his feet to remain planted on the floor, only wavering slightly as Foreman pulled away. He caught a glimpse of Foreman's glance at his cane, and House nodded silently, reaching for it before he walked as gracefully and steadily as he could to Foreman's bedroom. Fuck, he had to lie down, or sit down, and get out of the rest of his God damned clothes. Foreman would catch up; he knew the way to his own bedroom.
House couldn't shake Foreman's words, and the images made him pulse, his erection thick and heavy, straining painfully against his jeans. He craved more contact, real contact, but it occurred to him that Foreman could probably make him come just by talking to him, telling him what he wanted. House knew he would get absorbed in it--Foreman's words, his tone, the closeness of his mouth when he spoke. His imagination would kick into overdrive, wild, dirty images filling his brain. A part of him felt safe to let go around Foreman. He knew that Foreman was aware that, if he did, House would tense up and refuse to let go again, and it was better for Foreman not to rub his behavior in his face. Another part, however, reminded him of the arsenal of personal information Foreman could use later, but the echos of Foreman's voice in his head, the tense, burning ache in his groin made him disregard any concern about 'later'. Pushing the thoughts out of his mind, House set his cane on Foreman's dresser just inside the door and moved to Foreman's bed. With his back to the door, he worked open his jeans, sighing quietly at the release of pressure against his erection, then pushed his jeans with his boxer briefs down to ankles before he leaned down to step out of them, bracing himself on Foreman's bed with his hand as Foreman took his time in joining him.