All his leverage, all his control disappeared as Foreman pinned his arms to the bed, beside his head, with more weight he'd used so far, his grip so tight it almost hurt. House had been using his arms to pull Foreman closer to him, only lifting his hips a fraction of an inch. No amount of flexing or attempts to push up yielded any success; Foreman was too heavy, too strong, and House glared up at him, his breaths rapid through his mouth as House tried to use his legs instead. Even with legs dangling over the edge of the bed, his feet couldn't reach the floor, and his legs were limited in their movement to begin with, framed by Foreman's knees, the pants pushed to mid-thigh. Frustration welled in his chest, burst out of him with harsh, noisy puffs of air. Now, the best House could manage was a jerky, weak squirm, and even that became a physical strain. Elastic was pressing into his thighs, digging too hard into his right, and House had to shift his legs closer together to relieve the tension, limiting his range of motion even more. The more Foreman pressed him down, the more his control slipped away, and, God, a part of him liked it, wanted it, but another struggled against it, unwilling to stop the series of taunts, to stop pushing Foreman to react to him like this.
The heat of Foreman's mouth, trailing down his neck to his collarbone, then up again, made him writhe, wriggling beneath Foreman, and House fucking hated that Foreman had been able to steal his control away so damn fast. House bit back a groan, clenching his teeth, when Foreman spoke, his breath hot in his ear, and his body stilled, only his chest moving with his breaths and his fists opening and closing--the only futile attempt to move at all. His cock twitched, warm against the skin of his stomach, as he listened to Foreman speak, Foreman's voice deeper, rougher than before. House considered the implications of Foreman's words, that it's possible that Foreman wanted both--to fuck and get fucked--and it only made House's control slip another notch. He closed his eyes, trying to scramble to recover it, replaying Foreman's words in his head until he hit upon something to throw in Foreman's face. It took a few moments, but, once it occurred to him, House opened his eyes and looked up at Foreman, determined to swipe that damn smile off his face.
"So it is a question," House said, not asking--telling, pointing out Foreman's slip-up, that accidental contradiction--pleased with himself, forgetting his own frustration and physical lack of control as a grin spread across his face. House hoped it would help him regain some of his control, distract him from the way he wanted--so fucking badly--to give in to the throb in his cock and urge Foreman to do something about it.
"I thought you fucking paid attention." He hated that he couldn't keep the frustration out of his voice, and he was sure it would only make Foreman restrain him longer, hold out even more. The thought made House squirm again, seeking out contact. He wanted to get his damn pants off. Wanted to get on the bed properly. Wanted Foreman's hand on him, mouth on him. Something. Anything. God damn it. His control was slipping again, and he could feel it. He was breathing so hard that it was making him dizzy, and he closed his eyes again, turning his head to the side, trying again to free his hands. He didn't want to give in, but something was breaking in him, and he couldn't hold his control together. He grunted with one last thrash of his body, sagging back down to the bed, and words started tumbling out of him. "Foreman," he said, hating how fucking desperate he sounded, still breathing hard. "I--I want--" He licked his lips before pressing them together, closing his mouth and refusing to keep going. It was enough he'd said that, acknowledged he wanted something at all; he wasn't desperate enough yet to spell out exactly what he wanted for Foreman.
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The heat of Foreman's mouth, trailing down his neck to his collarbone, then up again, made him writhe, wriggling beneath Foreman, and House fucking hated that Foreman had been able to steal his control away so damn fast. House bit back a groan, clenching his teeth, when Foreman spoke, his breath hot in his ear, and his body stilled, only his chest moving with his breaths and his fists opening and closing--the only futile attempt to move at all. His cock twitched, warm against the skin of his stomach, as he listened to Foreman speak, Foreman's voice deeper, rougher than before. House considered the implications of Foreman's words, that it's possible that Foreman wanted both--to fuck and get fucked--and it only made House's control slip another notch. He closed his eyes, trying to scramble to recover it, replaying Foreman's words in his head until he hit upon something to throw in Foreman's face. It took a few moments, but, once it occurred to him, House opened his eyes and looked up at Foreman, determined to swipe that damn smile off his face.
"So it is a question," House said, not asking--telling, pointing out Foreman's slip-up, that accidental contradiction--pleased with himself, forgetting his own frustration and physical lack of control as a grin spread across his face. House hoped it would help him regain some of his control, distract him from the way he wanted--so fucking badly--to give in to the throb in his cock and urge Foreman to do something about it.
"I thought you fucking paid attention." He hated that he couldn't keep the frustration out of his voice, and he was sure it would only make Foreman restrain him longer, hold out even more. The thought made House squirm again, seeking out contact. He wanted to get his damn pants off. Wanted to get on the bed properly. Wanted Foreman's hand on him, mouth on him. Something. Anything. God damn it. His control was slipping again, and he could feel it. He was breathing so hard that it was making him dizzy, and he closed his eyes again, turning his head to the side, trying again to free his hands. He didn't want to give in, but something was breaking in him, and he couldn't hold his control together. He grunted with one last thrash of his body, sagging back down to the bed, and words started tumbling out of him. "Foreman," he said, hating how fucking desperate he sounded, still breathing hard. "I--I want--" He licked his lips before pressing them together, closing his mouth and refusing to keep going. It was enough he'd said that, acknowledged he wanted something at all; he wasn't desperate enough yet to spell out exactly what he wanted for Foreman.