wooedforyears | November 11, 2008

November 11, 2008

When House had arrived in Langley, he had been looking for a distraction, but he had imagined that he would have been forced to look harder for it. It had fallen into his lap--not literally, and it was too bad--when he had been introduced to the attending physician, Dr. Terzi. Tall, quick with a retort, and hot. If House hadn't been as interested in the medicine as he had been, he probably would have spent even more time and effort convincing her to jump into bed with him and accept a fellowship opening--at the time, the order hadn't particularly mattered. Between the case and doctor, he'd had little spare thoughts for Foreman, or the previous few days, although it had pleased him to know that Foreman hadn't believed him when he'd told him the truth about where he'd been; it had almost been as though Foreman had wanted him back at the hospital. The reason had hardly mattered. If Foreman couldn't handle the medicine or the fellow-wrangling without him, House could inform Cuddy and push to have Foreman dismissed. He had doubted Foreman wanted him around, unless the fellows fell short when it came to heated personal arguments, but House had suspected Foreman had enough of those before he'd gone. There could be reasons he hadn't considered, but, while he'd been away, all House had enough brainpower to care about was the gorgeous woman strutting around and returning his euphemisms, and the fact that she had the potential to offer an incredibly nice distraction for the next few years of a fellowship. Plus, it had occurred to him, at one point where the thought of Foreman had crept into his brain, her presence might accomplish the goal of either driving Foreman completely away or provoking him to act. Either one would work well, and she could provide the aesthetically pleasing means to do it.

Terzi hadn't said 'no', but he'd left with the feeling that he probably wouldn't be hearing from her again, which had been disappointing. That disappointment had been replaced with genuine shock that his fellows--and Foreman--hadn't been able to wrap up Speed Racer's case in less than an afternoon. He'd not only come back to find it still up in the air, but that Brennan--more of a manipulate rat than House had ever given him credit for--had managed to fake and fake-cure polio. Every now and then, the shit that happened when he wasn't there amazed him, and House had to admit, he never would have called this one. Foreman had managed it, though, catching Brennan's fake-out, and House hadn't been able to hide his interest--the whole situation was even a little too crazy for his tastes, but it was fascinating--or his respect for Foreman for questioning it down to the end. He hadn't been surprised that his fellows had looked surprised when he'd reminded them that he'd put Foreman in charge for a reason. Sure, it had been with the hopes they'd all get on his back about the big reveal of the morning, but it had also been because Foreman really did get shit done.

As much as he wanted to forget about Foreman altogether, shove him out the door and onto a plane headed for California himself, he couldn't ignore the respect he felt for Foreman when he kept pushing like he had. Didn't mean he had to express it anymore than he already had, and he didn't hang around the lecture hall to take in Foreman's reaction beyond a brief glance. He headed up to his office, anxious to execute the plan he'd had two mornings ago: Go home, get drunk, and crash for the night. Too bad Terzi hadn't worked out. He'd still have something to fixate on other than Foreman and his incompetent bunch of new fellows. Fuck. He leaned against the back wall of the elevator, closing his eyes as he waited for it to stop on the fourth floor, hoping nobody--Wilson, Cuddy, Foreman, nobody--would be waiting to chat him up about his impromptu visit out of state.

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"Subtle." House rolled his eyes, following Foreman into the building. "Nice." He purposefully kept his eyes cast to the ground, ignoring the places that they'd kissed on Saturday night--against the wall and inside, against the line of mailboxes. He didn't need to give Foreman the satisfaction of getting a hard-on before they even got in the elevator.

He definitely wouldn't admit that he had just gone from interested to unmistakably aroused, secretly pleased that Foreman wasn't planning on wasting time with actual food. Foreman, on the other hand, never bothered to hide his smugness, practically skipping onto the elevator and sprawling out across one of its walls. That confidence was simultaneously attractive and frustrating. House wanted to challenge it, take it down a notch, but it conflicted with the desire to take advantage of Foreman's open posture, slide his hands all over him, get him hard, and take care of the foreplay in the elevator. But that would just heighten Foreman's smug satisfaction, and House would rather make him work a little harder than that.

"Even more subtle," House said, stepping into the elevator. Just to mock Foreman, House copied his pose as best as he could, shifting his weight to his left as he spread his arms out over the railing. He raised his eyebrows--Yeah, I can do it, too, and look just as suave.--and smirked, wondering how much it would take to make Foreman admit that he wanted him. Wanted House to touch him. He wondered how long Foreman would wait. As much as House wanted to give in to his own desire to touch him, his curiosity made him keep his hands to himself.

"That's harsh, coming from you," Foreman said. House wouldn't know subtle if it swung a two-by-four at his head. "Don't worry, I can be subtle." He saw a clear separation between his job and his personal life. The fact that he was with House tended to blur his lines, but Foreman still felt that what happened during work hours and what happened after shouldn't be brought together. At work he was subtle; professional, and yeah, as he'd heard from Chase more than once, a little uptight. When he was with someone, though, he could afford to be more playful. He had no idea what House would think of that, or whether how he was acting now would bleed over into his work life if he became too lazy or complacent about his barriers. But he wasn't going to pretend that he wasn't horny, that he wasn't having a good time right now poking holes in House's control.

He only tilted his head at House when he imitated his stance, even though his body raged at him that this was the perfect opportunity to corner him, crowd him, shove his body against House's until he could feel whether House was getting as aroused as he was. Foreman sucked back a quick and, he hoped, quiet breath. His heart was beating too fast, and he wondered if House's pulse was thundering just as hard. Their hands were nearly touching on the railing. Foreman lifted his hand just enough to skim his fingertips across House's wrist, brushing up the inside of his forearm under his coat sleeve. That tiny, ghosting touch seemed to fire his nerves even more than a wrestling bout against the wall of the elevator would have. He finally settled his fingers against House's radial pulse, finding it fast and strong. "I can do subtle," he repeated quietly. The idea that they were so close to his apartment, to having a solid, lockable door between them and the world, seemed to fill the air around them, making it hard to get a full breath. Fuck, he was getting hard, and he hadn't even been touched, or kissed House since the office. Foreman had no idea where this came from, unless it was knowing that he could probably make House come in under ten minutes, and then spend as much time as he wanted enjoying House's post-orgasm mellow while getting off himself. Foreman grinned, although he didn't bother directing his smile at House; he was watching the elevator doors. The moment they opened he pushed off the wall and strode for his apartment door. "And," he said over his shoulder, "I do know the difference." Once they were inside, "subtle" was going to be told very firmly to shut the fuck up and learn something.

House skeptically raised an eyebrow at Foreman's remark that he could 'do subtle', almost as a taunt, but his body tensed when he saw Foreman reaching for him. He managed to keep his respiration calm and steady, but, when Foreman's fingertips slid under his sleeve and settled over his pulse, he knew his own body would give him away. Damn it. Of course his body would side against him, and of course Foreman would know where to look for its traitorous signs. He wished the elevator would open, deposit them on Foreman's floor to put some space between them, but the longer Foreman's fingers stayed against his wrist, the more his mind rebelled with his body. His hand tightened around the rail, his mind silently repeating, Fuck space. Foreman's quiet reactions didn't help; they did more to him, pulse racing even faster, breaths leaving him in quiet shudders.

Foreman could do subtle, and it was much more effective than the obvious, flirty seduction ploy he'd attempted a moment ago. This made House's dick twitch, made his skin suddenly feel too warm under all his clothes, any lingering chill from the outside air gone with the build of his arousal. Glancing at Foreman's profile, House took in the smile there and wondered if Foreman could feel the same heat he felt rolling over his body. Probably, the bastard. Foreman would get off on this, making him react, and the knowledge frustrated him, but it turned him the fuck on, knowing his reactions could have that kind of sway over Foreman's. He wasn't sure if he wanted to deny him the reactions he wanted, force him to push harder, or openly show them, make Foreman react just as strongly. Both options had an appeal, but, as Foreman pushed away, the warmth of his touch going with him, House knew that he wanted this to last, wanted to absorb all of it while he was sober, and he wanted more of Foreman's subtle, almost teasing moves, that kind of touch that made him fucking ache with anticipation.

House crossed the hallway to stand behind Foreman, adjusting his growing erection while Foreman focused on locating his house key. He was tempted to reach underneath Foreman's coat, pull up his shirt, and slide his hands up his back, but he stopped himself, still curious as to how long Foreman would wait to be actively touched, if Foreman would touch him like he had been even if he wasn't touching, too. House guessed he would, if his reactions did so much for Foreman, and he tried to goad him into touching him again as he stood in front of his door. "Too bad I'm not convinced. You must be out practice. You weren't exactly subtle the other night."

Foreman tried to roll his eyes when House spoke, but he was too impatient to make much of the gesture. He should have found his apartment key without looking, but House was standing so close behind him that Foreman was left silently urging him to take one last step forward and press his cock against Foreman's ass. House thought he hadn't been subtle last time? Foreman thought about telling him exactly what he'd been thinking, in as much detail as he could muster, possibly with breathless, frantic pauses for demonstrations. Except that would make House's point for him. House was taunting him--and Foreman didn't know with what. Was he saying that Foreman should convince him he could be subtle? Or that House preferred him aggressive?

"See, House, that's what I mean," he said, finally unlocking the door. He opened it, already shrugging his jacket off his shoulders. "I can do subtle. You--" He paused, dropping his jacket somewhere near the closet, and decided to bluff his way through. Whatever House wanted, it would become pretty damn obvious quickly enough. "--can make sarcastic comments that tell me exactly what you want." Foreman turned back, reaching around House's shoulder and putting one palm flat against the door. He pushed it shut, which put him, once again, in the position of having House trapped up against a wall. And, fuck, Foreman could feel the heat of him, as if their clothes weren't there at all. Which was a good idea. A fucking wonderful idea. Foreman was still debating between subtle and not, and finally decided to go with "both" before simply staring at House and waiting drove him crazy.

He grabbed House's wrist again, not a soft touch searching out his pulse, but a hard, uncompromising grasp, knocking House's hand back against the door with every intention of holding him there as long as Foreman wanted. When he kissed House, though, he barely made contact. He brushed his mouth against the prickle of House's stubble, darted his tongue out just far enough to taste the comparative softness of House's lower lip. It was fucking electric, that nothing of a touch feeling like a thousand pinpricks of pleasure. Foreman was already breathing harshly, and his cock was more than interested. God, he ached, wanted to rub up against House's hip, lean the rest of the way into him, and his grip on House's wrist tightened almost involuntarily. He needed to know first, though, whether House would deepen the kiss or try to tease Foreman back. Whether the point of this was subtlety or not. He kept his hips canted back, and waited to see if House would drag him closer or draw out the tender, barely-there kiss.

House noticed Foreman's struggle with his key ring. He would have been much more amused if he wasn't so turned on, so anxious to get into Foreman's apartment. In private. Once they were inside, he ignored Foreman's words, not paying much attention. His action, however, that sudden, hard grip on his wrist caught his attention fully, and House darted his eyes to Foreman's as he was backed against the door, trapped there. His lips were parted, taking in air through his mouth, faster than before. He tried to predict what Foreman would do--lean into him, push him against the door, and kiss him hard.

When Foreman angled his head and kissed him, House discovered that he was so, so wrong, and he let his eyes drift closed and inhaled a quiet breath, holding it as Foreman's tongue slid across his lip. It was barely a kiss, more like an exploratory touch--as test--as they breathed the same charged, hot air. House held his whole body still, allowing Foreman to keep him against the door, keep him steady and balanced, more than what he seemed capable of doing for himself at the moment. His tongue crept past his lips, slow and almost cautious, and, when it touched the tip of Foreman's, the sensation nearly jolted him, forced a tiny moan into the air between them. God, he hadn't been kissed like this in--fuck, a long time. This slowly, softly, and he had never imagined that Foreman would have been the person to kiss him like this; the idea was ridiculous. The reality, on the other hand, was fucking mind-blowing. It made him want to push away from the door and into Foreman, feel proof that this was as arousing for Foreman as it was for him. His left hand flexed against the door, the other around his cane, but, despite the urge to put his hands all over Foreman, he let Foreman lead, content enough to let the kiss drag on as long as Foreman let it.

Oh, God. Foreman had meant the kiss to be nothing more than a test, thinking that House would blow right past the tantalizing, inquisitive press of lips and demand that Foreman kiss him harder, thorough and demanding the way he had in House's office. Thoughts of whether or not it would mean too much, be too soon, screw him over to kiss like this, all of them disappeared. The kiss caught him and left him dizzy, until he was lost in it. Every shift of lips, every insignificant movement, became the only thing he could think about. He kissed House's lower lip, sucking on it lightly, before sliding his tongue against House's, the sensation flooding his body. Foreman had no idea how much time was passing. It felt like it was rushing by while they were barely moving. He felt no sense of needing to hurry. He wanted this to last, suddenly, his impatience draining away even though he was more aroused than ever. Foreman wanted to memorize the exact level of pressure and tentative exploration that made House moan; he didn't want to move any more than that.

It seemed a hell of a lot less important to pin House back. Foreman couldn't even remember why he'd tried. He let go of House's wrist and moved his hand up his arm, over the coat, gripping his shoulder for a moment before dipping his fingers inside House's collar. He traced his fingertips up House's neck, brushing just behind his ear, then back down under his shirt to dig his fingers into House's trapezius muscle, massaging lightly. Shifting half a step to the right, Foreman finally leaned in the rest of the way, letting House's left leg press between his, nudging his erection against House's thigh. God, it felt so good. "Oh, fuck," he whispered, breaking the kiss at last, gasping for air before he quickly met House's lips again. A deep, tight groan vibrated in his chest as he swayed forward again, pushing his hips forward as lightly as he'd been kissing House.

As the kiss went on, House wanted to reach for Foreman's hips, stroke his thumbs over the points of Foreman's hipbone before slowly pulling Foreman's dress shirt out of his pants. Wanted to slide his hands under the fabric and curve his fingers around Foreman's sides, feel warm skin and firm muscle quivering with the unsteady rhythm of his breaths. God. The thought made his hands twitch, but House kept them still; he still wanted to make Foreman wait, was curious to see how much Foreman would show that he wanted him. How much Foreman would let him see. House wasn't sure that he'd like what Foreman revealed, if he revealed anything more, and he wasn't sure that it wouldn't secretly terrify him, but, now more than ever, he was curious about it. It was already bizarre to see Foreman treating him this way. It might have started as a challenge, but House felt when the challenge fell away, when Foreman released his wrist and slid his hand over his arm, up to his neck.

Fuck, he couldn't decide what he wanted Foreman to do. A part of his brain whispered against allowing Foreman to touch him like this, and kiss him like this--an effort to save himself from revealing to Foreman how damn pathetic he was, how much he needed Foreman to do this. But, God, it felt good, Foreman's hands on his shoulder, that light rub over his muscle, the sound of Foreman's voice, thick and aroused. God. When House felt Foreman's hips push forward, the unmistakable shape of Foreman's erection pressing against his leg, his capacity to think disappeared, and he jerked out of the kiss, tipping his head back against the door to draw loud, hitching breaths. Oh, God. Fuck.

House wanted to reach down and trace the shape of Foreman's cock through his pants, push him to want him even more--admit it--and it was getting more and more difficult for him to resist. Hell, it was getting difficult to ignore his own erection and arousal, and House diverted his own attention to try to refocus, leaning his cane against the door frame before taking off his coat. He tossed it at Foreman's couch, not caring that it fell short and landed in a heap on the floor at the back of the couch, and leaned down to meet Foreman's mouth again, no harder than before, but more adventurous, sweeping his tongue inside Foreman's mouth. He told himself it didn't count as giving Foreman what he wanted, that he was only resuming what they'd already done, even as he leaned into Foreman, his hands pushing himself away from the door--barely a nudge, but the pressure was there. He couldn't fucking get enough and, despite the nagging doubts in the back of his mind, he didn't want Foreman to stop. God, he really didn't, and House wasn't above trying to make sure he didn't.

Foreman opened his mouth, let House explore as much as he wanted. The kiss was still soft, slow, but deeper. It was so different from the pushy, angry urgency of Saturday night. Then, House had barely let Foreman touch him without a fight, all his obnoxious defiance at the forefront. Foreman had felt driven, as if his chance would have been snatched away from him if he hadn't met House's challenge. House hadn't given up, not until Foreman restrained him on the bed and fucked him. House had kissed him, then, like he was now, more open and softer even as Foreman thrust into him. He'd let himself open up--or Foreman had forced him to. It seemed as though House had reached that point far sooner this time, and it was exhilarating to feel it. House had actually let his cane behind, stepping forward from the door so that Foreman would be his only prop if he needed one. It felt like House was waiting for something, for some signal, to start touching Foreman back, but he'd gotten rid of his coat, and that was enough for now. Slow was good, as long as House was letting him lead the way, letting Foreman taste his mouth while the heated sensation moved through his body. Slow was better than he ever could have imagined.

Foreman spread his palms against House's stomach, over his hips, and then moved up to his chest. He wanted to get House's shirt off, forgetting for now about his own. There would be plenty of times for House to be contrary, to turn the sex into an argument, for Foreman to wrestle him down. Tonight Foreman was happy just to keep kissing. House's body was warm under his hands and when Foreman shifted his weight in tiny increments, he could feel House's erection low against his stomach. The light, brushing touches, almost accidental every time they happened, felt astonishingly powerful, so fucking good. God, they had to get to the bed, and soon. Foreman wanted House horizontal, wanted to press into him while they just kept on kissing, wanted to get all these goddamn clothes out of the way.

Foreman worked a bit harder at House's buttons, finally breaking the kiss so that he could see what he was doing. He paused, though, when he realized what he'd been thinking. Plenty of times. As if they'd agreed on the future just because Foreman had managed to drag House here tonight. He hadn't forgotten their argument, but it had taken a backseat to his horniness. Which was stupid. Too late now to do anything about it, and he wasn't going to stop. House's shirt was hanging open, and Foreman leaned in to kiss him again, still delicately, because he needed to confirm to himself that House really was being this unguarded. The kiss was almost a question, meeting House's tongue and searching out all the places that had evoked a reaction before. Sweeping his hands up House's body, Foreman pushed his shirt off, the suit jacket going with it, leaving just the t-shirt. "You have to stop wearing layers," he muttered, almost before he realized what he was saying. Pretty much admitting that he wanted this again, that he wanted easier access. He swallowed, but tried not to let it show, tugging at the hem of House's t-shirt impatiently. If House really was waiting for Foreman to do something before reciprocating, then maybe it was time to step up the challenge. "I want this off."

House was vaguely aware that he was getting lost in the kiss, leaning into Foreman's touches, but Foreman's voice, and the implication of his words, stunned House into full awareness. He raised his head to stare at Foreman's face, catching the sight of Foreman's throat working around a swallow. The tiny action confirmed any suspicions that House had about the meaning behind Foreman's blurted statement, and House felt his anticipation skyrocket, his head fogging with desire as he let Foreman push his jacket and button-down onto the floor. In his brain, Foreman's words began to morph. You have to stop wearing layers. You have to stop wearing layers so it's easier for me to get all your clothes off. I want this off. I want this off because I want you. Next time I'll take it off you faster if you don't wear so many damn layers. He hated that his mind went there, filled in those blanks. He tried not to think too much about what Foreman meant but, as he raised his arms to let Foreman lift his shirt over his head, he couldn't help the flooding desire to hear what else Foreman wanted. Jesus, was he really that needy?

He closed his eyes, consciously trying to counteract his own reactions to Foreman, the pathetic neediness that seemed so obvious to himself, and said, "Kind of early to start making assumptions about repeat performances." He hoped he sounded less desperate than he felt, already wanting a repeat performance himself.

Foreman's implied admission urged him on, and he brought his mouth down to Foreman's again, his hands moving to Foreman's hips to hold himself steady. The fact that Foreman had accidentally let slip that he had no real intention of walking away from him, or pushing him away, that he wanted House around in the future, encouraged House enough to reciprocate, gathering handfuls of Foreman's shirt and pulling it up, out of Foreman's pants. He pushed his hands underneath, like he'd wanted before, and lightly spread his fingers over Foreman's sides. He could feel the warmth of Foreman's skin, could feel Foreman's ribcage expand with his breaths as he kissed him; it made his own breaths come faster, made him kiss a little harder, made him tighten his hands on Foreman's body without fully realizing it, negating all his previous efforts to keep his reactions under control and restrained. Little things were beginning to give him away, and House knew it was only a matter of time before big things gave him away, so he pulled back, out of the kiss, and tried to raise his guard back up. He furiously worked at the buttons of Foreman's shirt, hoping Foreman wouldn't catch on to the shift in his mood and try to tear his guard back down again.

Foreman's face heated. House had caught the implication and thrown it back at him without missing a beat. It was incredibly annoying that he could do that, especially since Foreman had been working since they'd come in to make sure that House couldn't think at all. He wanted to offer some scathing retort, deny that he'd meant that, but before he could, House was kissing him again. Foreman let a muffled groan escape into House's mouth. His challenge had worked, and House's hands were suddenly all over him, climbing under his shirt, his palms broad and hot against Foreman's back. The contact was too brief, too light, but the kiss more than made up for it, hot and intense. Foreman could feel the echo of every line House drew on his skin, nerves firing in response. He mirrored House's touch, glad to have his shirt gone so that he could feel the muscles working in House's back, rub the knots of tension that lined House's spine and travelled under his shoulderblades.

When House pulled back to tug at his buttons, frowning in concentration, Foreman resisted the urge to drop a kiss on the back of House's forearm, the only place he could reach. Too much. Too soon. He didn't want to get tied down to a relationship, and certainly not with House, but he couldn't stop himself from saying these things. He wasn't lying, but at the same time, Foreman had no idea what he did want, beyond having House's hands on him and kissing him for all he was worth. Foreman brought his hands down to House's hips, slipping his fingers under House's waistband, kneading the top of his ass. As soon as House's fingers fumbled open the last button, Foreman shrugged his shirt off his shoulders. He pulled House in to kiss him again, hauling him as close as he could without pulling him off-balance. Warm. God. So hot.

"No assumptions," Foreman said, finally. He had to keep reminding himself of that, he had to be far more careful than he'd been so far. He'd never been the crazy one in a relationship, never been the one that needed to pursue someone, and it bothered him, scared him. He wanted to forget what he'd said, but he couldn't contradict himself. He slid his hand across House's stomach, and finally--fuck, it felt like he'd been waiting so long--touched him, light and slow, over his pants, leaning up to kiss House at the same time. After a moment, he pulled back to speak. His words might be confrontational, but he kept his touch the same as they'd had so far, gentle and tentative. "You seem pretty persuaded, though."

If Foreman noticed the change, he failed to acknowledge it. It made House believe that Foreman actually hadn't noticed, probably too distracted by the prospect of getting rid of his shirt. Foreman wouldn't have hesitated to let him know, to shove his face in his own cowardice, and House covered his surprise when the taunt never came, focusing on opening Foreman's shirt to get it off of him. He felt Foreman's hands creeping under the waistband of his jeans, his underwear, and his concentration slipped. He had to fumble to get the rest of the buttons unfastened, and let Foreman actually take the shirt off as House's hands returned to Foreman's hips, gripping harder, urgency bleeding into the touch.

He scoffed at Foreman's words, looking down at him, but a dozen retorts danced straight out of House's head at Foreman's touch, Foreman's hand brushing over his erection through his jeans. His eyes blinked closed as a gusty breath left him in a hurry, cut off by Foreman's kiss. He barely had time to return it before Foreman pulled away. House felt his body sag forward as Foreman's hand moved over him, too lightly, one hand rising to grip Foreman's shoulder, his head drooping to the side of Foreman's. Fuck, it was torturous, that slow touch, the sensation dulled by the denim. His focus narrowed to it, taking in as much as he could. He hardly comprehended Foreman's words, the sound of Foreman's voice muffled in his ears by his own breathing.

"Yeah." The word slipped with a shaky whisper as House pushed into Foreman's hand, and House squeezed his eyes shut, hearing his own voice, hating himself for breaking first. He'd had a plan, damn it. Hold off from touching Foreman where House knew he wanted it until Foreman admitted it, asked for it, and it could still work. Almost. Turning the tables on Foreman would be gratifying, too, but damn it, he couldn't seem to tear himself away from Foreman's touch long enough to execute his own moves. His hips kept pushing forward, wanting more pressure, a fuller touch, and he helplessly held on to Foreman, ducking his head to the curve of Foreman's neck, caught between gathering himself and getting lost in Foreman's touch, the warmth of him. God, it would be so easy. Fighting was harder, and his body wasn't making it any easier.

House's agreement almost shocked Foreman into stillness, before he let out a short, incredulous breath. Yeah, he was persuaded? That they should do this again? But House didn't seem to even know what he'd said, focusing more on pushing his cock into Foreman's hand. That was even more convincing than if he'd agreed without a fight. Foreman's breath exploded out of him in shaky gasps as he realized just how lost House was in that subtle, uncomplicated touch. He moved his hand a bit faster, tracing House's inseam with one fingertip, then cupping his erection and pressing rhythmically with the heel of his hand. He'd stripped away everything House was hiding behind along with his clothes, and knowing that made him feel fucking powerful.

Foreman could feel House's breath gusting against his shoulder and the side of his neck, each puff of air making his skin stand up in goosebumps. Foreman shivered and turned to the side just enough that he could kiss the side of House's neck, laying open-mouthed, soft-lipped kisses behind his ear. If this was how House acted when he was sober, then Foreman was more glad than ever that he'd insisted, demanded that they do this again. He'd been right, it was better, and he couldn't decide if he wanted to just keep standing here--not three feet from his front door--touching House, maybe opening his jeans and getting his hand inside, or if he wanted House to start touching him back. His cock throbbed, heavy and full, and fuck, he wanted House's hand there, not on his back or his shoulder.

As good as it felt to have House practically melting on him, Foreman still wanted more. His mind was full of images of House arching up towards him, so that Foreman could see that hazy, desperate look that House was probably hiding from him right now. "God, I want to suck you," he said, whispering the words into the side of House's neck, having no idea if House would hear him. It wouldn't do anything for his own arousal, but the idea of having House completely at his mercy, underneath him, while Foreman made him react, made him raw and frantic with pleasure, was stronger than his own need to be touched. "I think--" He cleared his throat, trying to find his normal register. He hated sounding so desperate himself. "This won't work standing up."

Foreman licked his lips and pulled away reluctantly. He wanted to drag House to his bedroom, but he didn't want to force him; House was too prickly about walking. Foreman only glanced at House's cane, behind him, and figured he'd get the message. As incentive, Foreman sat on the arm of the couch and pulled off his shoes and socks, tossing them into the heap where his jacket and shirt had ended up, before starting to open his belt.

Thank-fucking-God Foreman couldn't see his face, House realized, and tucked it against to Foreman's neck, further out of sight. He parted his lips against Foreman's neck, pressed his tongue to his skin, and sucked gently, shifting closer. House's hand spread over Foreman's chest before it slid down his body, stopping at Foreman's hip to pull him harder against him. His need was fucking embarassing, but he couldn't help the way his body moved closer, wanting more. Wanting Foreman to want more from him.

And, Foreman did want more, and told him exactly what 'more' he had in mind. I want to suck you. Oh, God. Fucking God, the words were dirty and hot coming out of Foreman's mouth, and House groaned into Foreman's neck, the sound muffled and strained. Fuck. House leaned his forehead against Foreman's shoulder, leaning on him so heavily that House wondered if his weight would cause Foreman to stumble back, fall over. House wanted to believe it was more than physical strain in Foreman's voice when he spoke, reminding him of the obvious point that this wouldn't work while they were still standing.

Yeah, no kidding, House nearly said, doubting that he would be able to stand for much longer. It was already humiliating enough that he was depending on Foreman to keep himself standing; verbalizing it would make it worse. House steeled himself, willing his feet to remain planted on the floor, only wavering slightly as Foreman pulled away. He caught a glimpse of Foreman's glance at his cane, and House nodded silently, reaching for it before he walked as gracefully and steadily as he could to Foreman's bedroom. Fuck, he had to lie down, or sit down, and get out of the rest of his God damned clothes. Foreman would catch up; he knew the way to his own bedroom.

House couldn't shake Foreman's words, and the images made him pulse, his erection thick and heavy, straining painfully against his jeans. He craved more contact, real contact, but it occurred to him that Foreman could probably make him come just by talking to him, telling him what he wanted. House knew he would get absorbed in it--Foreman's words, his tone, the closeness of his mouth when he spoke. His imagination would kick into overdrive, wild, dirty images filling his brain. A part of him felt safe to let go around Foreman. He knew that Foreman was aware that, if he did, House would tense up and refuse to let go again, and it was better for Foreman not to rub his behavior in his face. Another part, however, reminded him of the arsenal of personal information Foreman could use later, but the echos of Foreman's voice in his head, the tense, burning ache in his groin made him disregard any concern about 'later'. Pushing the thoughts out of his mind, House set his cane on Foreman's dresser just inside the door and moved to Foreman's bed. With his back to the door, he worked open his jeans, sighing quietly at the release of pressure against his erection, then pushed his jeans with his boxer briefs down to ankles before he leaned down to step out of them, bracing himself on Foreman's bed with his hand as Foreman took his time in joining him.

Foreman took a moment to watch House making his uneven-gaited way down the hall. He shook his head and laughed to himself while he slipped his belt free of its loops. God, what was he doing? Leading House on? Leading himself on? Maybe House had been right to worry that he'd leave--it made a lot more sense than hooking up the man who was in all practical ways his boss, not to mention a dozen years older, and a guy. None of those would be problems, except they weren't paired with discretion. Everything he'd said tonight, he was certain House would use against him at some point--maybe not soon, maybe it would be good for a week, a few months--but eventually, House would throw his words in his face. In front of as many witnesses as he could find. Foreman had lost track, had stopped being subtle several whispered assertions ago. He was setting himself up, with every move, every word.

Foreman bowed his head, pressing his hand against his erection, willing himself to calm down, to restrain himself. He still couldn't make himself care, couldn't shut up. He stood up and made his way to the bedroom, opening his fly as he went. By the time he stepped into the room, he'd pushed his pants and boxers off his hips, letting them fall to the floor. House was naked, too, and Foreman took in his back, his ass, his long legs. Except for his uneven stance, he looked perfectly whole. His head was bent slightly, and Foreman hadn't had this chance last time, just to look. Jesus Christ, Foreman didn't care about how he came off, how he sounded, and that almost made him want to stop. House would know--probably already knew--how badly Foreman wanted him, how turned on he was. It should feel a lot more dangerous than it did.

He stepped forward, lifting his hands to House's shoulders and then sweeping them down his arms. A quick grasp at his wrists, a squeeze as a reminder that he could pin House down if he wanted to--and fuck, he wanted to--and then Foreman moved his hands to House's torso, around to his stomach and down to his erection and started stroking him again. Slowly. Firmly. Purposefully. Running his hand over House's entire length, from balls to tip, his thumb rubbing over the head. Foreman kissed the back of House's shoulders, tasting his sweat, brushing his lips higher up House's neck, as far as he could comfortably reach. He was breathing hard, and he thrust his hips forward, rubbing his cock against House's ass. Pleasure surged through him, twisting through his stomach, gathering just behind his balls. So close, and he thought again of Saturday night, of coming while he was thrusting into House without a thought for how he'd looked. He wanted to ask, Is this what you want? because it felt like he'd already said too much himself, revealed too much of what he wanted. Any question he asked would only give House an opportunity to shoot him down, anything he said would be too much. And they were still standing, but Foreman had lost track of his goals the minute he'd stepped foot in the room.

When House heard Foreman's footstep behind him, he stood straighter, his weight shifted to his left, but kept his back to Foreman. As much as he hoped to see a hazy expression of desire on Foreman's face, standing apart from Foreman like this, alone near Foreman's bed, made him feel a twinge of doubt. He couldn't possibly be attractive, and he was certain that Foreman could pick up any muscle-t-shirt-wearing gym-member guy that Foreman wanted--more Foreman's type, House guessed--or any sleek-haired, high-heeled woman that caught his eye. Someone less problematic, and someone Foreman hadn't disliked so much that he'd had to leave. Someone whole. House had lost some of the more developed lean muscle he'd once had--literally--and moments like this, set apart and on display, reminded him that he still was a fucking cripple. The reason that Foreman seemed to want him was beyond him, and, still standing alone and waiting, House felt his doubts swirl through his head. It distracted him from his own arousal, and House couldn't decide if he should bolt now, before Foreman realized what the hell he was doing, or if he should stay to see how much--and why--Foreman wanted him. House touched his hip with his right hand, sliding it down, but not far enough to feel the physical reminder of his handicap--he could feel that without touching it--and felt his curiosity, his pathetic need to keep Foreman wanting him, push his doubts to the background of his thoughts. Staying.

Behind him, he heard no reaction from Foreman, only the rustling sound of clothes falling to the floor, and closed his eyes. He could feel Foreman's gaze on him, knew it was there, and his ears suddenly burned with self-consciousness. He had to beat it down, push through it and not let Foreman see it, and he squared his shoulders, raising his head, refusing to glance over his shoulder. When House heard the sound of Foreman's footsteps, he let his arms fall to his sides, drawing a breath and waiting. He was still aroused, still aching, and the first touch of Foreman's hand on his shoulders--smooth, and warm, and fuck--almost made him sink down to the floor. His breath caught at the squeeze of Foreman's hands on his wrists, and House braced himself to be thrown down to the bed, pinned down and covered. It took a moment for him to realize that Foreman hadn't done it--was he fucking messing with him?--and the rest of his thoughts, doubts included, vanished when Foreman's hand wrapped around his dick. Oh, God.

House did feel his muscles weaken this time, his body leaning backwards to rest against Foreman's as a soft, quiet moan slipped out of his mouth at the first long stroke of Foreman's hand. God, he really was fucking pathetic, taking anything Foreman would give him. He angled his head, inviting the heat of Foreman's mouth on his neck as he kissed him. He pushed back against the dry rub of Foreman's cock, pleasure and anticipation streaming through him, wishing Foreman would fucking talk again. He hated himself for wanting it, as if it meant something. As if Foreman couldn't take it back, throw it all in his face.

Reaching behind him, House found Foreman's hips, his ass, and spread his hands wide, forcing himself not to urge Foreman closer--it would make him look even more needy--but House kept his touch light, just to keep Foreman where he was, warm, and wanting him, and touching him. He didn't want any of it to stop. He was sure he wouldn't be able to keep standing for long without Foreman physically holding him up, but he didn't break away yet. It felt too good to stop--it made him forget to think, and, God, House didn't want to think right now--and House let himself lean on Foreman as much as he'd allow, pressing his back to Foreman's front, letting himself concentrate on Foreman's touch, on the pleasure rolling through him, instead of keeping himself standing.

Foreman closed his eyes as he kissed the back of House's neck. He fucking loved the way House tilted his head, inviting his touch, letting him in. He loved that he could do this, make House act differently, make him shut up. When House let out a low, hoarse moan, Foreman rested his forehead against House's shoulder just to breathe, his chest heaving as he struggled with his own frustrated arousal. He scraped his teeth across the point of House's shoulder, then kissed him again, sucking and licking. He moved his hand faster, his grip tightening and twisting each time. He wanted to know what it looked like. Fuck, he couldn't see nearly enough. He wasn't tall enough to peer over House's shoulder, watch his own hand moving on House's cock. More importantly, he couldn't see House's face, watch his expressions chase each other across his features, watch for the moment when House truly stopped thinking.

When House reached back to grasp his ass, his fingers spread and gripping lightly, Foreman couldn't help letting out a short, needy "Fuck, yeah," nearly a moan against House's neck. He pushed his hips forward, needing more friction, more heat, more pressure. God, it wasn't enough. He wanted to know that he was turning House on so much that he couldn't help but pull Foreman even closer, but House wasn't cooperating. Holding, not pulling. Too fucking patient by half, even if he was leaning his back into Foreman's chest, off-balance and trusting Foreman to hold him up. His first moan had been gratifying, but it wasn't enough any more, slow wasn't enough, seeing only House's back was definitely not enough.

"I want to see you," he said, his voice harsh and low. Foreman frowned fiercely, hiding it as he ducked his head and rested it against the top of House's arm. House still hadn't said anything, and what the hell was Foreman supposed to do, keep on being the one putting himself out there, exposing everything he wanted? Last time House had been far more vocal--maybe just because he'd been drunk--snapping out comments, and, at the end, saying Foreman's name, his voice rising and broken when he'd asked Foreman to fuck him. Foreman wanted that, wanted House to admit what Foreman was doing to him, admit that it was Foreman doing it.

"Lie down," he said, nudging House, kissing the point of his shoulder one last time before stepping back. He didn't know if House would do as he said; so far, House had been so much more compliant, but at the same time he'd done less. One kiss in the living room when he'd actually touched Foreman, slipped his hands under his shirt, and that was it. Foreman's frustration was beginning to build, because he hadn't exactly signed up to do this solo, to provide for all of House's needs and leave himself hanging. Was it because House didn't really want to be here? That Foreman hadn't really convinced him, that he was humouring him somehow? That he'd take his orgasm and then just check out? Well, fuck that. Foreman could have jerked off if that's all he'd wanted, and avoided the entire humiliating fight with House in the parking lot. If House really was here for him, with him, then he'd damn well listen when Foreman told him what he wanted. He sat down on the bed himself, closing his eyes for a moment--as much as he wanted to see House, he didn't need to see his reaction to Foreman admitting how desperate he was. He lay down, rolled to his back, and reached for his erection, stroking himself to full hardness, groaning once, sharply. "You should--be doing this," he panted out between his teeth, trying to speak through the relief, the pleasure, of finally getting the touch he needed--if not the touch he wanted. I want you to be doing this. It was too much, though, he couldn't say it, and he simply rolled his head back against the pillows and kept going.

When Foreman spoke, House's body tensed, and he suddenly took back his wish for Foreman to tell him what he wanted. He'd felt self-conscious enough when Foreman was staring at the back of him. Letting him see the front, just letting Foreman look at him, made House's insides squirm. They had been too occupied, too drunk, to care to do much studying last time, and now that House was sober, aware of everything, the prospect of having Foreman really look at him made him nervous. House wouldn't be surprised if Foreman suddenly remembered who was standing in front of him and told him to put his clothes back on and get the hell out. Stupid. That was stupid. Foreman wasn't a moron. He especially wasn't an oblivious moron, but House couldn't stop those thoughts from rushing through his head.

I can't, he wanted to say, when Foreman told him that he should be touching him, but his voice didn't want to work. House fixed his eyes on Foreman's hand and watched as Foreman touched himself, stroked himself. Oh, God. He'd wanted to see evidence that Foreman wanted him, but this, this made him want to run. Made him wish he could run. He couldn't take the step to the bed, make himself sit down and do what Foreman wanted. His knees seemed to be locked in place. He couldn't get his body to fucking move, no matter how hot Foreman looked and sounded. (God, and it was hot.) No matter how much he wanted to make Foreman break because of him. That thought should have excited him--having Foreman at his mercy, under his control--but it was different when Foreman practically told him to do it. If he'd done it on his own, when Foreman wasn't expecting it, it would have been better. Acceptable. He could pretend it was just a way to push Foreman, nothing else, if he needed to. This should have been a big stroke for his ego, but he couldn't get his brain to stop working. Thinking. Fuck.

It was so much easier when Foreman pushed and didn't give him much of a choice. He'd rather Foreman reach out, grab his arm, and yank him down to the bed. If he willingly did what Foreman wanted, he'd have to admit that he wanted this just as much. He'd lose his out, all his rationalizations if Foreman decided to ditch him after all. House's body was frozen, his feet rooted to the floor as he stared down at Foreman, battling with himself and his arousal at seeing Foreman like this, hoping Foreman wouldn't get pissed off at him for standing like some kind of moron, but hoping he would, and then kick him out to save him the trouble of explaining himself. God, this was all so much easier when he was drunk, when he couldn't think clearly. He really didn't want to be able to think, and he bowed his head and closed his eyes, trying to shake his thoughts away, taking his attention off of Foreman for a few seconds.

For a moment, Foreman let himself fuck his hand, getting caught up in the sensation, pressing one heel against the bed as he moved his hips up into his touch. He was waiting for House to hurry the fuck up and get on the bed, and then Foreman might be persuaded to suck him, after House had gotten with the program. Slow, and soft, light as their kiss in the living room, to pay House back for taking so damn long.

Except the bed didn't dip under House's weight. He didn't hear House stepping closer, or saying anything. Foreman opened his eyes only to see that House wasn't even fucking looking at him, he was staring at the fucking floor. Foreman felt a wash of shame move through him. Here he'd been putting on some sort of fucking show and not only didn't House appreciate it, he wasn't even watching. Fuck. Foreman could have been jerking off for all the fucking involvement House was showing. This was completely humiliating. Foreman took his hand away from himself, suddenly wishing he could cover up. He remembered what House had said when Foreman had accused him of running away--You're not important enough to avoid, Foreman. You don't mean that much. God, was that what this was? That House wanted to get his rocks off and he'd do it with the first convenient person who threw himself at him, like a pathetic, needy moron? That being here was just easier than avoiding him?

Fuck him. Fuck him. Foreman couldn't do this. He sat up and braced his fists on either side of his hips, glaring up at House. His first instinct was to show him the fucking door, if House was so uninterested in being here. "What the fuck is your problem?" he said, not really caring about the answer. It wasn't like House was going to be honest--and if he was, and Foreman was right that House just didn't want to be here, then Foreman didn't want to hear it.

House raised his head, alarmed to see Foreman sitting up on the bed, hands clenched into fists that pressed into the mattress. Great. Foreman was not only staring at him, making House want to cover himself and slink away, out of sight, but Foreman looked as though he might leap off the bed and kick him out the door if he couldn't come up with an answer soon. Now he couldn't think, had no idea what he could say. He couldn't make sense of any of the phrases and thoughts rampaging through his brain, feeling the pressure to say something, his face growing hot under Foreman's hard glare. House was too nervous, too taken aback to be angry, and his respiration sped up, breaths coming fast and noisy through his mouth.

"I--" House forced himself to swallow all the saliva in his mouth, gently shaking his head to help along his words. He couldn't look Foreman in the eyes as he spoke, looking down at the floor. "I don't know. I--" I want this. I want to know that you want me. It's fucking terrifying. Terrifying that any of it matters. I want you to kiss me, and touch me, and fuck me, and just fucking let me stay because you won't spread this around, or make this more complicated than it would need to be--and why the fuck am I thinking about this? No use saying any of it, even if he could; Foreman wouldn't believe it. It wouldn't do any good. Foreman would believe what he wanted to believe.

House glanced towards the door of the bedroom before turning his head to face Foreman again, still cemented to the damn floor. He didn't want to leave. Not really. If he walked out this time, he had a feeling Foreman would refuse to ever let him in again, that it would be the one push that shoved Foreman too hard. He didn't know what the hell he should do--try to pretend nothing had happened, or kiss him, or keep standing there, wait for Foreman to do something for the both of them. He had no fucking idea. God, he was a moron. A real fucking moron. He was sure that he'd just ruined his chances of getting laid. He might have just pushed Foreman to take a new job in who the fuck knew where. He didn't fucking want that. But he didn't know what to do about it, if Foreman would even let him do anything about it.

Hell, if Foreman stood up, got in his face, or put any more pressure on him, House wasn't sure how he would respond, but at least he'd have something to go on. He might blurt out the first thought that came to his mind, and, as fucking scary as that was, he'd at least have a better answer than a pathetic 'I don't know'.

"You don't know," Foreman said flatly. He looked away for a moment, trying to work past the huge, incredulous anger knotting in his chest. When he looked back, House was glancing at the door, the floor, anywhere but at him. "You don't know," he repeated, scornfully. For once House didn't have a fucking answer. For once, right when Foreman didn't want to stop and think.

What the hell did House expect after saying that? For Foreman to kick him out? He'd be right. Foreman wasn't about to beg him to stay. He was stubborn, but he was also smart enough to know when he wasn't wanted. When it was pointless to even try. He could tell House what the hell his problem was. He didn't know a good thing when he had it. He'd do anything to fuck it up. Foreman glanced up at him. Maybe House really was just that self-sabotaging. All he was looking for was a fucking escape hatch. He looked like he was fighting with himself not to bolt, or else to get together the courage to make a run for it, and Foreman had no idea which. The thought that House seriously didn't know crossed his mind, and Foreman glared at him even harder. House wasn't leaving, hadn't dropped half a dozen insults on his way out the door, but he wasn't making a move, either. He didn't know. He--he was actually uncertain. Foreman scoffed again, at himself this time. Christ, if he was letting himself get pulled in to House's mindfuck again, he would never forgive himself. He hated that he was still willing to give House a chance, as if it wasn't fucking obvious what he'd meant, what he wanted and didn't want. But House's stance, his expression, everything about him screamed tension, maybe even panic. As if...as if it meant something, that he was here, that they were doing this. Foreman's eyes widened, and he swallowed. He hadn't wanted that. Except...he'd pursued House, forced him to acknowledge Foreman, made tonight happen. And House was either so good at toying with him that he couldn't tell, or House was being serious; he did want it, and he was freaking out.

"I know," Foreman said, standing up. He was still furious, and he was sure it showed; he had nothing to hide behind and no reason to hide it. He stalked forward, covering the space between them in two steps. He didn't really care that House was afraid. He wanted to know if he was the problem, or if it was House's cowardice. If it was him, then House could fuck off. If it was House's problem, then he could damn well get over it. Last chance, he promised himself, because after this it wouldn't be on him if House decided not to go any farther. Foreman kissed House again, the same spine-tingling, light touch from before. The harder, deeper kisses hadn't scared him. It was this tenderness that had unnerved him. Foreman pressed just close enough that he could feel the heat of House's body, skimming his hand down House's side to his hip only enough to hold him in place, letting the kiss grow into an invitation before pulling back. "And if you have a problem with that?" he said quietly, staring angrily into House's eyes, trying to decipher whatever the fuck he was thinking. "You can get the hell out."

Of course. Of course Foreman wouldn't believe him. Wouldn't take him seriously, or see any truth to what he'd said. It really was fucking ironic that nobody ever believed him when he told the truth. It fucking figured. House exhaled forcefully, seconds away from grabbing his clothes to dress again, let himself out, because there was no way in hell he was going to stand there and explain his feelings to Foreman.

He caught sight of Foreman's change of expression, though, and it made him pause. The widening of Foreman's eyes, the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallowed, as if he'd realized something important, and House wanted to know if Foreman actually had caught on to the fact that he'd been serious. But House straightened up, drawing a sharp breath as Foreman stood up and closed in on him with a couple long strides. Christ, Foreman looked intimidating, fucking scary, and House tried not to let that thought show on his face, pressing his lips together, trying to relax his features, smooth out the worried crease between his brows that he knew was there. He had no idea what to expect. He had a few guesses. A punch, somewhere--the gut, the face, a knee to the balls. He wasn't quite sure. Probably accompanied by shouting. That seemed likely.

So when Foreman surged forward and kissed him, it took a few moments for House to process what the hell was happening. Foreman kissed with a slow tenderness as if he were testing if House could follow through, participate in it without attempting to force it into something more aggressive. Mild panic still fluttered inside his stomach, but he tried to concentrate on Foreman's kiss, on returning it with the same kind of pressure. He let himself lean into Foreman's touch, though, and, by the time Foreman pulled away, House felt disappointed. God, he hardly knew what the fuck was going on inside his own head, and he couldn't muster up the same anger that Foreman was revealing in his eyes. He felt stunned as he looked at Foreman, watching his lips move as he spoke, trying to figure out what the hell Foreman was trying to accomplish.

House suspected it was a test and stared at Foreman, drawing a deep, shaky breath and swallowing around the knot in his throat. Fucking terrifying. This was fucking terrifying, but House couldn't let Foreman kick him out, reject him again. He wouldn't let Foreman do it, even if he played straight into what Foreman wanted, or expected him to do. Wouldn't. House couldn't arrive at any verbal reply, his thoughts scattered enough as it was, so he acted instead. Pushing down his God damned doubts and fears, he focused on the determination to meet Foreman's challenge, to prove, even just to himself, that he wanted this, and he bowed his head, tucking his face into the curve of Foreman's neck. He opened his mouth wide against Foreman's neck, pressing his lips firmly to Foreman's skin as his tongue smoothed over it, sucked gently before shifting higher, under Foreman's jaw. He could taste salty sweat on his tongue, the lingering, stray bitterness of Foreman's cologne, dragging his tongue over his jawline, for no other purpose than, underneath all of his doubts, he'd fucking wanted to take in his damn taste all night. No, I don't have a problem with that. No, I'm not going to get the hell out. Fuck that. No. House's heart felt as thought it slammed into the back of his sternum with each beat, determination to stay rising through his chest. Determination to make Foreman want him again. House closed his eyes, lifted his mouth barely more than a paper's width away from Foreman's neck, and flattened his hands over Foreman's back. One stayed spread out over the small of Foreman's back, his palm hot and damp, while the other slid around Foreman's body, over his hip to cover his erection.

God, it really was easier now, to do this when Foreman had come to him, when the only movement House needed to make was subtle, a short reach down. Not on orders, but on his own. On his terms. It nudged House nearer to his comfort zone, and he took advantage, gathering confidence. House raised his head to meet Foreman's eyes as he wrapped his hand around Foreman's dick, squeezing gently before he slowly, deliberately began to stroke him. "That seem like a problem?" he whispered, his voice thick, echoing none of Foreman's anger, but his arousal still evident, obvious in his tone.

Even though House met the kiss, returned it, Foreman wasn't certain if he'd gotten the message across, made himself clear. If House thought one kiss would be enough to convince him, then Foreman would still be tossing him out on his ass. This was a two-player game. He was determined to hold on to his anger, but when House started kissing his neck, his jaw, Foreman's mouth opened on a gasp without his permission. Breathing was becoming an issue, but Foreman wanted nothing more right now than to take in the hot, tickling sensation of House's mouth moving across his skin, the rasp of his beard. Foreman felt feverish as the heat of House's tongue was quickly replaced by cool air, making him shiver. It wasn't enough--it wasn't reassurance--but it felt damn good, and he let House take his time, not demanding an answer. He waited until House finally pulled back and faced him, his face still wearing that uncertain, wary look. Foreman had wanted him to open up--he'd wanted to force House to this, make him honest--but it scared the hell out of him to actually see it. What the hell were they doing?

Whatever it was, all his worries about it disappeared when House spoke, the sound of his voice more convincing than any look on his face. Foreman let out a short, shuddery sigh when House squeezed him. He'd lost some of his erection, but House's hand and the long, deliberate strokes building up the simmering heat in his body, brought him back to full, throbbing hardness. "You couldn't have done that in the first place?" he said, sarcasm lacing his voice, but the tension he'd felt was already melting away. Pleasure was quickly overtaking him. Foreman inhaled sharply and grabbed for House's shoulder, because if he stopped or backed away again then Foreman was going to kill him. Heat flashed across his skin, and Foreman pushed his hips forward, needing more, already aching for more than House was offering. He whispered, "House. Harder--" and then wished he hadn't said anything. He shifted his hand up to the back of House's neck, and pulled him into a kiss, so that he wouldn't be tempted to speak. Talking had gotten him into this mess. Kissing he could understand. Long, and intense, meeting House's tongue with his and sucking on it the way he wanted to suck his dick, swirling and teasing before he got so breathless that he had to break away, and then diving back for more.

The bed was two feet behind them and Foreman couldn't even be bothered to get there, too busy with both House's hand making him want to whimper, and the kiss that he couldn't seem to move away from for longer than a breath. Standing was definitely becoming an issue, though, his legs trembling as House worked him over, trying to make him collapse from the handjob before he was ready. Foreman kept his hold on House's shoulder and stepped backwards, trying to pull House with him without losing a second of sensation, but he still had no clue if House would be finally willing to actually lie down. Foreman wasn't going to ask. He reached for House's dick, his left hand bumping House's right before he pushed him away and brought their erections together and stroked them both at once. God, yes, he'd been waiting for this, House's cock hard and silky against his, sweat and precome easing his strokes. "Ohh...fuck, that's--" So good. Foreman ground against House, his forearm clenching as he sped up his rhythm. "You're...such a fucking pain in the ass," he muttered against House's mouth. It was the truth, but he couldn't find it in himself to sound resentful. He kissed him again instead, and tugged at his shoulder, trying get the message across that he wanted to be on the bed, now, without giving House some fucking personal crisis.

The more Foreman began to react, the more confidence House gained, the urge to make Foreman break and give in to him, want him, reigniting. He smirked, growing more and more pleased with himself, his doubts finally melting away. House snorted at Foreman's words, remember 'in the first place'. House had been too busy concentrating on what Foreman had been doing to him, and then panicking over the meaning of it in the first place. So, no, he couldn't have. His body had barely been able to move, never mind have the coordinating to kiss and stroke Foreman at once.

As Foreman pushed forward, House pressed on the small of Foreman's back, pulling him in, encouraging him to show that he wanted more, enjoying the look of Foreman's impatience. At Foreman's demand, he would have pumped Foreman harder, maybe not quite enough for Foreman, but his rhythm faltered, his grip loosened when Foreman pulled him down and into another kiss. Foreman's kiss made him dizzy, bordered on obscene, and it made House imagine Foreman's mouth on his dick, sucking that way. Whenever Foreman pulled away, House barely had enough time to breathe, forced to draw short breaths through his nose as Foreman met his mouth again. He noticed that Foreman wavered, seemed unsteady on his feet, and he wasn't sure that he wouldn't collapse soon, lunge for a cool lungful of air wherever he could find it.

The bed seemed a better option than the floor, and House stepped forward when Foreman urged him that way, realizing where Foreman was heading. He had no reservations about it now; he was too focused on this, making Foreman react this way and enjoying the boost to his ego to backtrack. He anticipated falling straight onto the bed and continuing what he'd started, but he raised his eyebrows, looking at Foreman questioningly when Foreman nudged his hand away from Foreman's dick. His confusion passed as he peered down to see Foreman wrap his hand around their erections, his eyes closing and his head tipping back at the sensation of the first stroke of Foreman's hand. The fog returned to cloud his head, the heat and pressure--all the pleasure sparking in his body--blurring his personal barriers. He nodded when Foreman spoke, silently completing his sentence. That's good, so fucking good.

"Yeah," he said, the word slipping breathlessly before Foreman kissed him again. As much as he didn't want Foreman to stop, the idea of moving to the bed was one that should have been executed more than a few minutes ago, and House took advantage of Foreman's tug on his shoulder. He grabbed Foreman's hips and gave him a hard shove, following him to the bed and sinking down onto it. He settled on his left side, reaching for Foreman with his right hand, wrapping it around the base of Foreman's shaft and stroking up to the tip, continuing with the handjob.

"Go ahead. Complain some more. We'll see if I do any more than this."

Foreman watched House's lips part slightly around his ragged yeah, his heart racing at that expression, the way his eyebrows lifted and his breath rushed out. Kissing him then, with his mouth open, his mind obviously distracted by Foreman's hand, by the sensation of their erections rubbing together, fuck, it was good. Good to make House forget about whatever bullshit had stopped him. Even better to jerk them both together, to know that he was making House just as lost and uncaring as he was.

Foreman stumbled back when House pushed him, but he didn't bother to catch himself, sitting heavily on the bed and then rolling to his back, propping himself up on his elbows. House was next to him a moment later, warm skin brushing against his shoulder and thigh as House settled next to him. Finally, for Christ's sake, and this time House wasn't stopping. His hand was large and hot, wrapping around Foreman's cock, his fingers tight and precise, and God, it felt amazing, too light to be perfect but the slight taunt was almost better than if House had somehow read his mind. Foreman panted hard as he watched House jacking him off. He couldn't move, couldn't stop staring--his hips lifted almost involuntarily each time House reached the top of his stroke, trying to thrust up into his fist. House sounded fucking smug when he spoke but Foreman ignored him, if that was what would make him keep going. Foreman wasn't complaining, not by a long shot, but he still wanted more contact. The air was cool where he wasn't pressed up against House's side, and Foreman wanted the kiss--even if it meant he was feeling way more for House than he should. Dropping his shoulders back to the bed, Foreman reached for House and hauled him closer, nearly pulling House on top of him, feeling House's dick against his hip.

"Lazy bastard," Foreman said before he kissed him, daring him to stop. He kept one hand on the back of House's neck to pull him deeper into the kiss. With the other, joined House's hand on his erection, linking their fingers together so that he could show House exactly what he wanted, how hard, how fast, and to prevent House from pulling away. His pleasure was growing, and he tightened his own hand, forcing House to move faster. God, after all that fucking teasing, that wait, he wanted House now, and the kiss and the handjob wound together, pleasure surging heavy and hot through his groin, spreading out to every part of his body. Intense, God, so hot. Foreman stopped to pant, pushing his head back against the pillow, a groan escaping him. "Fuck, I want--" Couldn't say it. Probably anything he asked for, House would feel obligated to deny him, and House's hand was good, working for him, so he wasn't going to ruin it by saying anything else. But it was still there, much as Foreman wanted to hold it back. Putting House's mouth to good use. Getting the lube out of the drawer, make House's hand slippery-slick and hot, fuck his fist that much harder. Anything. Just a little more, a little longer, oh God.

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