House responded with a glare, scowling at Foreman even as he began to shift. His expression was difficult to maintain when Foreman climbed on top of him, impossible as Foreman caught his mouth in a kiss. He let himself get lost in the soft press of Foreman's mouth, the gentle slip of his tongue, all the while anticipating the moment that Foreman deepened the kiss, put more force and intent behind it. It never happened, and House wondered if this was Foreman's plan, drive him to a painfully heightened level of arousal because the bastard knew that he could, then draw it out. The thought was simultaneously torturous and really, really fucking hot, but House's body was too desperate for some sort of relief--the press of his erection against Foreman's body wasn't enough.

As Foreman's hand spread over his chest and trailed down his body, he tensed, drawing in a breath through his nose and holding it, waiting. He released the breath all at once, not caring if the air spread over Foreman's face, relief washing over him at the firm squeeze of Foreman's hand around his dick. Oh, yes. He let his head fall back when Foreman broke the kiss, waiting for Foreman to start stroking him, closing his eyes and exhaling a frustrated sigh when all Foreman gave him were several slow, relaxed pumps. He wanted a real touch, and it took every shred of control to keep from lifting his hips and fucking Foreman's hand.