Even though Foreman had House trapped--it was getting harder to shift, push against the press and shove of Foreman's body--against the counter, Foreman wasn't letting up, wasn't quitting. House would have felt more satisfied with that knowledge if his brain wasn't as distracted by the pain in his back--the edge of the counter sharply pressing, probably bruising--and the burn in his lungs. He was drawing as much air through his nose as he could, caught between the sensations of Foreman's mouth, his body, and the ones in his own body signaling that he should pull away, draw a real breath of air. He had, he realized, nowhere to go, and his fingers pressed against the counter, attempting to propel away from it, out of Foreman's grip to move to Foreman's body, push him away just long enough to gather a breath before pulling him back, but he couldn't gain any leverage. He couldn't decide if he was actually happy about that, simultaneously wanting to get away but reveling in the insistence of Foreman's pressing and pushing. The pressure and force of it, giving away exactly how much Foreman wanted him, how much he liked this.
House arched again, leaning his head forward enough to put his own force behind the kiss, his breath still leaving him hard and fast through his nose. God, it felt so fucking good, how Foreman pushed harder than anybody ever had--nobody else had ever had the guts to do it--and how he didn't treat him like he was something fragile, breakable. It felt so fucking good when Foreman didn't ask.
He couldn't believe his own fucking whine when a loud beep sounded in the room and Foreman pulled away. Foreman--somehow--managed to capture all of his attention as he looked at him and told him, definitely, authoritatively, that he wasn't wearing his clothes to bed. House couldn't fight back the half-grin that tugged at his mouth around his panting breaths, considering the implications of what Foreman said. He wanted him in his bed again. Possibly naked. Probably naked. Fuck, just imagining was hot, and House considered wearing his clothes more often if it would just get them stripped off him.
House watched Foreman get something out of the oven, suddenly putting his desire on the back burner in favor of satisfying his hunger. After watching him serve himself and go into the livingroom, House did the same and followed, grinning. As he settled on the couch, he casually commented, just to annoy Foreman, "Wow. Couples really do start to act the same."
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House arched again, leaning his head forward enough to put his own force behind the kiss, his breath still leaving him hard and fast through his nose. God, it felt so fucking good, how Foreman pushed harder than anybody ever had--nobody else had ever had the guts to do it--and how he didn't treat him like he was something fragile, breakable. It felt so fucking good when Foreman didn't ask.
He couldn't believe his own fucking whine when a loud beep sounded in the room and Foreman pulled away. Foreman--somehow--managed to capture all of his attention as he looked at him and told him, definitely, authoritatively, that he wasn't wearing his clothes to bed. House couldn't fight back the half-grin that tugged at his mouth around his panting breaths, considering the implications of what Foreman said. He wanted him in his bed again. Possibly naked. Probably naked. Fuck, just imagining was hot, and House considered wearing his clothes more often if it would just get them stripped off him.
House watched Foreman get something out of the oven, suddenly putting his desire on the back burner in favor of satisfying his hunger. After watching him serve himself and go into the livingroom, House did the same and followed, grinning. As he settled on the couch, he casually commented, just to annoy Foreman, "Wow. Couples really do start to act the same."