Foreman closed his eyes when he heard House say his name. It wasn't what made him start sucking again--he wasn't about to let House wait, not when it would probably earn him a punch before it would make House beg--but it was exactly as good as he'd hoped. Short and sharp and quickly cut off. House sounded like he wanted to be angry but just couldn't focus long enough to put together a coherent objection. That's all Foreman really wanted; that proof that he was on House's mind. That House was knew Foreman was the one good enough to get him off.
He missed House's hand when it dropped down from his neck to curl in the sheets. He didn't get any warning when House came--nothing beyond the tremble of House's body and the broken moan he let out--but he hadn't been expecting one. Not just because House wouldn't give up a chance to get back at him, but, Foreman suspected, simply because House hadn't thought of it. Hadn't been thinking of anything. That idea was fucking satisfying and Foreman took a smug, lazy pride in knowing he'd made House, of all people, stop thinking. The jerk of House's dick and the warm spurt of his come wasn't exactly a surprise, not after he'd moaned like that. Foreman swallowed as quickly as he could, trying to clear his throat of the cloying texture. He kept sucking as he pulled his fingers out slowly, letting House ride the high of his orgasm for a little longer. Finally, Foreman pulled away completely, stretching a bit--God, he still felt the lingering endorphins himself, and the excitement of making House come had only added to the easy, comfortable feeling that filled him.
House was trying to recover his breath, and not looking at him. Foreman didn't bother interrupting him, just lay down next to him and closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling of his body slowly cooling, perfectly relaxed but not yet sleepy. Couldn't be later than ten o'clock. Foreman was vaguely aware that he'd missed supper. And, he thought, wincing mildly, he might have promised to feed House. Yeah, he didn't care to force House into moving or speaking, not just yet. Easier to be quiet and enjoy whatever peace he'd get.
His doubts were already creeping back. As much as he'd wanted it--as good as it had been--Foreman had done more than persuade House to come back to his place. He'd pretty much thrown himself at House. He didn't know what to make of that. Knowing he'd been right felt good, winning was good, but if House felt coerced then who knew how he'd react when there wasn't the prospect of an orgasm in his immediate future? Was he going to stay the night? Did Foreman want him to?
Foreman grunted softly to himself, interrupting his own thoughts. No way to know except to deal with the consequences. That was something he'd learned the hard way, last time. Except he didn't know how to start the damn conversation. He opened his eyes, facing away from House, and saw the drawer of the nightstand sitting open, where he'd left it after grabbing the lube. Last time, House had left his Vicodin sitting there when he'd stormed out, and Foreman had shoved them into the drawer trying to forget about the entire night. He rolled onto his stomach and reached in, finding the prescription bottle easily. "Here," he said quietly, dropping the pills on the bed near House's hand. This was something Foreman thought he knew: House needed his pills; he was eventually going to get up and grab them; Foreman was just cutting out the middle step, as well as testing the waters of House's reactions.
no subject
He missed House's hand when it dropped down from his neck to curl in the sheets. He didn't get any warning when House came--nothing beyond the tremble of House's body and the broken moan he let out--but he hadn't been expecting one. Not just because House wouldn't give up a chance to get back at him, but, Foreman suspected, simply because House hadn't thought of it. Hadn't been thinking of anything. That idea was fucking satisfying and Foreman took a smug, lazy pride in knowing he'd made House, of all people, stop thinking. The jerk of House's dick and the warm spurt of his come wasn't exactly a surprise, not after he'd moaned like that. Foreman swallowed as quickly as he could, trying to clear his throat of the cloying texture. He kept sucking as he pulled his fingers out slowly, letting House ride the high of his orgasm for a little longer. Finally, Foreman pulled away completely, stretching a bit--God, he still felt the lingering endorphins himself, and the excitement of making House come had only added to the easy, comfortable feeling that filled him.
House was trying to recover his breath, and not looking at him. Foreman didn't bother interrupting him, just lay down next to him and closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling of his body slowly cooling, perfectly relaxed but not yet sleepy. Couldn't be later than ten o'clock. Foreman was vaguely aware that he'd missed supper. And, he thought, wincing mildly, he might have promised to feed House. Yeah, he didn't care to force House into moving or speaking, not just yet. Easier to be quiet and enjoy whatever peace he'd get.
His doubts were already creeping back. As much as he'd wanted it--as good as it had been--Foreman had done more than persuade House to come back to his place. He'd pretty much thrown himself at House. He didn't know what to make of that. Knowing he'd been right felt good, winning was good, but if House felt coerced then who knew how he'd react when there wasn't the prospect of an orgasm in his immediate future? Was he going to stay the night? Did Foreman want him to?
Foreman grunted softly to himself, interrupting his own thoughts. No way to know except to deal with the consequences. That was something he'd learned the hard way, last time. Except he didn't know how to start the damn conversation. He opened his eyes, facing away from House, and saw the drawer of the nightstand sitting open, where he'd left it after grabbing the lube. Last time, House had left his Vicodin sitting there when he'd stormed out, and Foreman had shoved them into the drawer trying to forget about the entire night. He rolled onto his stomach and reached in, finding the prescription bottle easily. "Here," he said quietly, dropping the pills on the bed near House's hand. This was something Foreman thought he knew: House needed his pills; he was eventually going to get up and grab them; Foreman was just cutting out the middle step, as well as testing the waters of House's reactions.