Foreman's reaction was confirmation enough that both of them were on the same wavelength, had the same ideas about in which direction to take this, and House couldn't muster an objection, practically feeling Foreman's excitement permeating into his body, the enthusiasm in his voice. If he wasn't so absorbed in his own arousal, the closeness of Foreman's body, the nearly overwhelming desire to be touched, House would have felt smug. All he could do was echo, "Yeah," extending his left arm on the bed, pushing with his hand to press his body backwards. A moan tumbled out when Foreman pulled him back even further, arching a little at the feel of Foreman's breath on his shoulder, his mouth, wanting more. He didn't doubt Foreman could drive him even crazier with kisses, sucks to his skin, and House was becoming willing to take what he could get as long as it lasted longer than a few moments, but, God, he wanted more. A real touch. Where he wanted it, on his cock, the touch firm and warm and good. Foreman's hand on his hip was too much of a tease, and House shifted, trying to get Foreman to lower his hand, his breathing kicking up when he did. House drew a sharp, shuddery inhale when Foreman's hand finally--oh, God, finally--rubbed against his erection, and he couldn't stop a loud, long groan when Foreman curled his fingers around him and started stroking. "Fuck," House whispered breathlessly, squeezing his eyes shut, his hips jerking forward to push himself further into Foreman's hand. "Yeah." He knew he could come like this, before Foreman even started fucking him. He wanted to cover Foreman's hand, make sure he didn't stop, help guide the rhythm, but he couldn't uncurl his hands from Foreman's sheets, couldn't pause long enough to do it. Just keep going, House silently pleaded, less self-conscious about his own tight desperation when Foreman couldn't hear it, at least not in words. Keep going. Keep going. God, yeah, keep--
House heard himself whimper--fucking whimper--as Foreman pulled his hand away from House's cock, his body shifting automatically backwards to follow the heat of Foreman's body, his touch. It had barely lasted for a half-minute, just long enough to get him panting, aware of little but the flaring ache in his groin, the heat of Foreman's hand, the pressure of his grip--close to the hold he'd use on himself, so close to fucking perfect. God. The few strokes hadn't been enough. He let his head fall onto his outstretched arm, closing his eyes and choking back another pathetic sound in his throat, feeling the heat of Foreman's breath on his neck. Touch yourself, Foreman said, and House shook his head, squeezing a fistful of the sheets, his body still trying to roll backwards to find Foreman's again, all the while wondering how in the hell he'd gotten so damn needy. Touching himself wouldn't nearly be the same, not the same as Foreman voluntarily, willingly giving him something he wanted. So fucking badly. He raised his head, turning it to catch Foreman's face in his field of vision, and reached his right hand back to touch Foreman instead, finding his hip and squeezing. Not himself, didn't want to touch himself, not with Foreman so damn close, so close to fucking him. He wanted to come with Foreman's hand around his dick, Foreman's cock in his ass, stroking his prostate, leaving him breathless and dizzy, and, fuck, it wouldn't take long. Foreman had teased him enough to work him into a fucking frenzy, and House was sure it showed, mixing with all the pushy anger he could work into his voice, when he gritted out, "Jesus Christ, will you hurry up?"
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2009-01-02 12:41 am (UTC)House heard himself whimper--fucking whimper--as Foreman pulled his hand away from House's cock, his body shifting automatically backwards to follow the heat of Foreman's body, his touch. It had barely lasted for a half-minute, just long enough to get him panting, aware of little but the flaring ache in his groin, the heat of Foreman's hand, the pressure of his grip--close to the hold he'd use on himself, so close to fucking perfect. God. The few strokes hadn't been enough. He let his head fall onto his outstretched arm, closing his eyes and choking back another pathetic sound in his throat, feeling the heat of Foreman's breath on his neck. Touch yourself, Foreman said, and House shook his head, squeezing a fistful of the sheets, his body still trying to roll backwards to find Foreman's again, all the while wondering how in the hell he'd gotten so damn needy. Touching himself wouldn't nearly be the same, not the same as Foreman voluntarily, willingly giving him something he wanted. So fucking badly. He raised his head, turning it to catch Foreman's face in his field of vision, and reached his right hand back to touch Foreman instead, finding his hip and squeezing. Not himself, didn't want to touch himself, not with Foreman so damn close, so close to fucking him. He wanted to come with Foreman's hand around his dick, Foreman's cock in his ass, stroking his prostate, leaving him breathless and dizzy, and, fuck, it wouldn't take long. Foreman had teased him enough to work him into a fucking frenzy, and House was sure it showed, mixing with all the pushy anger he could work into his voice, when he gritted out, "Jesus Christ, will you hurry up?"