That fucking, smug, shit-eating grin. Foreman knew that it meant House figured he'd scored a point, or more likely won a whole game, off his reaction. House simply didn't smile like that unless he was laughing at someone. As if the fact that Foreman liked what he was seeing was some huge secret. The only secret that was really out in the open now was that House clearly liked his reaction, enjoyed winding Foreman up with his weirdly careless familiarity.
That was only confirmed when House stepped up behind him. The apartment was cool enough that Foreman immediately felt the difference in temperature, his skin warming when he felt the softness of cotton covering the firm heat of House's body behind him. He glared down at the plates on the counter, something so ordinary that they looked completely out of place with House looming over him. He was supposed to be angry. Had been angry. Now, though, Foreman wanted to push back from the counter, press his back against House's chest. He knew he could break free--it would be easy--but when he breathed in, his willpower crumbled. Foreman could smell himself on House. Soap and deodorant and his clothes, all over top of the clean, body-warm scent of House himself, and mingled with his own sweat and the lingering odour of sex. His dick twitched, as if he'd be already getting hard if he hadn't come less than half an hour ago, and there was no way he was going to turn around and show off that reaction to House.
His head jerked slightly, involuntarily, to the left when House leaned over him, arching his neck as if he was inviting House to do more than just hover. House's chin was close enough that Foreman could feel that his skin was warm and damp, exactly as he'd imagined, and he knew he'd fucking love the rough scrape of House's stubble against his neck; his skin already felt sensitive, anticipating it. His air left him in one short pant that there was no way House wouldn't hear. God damn it. Foreman had been better at controlling his reactions before. He should be better now, with all the practice he'd had, except now he knew he wasn't hiding some futile, half-acknowledged attraction. There was a chance that reacting, and showing it, would get him something. Yeah, House would still make fun of him, but Foreman was more than capable of making House squirm, too.
"Let me?" he asked. Foreman at least had enough control to keep his voice level. The way he sounded when House was playing some infantile practical joke and Foreman had to be the voice of reason. Except lower, and with far more intent. "More like asked me." He could remember it far too clearly, House's broken voice saying God, just--just fuck me, Foreman. The memory was enough to make Foreman feel like he wasn't giving anything up, not even with House pinning him against his own kitchen counter with nothing more than his voice. Foreman was the one who could make House practically come apart; he was the one in control. And right now Foreman wanted to make House admit that the only reason he was doing this--pushing--was because he wanted Foreman to react. To do it again. "I think that was a lot less to do with personal property and a lot more about you liking the way I fuck you."
no subject
That was only confirmed when House stepped up behind him. The apartment was cool enough that Foreman immediately felt the difference in temperature, his skin warming when he felt the softness of cotton covering the firm heat of House's body behind him. He glared down at the plates on the counter, something so ordinary that they looked completely out of place with House looming over him. He was supposed to be angry. Had been angry. Now, though, Foreman wanted to push back from the counter, press his back against House's chest. He knew he could break free--it would be easy--but when he breathed in, his willpower crumbled. Foreman could smell himself on House. Soap and deodorant and his clothes, all over top of the clean, body-warm scent of House himself, and mingled with his own sweat and the lingering odour of sex. His dick twitched, as if he'd be already getting hard if he hadn't come less than half an hour ago, and there was no way he was going to turn around and show off that reaction to House.
His head jerked slightly, involuntarily, to the left when House leaned over him, arching his neck as if he was inviting House to do more than just hover. House's chin was close enough that Foreman could feel that his skin was warm and damp, exactly as he'd imagined, and he knew he'd fucking love the rough scrape of House's stubble against his neck; his skin already felt sensitive, anticipating it. His air left him in one short pant that there was no way House wouldn't hear. God damn it. Foreman had been better at controlling his reactions before. He should be better now, with all the practice he'd had, except now he knew he wasn't hiding some futile, half-acknowledged attraction. There was a chance that reacting, and showing it, would get him something. Yeah, House would still make fun of him, but Foreman was more than capable of making House squirm, too.
"Let me?" he asked. Foreman at least had enough control to keep his voice level. The way he sounded when House was playing some infantile practical joke and Foreman had to be the voice of reason. Except lower, and with far more intent. "More like asked me." He could remember it far too clearly, House's broken voice saying God, just--just fuck me, Foreman. The memory was enough to make Foreman feel like he wasn't giving anything up, not even with House pinning him against his own kitchen counter with nothing more than his voice. Foreman was the one who could make House practically come apart; he was the one in control. And right now Foreman wanted to make House admit that the only reason he was doing this--pushing--was because he wanted Foreman to react. To do it again. "I think that was a lot less to do with personal property and a lot more about you liking the way I fuck you."