When House heard Foreman's footstep behind him, he stood straighter, his weight shifted to his left, but kept his back to Foreman. As much as he hoped to see a hazy expression of desire on Foreman's face, standing apart from Foreman like this, alone near Foreman's bed, made him feel a twinge of doubt. He couldn't possibly be attractive, and he was certain that Foreman could pick up any muscle-t-shirt-wearing gym-member guy that Foreman wanted--more Foreman's type, House guessed--or any sleek-haired, high-heeled woman that caught his eye. Someone less problematic, and someone Foreman hadn't disliked so much that he'd had to leave. Someone whole. House had lost some of the more developed lean muscle he'd once had--literally--and moments like this, set apart and on display, reminded him that he still was a fucking cripple. The reason that Foreman seemed to want him was beyond him, and, still standing alone and waiting, House felt his doubts swirl through his head. It distracted him from his own arousal, and House couldn't decide if he should bolt now, before Foreman realized what the hell he was doing, or if he should stay to see how much--and why--Foreman wanted him. House touched his hip with his right hand, sliding it down, but not far enough to feel the physical reminder of his handicap--he could feel that without touching it--and felt his curiosity, his pathetic need to keep Foreman wanting him, push his doubts to the background of his thoughts. Staying.
Behind him, he heard no reaction from Foreman, only the rustling sound of clothes falling to the floor, and closed his eyes. He could feel Foreman's gaze on him, knew it was there, and his ears suddenly burned with self-consciousness. He had to beat it down, push through it and not let Foreman see it, and he squared his shoulders, raising his head, refusing to glance over his shoulder. When House heard the sound of Foreman's footsteps, he let his arms fall to his sides, drawing a breath and waiting. He was still aroused, still aching, and the first touch of Foreman's hand on his shoulders--smooth, and warm, and fuck--almost made him sink down to the floor. His breath caught at the squeeze of Foreman's hands on his wrists, and House braced himself to be thrown down to the bed, pinned down and covered. It took a moment for him to realize that Foreman hadn't done it--was he fucking messing with him?--and the rest of his thoughts, doubts included, vanished when Foreman's hand wrapped around his dick. Oh, God.
House did feel his muscles weaken this time, his body leaning backwards to rest against Foreman's as a soft, quiet moan slipped out of his mouth at the first long stroke of Foreman's hand. God, he really was fucking pathetic, taking anything Foreman would give him. He angled his head, inviting the heat of Foreman's mouth on his neck as he kissed him. He pushed back against the dry rub of Foreman's cock, pleasure and anticipation streaming through him, wishing Foreman would fucking talk again. He hated himself for wanting it, as if it meant something. As if Foreman couldn't take it back, throw it all in his face.
Reaching behind him, House found Foreman's hips, his ass, and spread his hands wide, forcing himself not to urge Foreman closer--it would make him look even more needy--but House kept his touch light, just to keep Foreman where he was, warm, and wanting him, and touching him. He didn't want any of it to stop. He was sure he wouldn't be able to keep standing for long without Foreman physically holding him up, but he didn't break away yet. It felt too good to stop--it made him forget to think, and, God, House didn't want to think right now--and House let himself lean on Foreman as much as he'd allow, pressing his back to Foreman's front, letting himself concentrate on Foreman's touch, on the pleasure rolling through him, instead of keeping himself standing.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2008-12-09 08:47 pm (UTC)Behind him, he heard no reaction from Foreman, only the rustling sound of clothes falling to the floor, and closed his eyes. He could feel Foreman's gaze on him, knew it was there, and his ears suddenly burned with self-consciousness. He had to beat it down, push through it and not let Foreman see it, and he squared his shoulders, raising his head, refusing to glance over his shoulder. When House heard the sound of Foreman's footsteps, he let his arms fall to his sides, drawing a breath and waiting. He was still aroused, still aching, and the first touch of Foreman's hand on his shoulders--smooth, and warm, and fuck--almost made him sink down to the floor. His breath caught at the squeeze of Foreman's hands on his wrists, and House braced himself to be thrown down to the bed, pinned down and covered. It took a moment for him to realize that Foreman hadn't done it--was he fucking messing with him?--and the rest of his thoughts, doubts included, vanished when Foreman's hand wrapped around his dick. Oh, God.
House did feel his muscles weaken this time, his body leaning backwards to rest against Foreman's as a soft, quiet moan slipped out of his mouth at the first long stroke of Foreman's hand. God, he really was fucking pathetic, taking anything Foreman would give him. He angled his head, inviting the heat of Foreman's mouth on his neck as he kissed him. He pushed back against the dry rub of Foreman's cock, pleasure and anticipation streaming through him, wishing Foreman would fucking talk again. He hated himself for wanting it, as if it meant something. As if Foreman couldn't take it back, throw it all in his face.
Reaching behind him, House found Foreman's hips, his ass, and spread his hands wide, forcing himself not to urge Foreman closer--it would make him look even more needy--but House kept his touch light, just to keep Foreman where he was, warm, and wanting him, and touching him. He didn't want any of it to stop. He was sure he wouldn't be able to keep standing for long without Foreman physically holding him up, but he didn't break away yet. It felt too good to stop--it made him forget to think, and, God, House didn't want to think right now--and House let himself lean on Foreman as much as he'd allow, pressing his back to Foreman's front, letting himself concentrate on Foreman's touch, on the pleasure rolling through him, instead of keeping himself standing.