House didn't fail to notice the way Foreman watched him, stared at his dick as he thrust into the tight circle of Foreman's fist. Foreman's change in expression was almost as obvious, which didn't entirely surprise him. He knew Foreman liked to fuck him--he liked it when Foreman did--but the fact that Foreman seemed so hesitant to even consider the idea of reversing their roles was interesting. House forced himself to fix his attention on Foreman's face despite the urge to close his eyes and feel Foreman's hand stroking, concentrate on every little jolt of warm pleasure.
When Foreman let him go and crawled back over him, House stayed still, kept watching, trying to get himself back under control, ease off from his desire to let go and come so damn hard. Foreman's deflection was an easy target to focus on, something to distract himself with; it was the worst deflection he'd ever heard, and it gave Foreman away more that Foreman probably realized. Foreman didn't want to lose that control. Didn't want to give anything away, would rather fuck him and pull moans and gasps out of him, make him respond. Or maybe it wasn't actually giving something away that mattered; maybe it was that Foreman didn't want to show anything to him.
House didn't have much time to mull it over, because, a couple seconds later, Foreman was between his legs, rocking forward and pushing inside him. God, yeah, he liked it when Foreman fucked him, had trouble hiding it. He closed his eyes, finally, and his breathing kicked up almost instantly. Foreman's hard sudden thrust--fuck, yes--pushed a sharp groan out of him, and House had to grab hold of the sheets to keep from sliding off the pillow and cracking his head against the headboard. It was so fucking good when Foreman did this, acted without asking. The air was colder now, and Foreman's body was poised above him, almost too far away, and House, somehow, felt more helpless like this. He felt pinned even though Foreman wasn't even holding him down, and, God, yes, this was what he wanted.
"This is what--" House had to stop to gulp down shallow gasps of air. Moan. Roll his head against the mattress. Arch up--all he could fucking do--as Foreman pounded into him, Foreman's cock striking over his prostate. Over and over, and, fuck, he wouldn't be able to talk in another few seconds. "This is what--oh, God, yeah--what you want. You--want to fuck me. Like to fuck me. You need it this way." Sounds, high and gritty and desperate, were slipping out with his breaths, between words, and he couldn't help the way his body writhed, his shoulders pressed down into the bed, neck arched, legs spread to get Foreman in deeper. Harder. Faster. Fuck. "Oh, God, Foreman. Yeah. Yes. Foreman. Fuck."
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2009-02-27 12:09 am (UTC)When Foreman let him go and crawled back over him, House stayed still, kept watching, trying to get himself back under control, ease off from his desire to let go and come so damn hard. Foreman's deflection was an easy target to focus on, something to distract himself with; it was the worst deflection he'd ever heard, and it gave Foreman away more that Foreman probably realized. Foreman didn't want to lose that control. Didn't want to give anything away, would rather fuck him and pull moans and gasps out of him, make him respond. Or maybe it wasn't actually giving something away that mattered; maybe it was that Foreman didn't want to show anything to him.
House didn't have much time to mull it over, because, a couple seconds later, Foreman was between his legs, rocking forward and pushing inside him. God, yeah, he liked it when Foreman fucked him, had trouble hiding it. He closed his eyes, finally, and his breathing kicked up almost instantly. Foreman's hard sudden thrust--fuck, yes--pushed a sharp groan out of him, and House had to grab hold of the sheets to keep from sliding off the pillow and cracking his head against the headboard. It was so fucking good when Foreman did this, acted without asking. The air was colder now, and Foreman's body was poised above him, almost too far away, and House, somehow, felt more helpless like this. He felt pinned even though Foreman wasn't even holding him down, and, God, yes, this was what he wanted.
"This is what--" House had to stop to gulp down shallow gasps of air. Moan. Roll his head against the mattress. Arch up--all he could fucking do--as Foreman pounded into him, Foreman's cock striking over his prostate. Over and over, and, fuck, he wouldn't be able to talk in another few seconds. "This is what--oh, God, yeah--what you want. You--want to fuck me. Like to fuck me. You need it this way." Sounds, high and gritty and desperate, were slipping out with his breaths, between words, and he couldn't help the way his body writhed, his shoulders pressed down into the bed, neck arched, legs spread to get Foreman in deeper. Harder. Faster. Fuck. "Oh, God, Foreman. Yeah. Yes. Foreman. Fuck."