House knew that his orgasm only lasted several seconds, but it felt so much longer. If Foreman wasn't probably half-distracted by his own post-orgasm aftershocks, House might have felt like he'd shown too much, really let himself get lost a little too much. If he had, though, Foreman probably would have said something--he probably wouldn't have been able to resist--and, so far, Foreman wasn't saying anything. He was still panting, body still quivering from the strength of his orgasm, but he noticed when Foreman let his hand fall away from him, wiped it on the sheets. House almost laughed. He wondered if Foreman thought that he actually cared about a little semen on his sheets. Wouldn't be the first time it ended up there. Tissues weren't always close, and hookers didn't always swallow. He'd change the sheets when he got around to it, or maybe he'd keep them on here until Foreman ended up here again, just to annoy him. Maybe Foreman would be so frustrated he'd change them himself.
House was surprised that Foreman was still lying on him. Was still in him. Foreman was sticking to him with a layer of semen and sweat. His leg was started to hurt--no big surprise, but, God, it was worth it this time. As much as he liked Foreman's weight and warmth, the way Foreman had his face tucked in against the side of his neck, and as much as he liked the way he was almost hugging him--what was up with that--he knew he wouldn't be able to stay like this. And if he started cuddling with Foreman after each time Foreman fucked his brains out, Foreman would start wanting flowers. Or something. House shimmied a little underneath Foreman, pushed against Foreman's hip. "Get off," he said. "Or I'll move first, break your--"
House would have been disappointed that he was robbed of the chance to deliver his rude and crude line for the morning if he hadn't choked on a lungful of air at the sound of the apartment door slamming closed. His mind instantly went to the phone call Foreman had ended, and he glanced at the phone, remembering Foreman had left the line open. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck, damn it. Wilson's voice--of fucking course--sounded wary as it formed his name. The overprotective son of a bitch had come here to look for him. Check up on him. Jesus. House looked up at Foreman, not able to hide the panic that he could feel heating his whole damn face. Another few seconds and Wilson would catch him with Foreman's dick in his ass, and, no, Wilson couldn't find out like this. He started pushing at Foreman's shoulders; House wouldn't be able to go anywhere until Foreman moved and, if Foreman climbed off him in another second or two, House still had a chance of heading Wilson off before he even got to the bedroom, before Wilson could step inside the room and smell the sex, and Foreman. And the sex. "It's Wilson. Get off. Get off!"
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2009-02-28 06:00 am (UTC)House was surprised that Foreman was still lying on him. Was still in him. Foreman was sticking to him with a layer of semen and sweat. His leg was started to hurt--no big surprise, but, God, it was worth it this time. As much as he liked Foreman's weight and warmth, the way Foreman had his face tucked in against the side of his neck, and as much as he liked the way he was almost hugging him--what was up with that--he knew he wouldn't be able to stay like this. And if he started cuddling with Foreman after each time Foreman fucked his brains out, Foreman would start wanting flowers. Or something. House shimmied a little underneath Foreman, pushed against Foreman's hip. "Get off," he said. "Or I'll move first, break your--"
House would have been disappointed that he was robbed of the chance to deliver his rude and crude line for the morning if he hadn't choked on a lungful of air at the sound of the apartment door slamming closed. His mind instantly went to the phone call Foreman had ended, and he glanced at the phone, remembering Foreman had left the line open. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck, damn it. Wilson's voice--of fucking course--sounded wary as it formed his name. The overprotective son of a bitch had come here to look for him. Check up on him. Jesus. House looked up at Foreman, not able to hide the panic that he could feel heating his whole damn face. Another few seconds and Wilson would catch him with Foreman's dick in his ass, and, no, Wilson couldn't find out like this. He started pushing at Foreman's shoulders; House wouldn't be able to go anywhere until Foreman moved and, if Foreman climbed off him in another second or two, House still had a chance of heading Wilson off before he even got to the bedroom, before Wilson could step inside the room and smell the sex, and Foreman. And the sex. "It's Wilson. Get off. Get off!"
So much for a fucking afterglow.