Deflecting. Foreman should know better than to deflect the issue away from himself, believing House wouldn't actually catch on to what he was doing. House was well-practiced in deflection, and could read it, could read Foreman even as he spoke. The correction--'let' to 'asked'--was relative transparent; this was about control, self-control, a matter of personal pride, which was hardly a surprise to House. He wasn't about to mull over the factors involved when it came to himself; it was easier and more interesting to focus on Foreman, and he swung his remarks back to him, rather than let Foreman steer the topic away, refusing to take the bait, refusing to think of how much he really did like the way Foreman fucked him. He might let himself think of it later, when Foreman couldn't gauge his reactions, when it was safer.
"Must have hit a nerve," House said casually, setting his cane against the handle of a lower cupboard and moving closer, leaving only a sliver of space between their bodies. It took all of his self-control not to bow his head and press his open mouth to the curve of Foreman's neck, to keep his hands to himself just to force another hard breath come out of him. It was immensely satisfying to cause Foreman to react almost involuntarily, to make him lose control for just one second, then watch him scramble to regain it. Jesus, if House hadn't just come not long ago, he would be tempted to forget about dinner and initiate a second round. No reason why he couldn't put ideas into Foreman's head, though.
House braced himself against the counter with his right hand, simultaneously blocking Foreman on one side. He tilted his head and raised his mouth directly to Foreman's ear, letting his lips move against it as he said, quiet but gravelly, "I suspect it's because you don't want to think about how you were practically begging to get me here. Again. How you threw yourself at me in the elevator. Twice. How you reacted like a jealous boyfriend when you caught a woman"--no need to mention her name, since Foreman would be more than aware that House wasn't talking about Cuddy, or any other woman but Terzi--"flirting with me. How you told me you'd be more than willing to get on your knees and blow me. Not to mention everything else that happened after that."
House was getting himself hot all over again as he actually said the words, recalling in his mind the events as he spoke. How Foreman had kissed him in the elevator, and every time after that. The heat of Foreman's mouth, his assertiveness, when he kissed him and blew him. God. His hands drifted up to run along Foreman's back, contradicting the way he spoke, and he hated that his own fucking brain would do that to him. He let them fall fast, his body still close. He tried to regain a little of what he lost, adding, "I didn't have to ask." Part of him wondered if Foreman would ever try to make him, then chastised himself for the thought, jumping to the assumption that Foreman would ever want to do this again. With the way he was running his mouth off, he wondered if Foreman would be too pissed off to bother, but he figured Foreman would push back, just to get another dig in, before he kicked him out. Jesus, he fucking hoped that was true.
no subject
"Must have hit a nerve," House said casually, setting his cane against the handle of a lower cupboard and moving closer, leaving only a sliver of space between their bodies. It took all of his self-control not to bow his head and press his open mouth to the curve of Foreman's neck, to keep his hands to himself just to force another hard breath come out of him. It was immensely satisfying to cause Foreman to react almost involuntarily, to make him lose control for just one second, then watch him scramble to regain it. Jesus, if House hadn't just come not long ago, he would be tempted to forget about dinner and initiate a second round. No reason why he couldn't put ideas into Foreman's head, though.
House braced himself against the counter with his right hand, simultaneously blocking Foreman on one side. He tilted his head and raised his mouth directly to Foreman's ear, letting his lips move against it as he said, quiet but gravelly, "I suspect it's because you don't want to think about how you were practically begging to get me here. Again. How you threw yourself at me in the elevator. Twice. How you reacted like a jealous boyfriend when you caught a woman"--no need to mention her name, since Foreman would be more than aware that House wasn't talking about Cuddy, or any other woman but Terzi--"flirting with me. How you told me you'd be more than willing to get on your knees and blow me. Not to mention everything else that happened after that."
House was getting himself hot all over again as he actually said the words, recalling in his mind the events as he spoke. How Foreman had kissed him in the elevator, and every time after that. The heat of Foreman's mouth, his assertiveness, when he kissed him and blew him. God. His hands drifted up to run along Foreman's back, contradicting the way he spoke, and he hated that his own fucking brain would do that to him. He let them fall fast, his body still close. He tried to regain a little of what he lost, adding, "I didn't have to ask." Part of him wondered if Foreman would ever try to make him, then chastised himself for the thought, jumping to the assumption that Foreman would ever want to do this again. With the way he was running his mouth off, he wondered if Foreman would be too pissed off to bother, but he figured Foreman would push back, just to get another dig in, before he kicked him out. Jesus, he fucking hoped that was true.