House was sure that Foreman would ease off, slow down, but he--surprisingly, unpredictably--kept going, pushing him. Constantly moving his lips, tongue. Sucking hard. Taking him in deeply, almost completely surrounded, base to tip, by the heat of Foreman's mouth. Never backing off or backing down for one half-second. House's mind fogged entirely. Couldn't fucking think. Could barely catch his God damned breath, his mouth open as he panted desperately. His hand fell from Foreman's shoulder and closed around a fistful of bedsheets, and he ground his head into the mattress as Foreman worked one finger inside him. Pushing even more.
House clenched around Foreman's finger as Foreman withdrew, a futile attempt to trap his finger inside him, force him to find his prostate and rub his damn orgasm right out of him. When Foreman thrust his fingers again, two this time, it was nearly more than House could take, and he strangled a groan low in his throat, the sound escaping as an aborted grunt instead. His hips rose off the bed, rocking up the moment Foreman's fingertip brushed over his prostate, and, forgetting his earlier determination, House spread his legs wider, opening himself up--more accessible, more, fuck, he wanted more. His orgasm was building fast, and House couldn't bear to hold himself back. Couldn't bring himself to care that Foreman was about to make him come in--he'd lost track of how long it had been, but it couldn't have been more than five minutes. Foreman would gloat, but the pleasure and the release would be fucking worth it.
Sensation overloaded House's brain, and his body couldn't decide in which direction to push--against the thrusts of Foreman's fingers or the heat of his mouth. His shoulders pressed down into the bed, his whole body bowing. Fingers and toes curled as House groaned, loud, and tight, and strained. "Oh, God," he said quietly, words between ragged breaths. "Fuck, yeah. Yeah. Oh." His orgasm was seconds away, barreling down on him, the pressure heavy, low in his groin, his balls, warming his entire body. He raised a hand to the back of Foreman's neck, squeezing, kneading muscles and tendons, needing something to grab, to hold on to as his brain clouded over with sensation and his body squirmed, writhed helplessly. It was fucking pathetic, but it was good. Foreman was good, and House couldn't stop himself from letting Foreman do whatever the hell he wanted, as fast and hard as he wanted, couldn't stop himself from letting go like this, no matter how much he would have to defend himself, no matter how much Foreman would rub his face in his own surrender later. It was just too fucking good.
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House clenched around Foreman's finger as Foreman withdrew, a futile attempt to trap his finger inside him, force him to find his prostate and rub his damn orgasm right out of him. When Foreman thrust his fingers again, two this time, it was nearly more than House could take, and he strangled a groan low in his throat, the sound escaping as an aborted grunt instead. His hips rose off the bed, rocking up the moment Foreman's fingertip brushed over his prostate, and, forgetting his earlier determination, House spread his legs wider, opening himself up--more accessible, more, fuck, he wanted more. His orgasm was building fast, and House couldn't bear to hold himself back. Couldn't bring himself to care that Foreman was about to make him come in--he'd lost track of how long it had been, but it couldn't have been more than five minutes. Foreman would gloat, but the pleasure and the release would be fucking worth it.
Sensation overloaded House's brain, and his body couldn't decide in which direction to push--against the thrusts of Foreman's fingers or the heat of his mouth. His shoulders pressed down into the bed, his whole body bowing. Fingers and toes curled as House groaned, loud, and tight, and strained. "Oh, God," he said quietly, words between ragged breaths. "Fuck, yeah. Yeah. Oh." His orgasm was seconds away, barreling down on him, the pressure heavy, low in his groin, his balls, warming his entire body. He raised a hand to the back of Foreman's neck, squeezing, kneading muscles and tendons, needing something to grab, to hold on to as his brain clouded over with sensation and his body squirmed, writhed helplessly. It was fucking pathetic, but it was good. Foreman was good, and House couldn't stop himself from letting Foreman do whatever the hell he wanted, as fast and hard as he wanted, couldn't stop himself from letting go like this, no matter how much he would have to defend himself, no matter how much Foreman would rub his face in his own surrender later. It was just too fucking good.