Foreman waited for House to climb into the car, even though he was damn sure he didn't want to see House's smug smirk in his peripheral vision as he drove. And Foreman knew House wouldn't drop the subject, not when he was provoking such an amusing reaction. Foreman gripped the steering wheel tighter, but House didn't open the passenger door, choosing the back seat instead. Foreman glanced in the rearview mirror for a second, but when House didn't say anything more, he shook his head and started driving. So he got to play chauffeur again, while House had a good chuckle at his expense.
He nearly stomped on the brakes when he heard the unmistakable sound of a zipper, followed by the shift of clothing. Heart slamming in his throat, Foreman glanced in the mirror again, only catching sight of House's head tilted back against the seat, his eyes absent, his Adam's apple bobbing when he swallowed, a flush sneaking up his neck. Fuck. He was actually doing it. Bastard. Foreman wrenched his eyes back to the road. He'd just turned on to the main road, and he had no idea what anybody driving by might be able to see. House's shoulder moving as he stroked himself, maybe. The arch of his eyebrows and the droop of his lower lip when he couldn't hide how good it felt. All Foreman knew was that he couldn't see enough, not without pulling over--impossible at the moment--or endangering both their lives for his dick's sake. Foreman glowered straight ahead, knuckles clenched on the wheel, holding his head resolutely forward. Fucker. Of course he'd do it now. No wonder House had chosen the back seat. More room to slump down. Spread his legs out as wantonly as he could. Fuck.
Foreman jerked his head around fast enough to get whiplash when House started talking. At first, Foreman couldn't even focus, wondering if House was trying to piss him off even more, talking about yet another guy who was apparently even better. But when Foreman caught a glimpse of House's hand, working over his cock, already flushed and well on his way to fully hard, he let out a sharp breath and got it. He turned back to the road, straining to hear House's breath start to shift into a quicker rhythm, the soft sound of his hand stroking his dick. House might be talking about the other men he'd slept with, but the confident tone he'd had outside Foreman's apartment was wavering. He was talking for Foreman. Adding to the show. Not to mention telling Foreman his sexual history, actually volunteering details. Foreman didn't think House was lying; that uncertain hitch in his voice gave him away. And God, it was hot. Foreman dropped one hand from the steering wheel to his fly. Heat was already pooling in his groin, and he'd be following House's example before long if they didn't stop somewhere. Jesus, he couldn't do everything at once. Watch House, in the mirror or in quick glances over his shoulder. Rub himself through his pants. Drive the fucking car.
"The roommate was better?" he asked, staring straight ahead. He was already picturing it, House's jeans down around his ankles, binding his legs while the roommate--invention, reality, Foreman didn't really care--knelt behind House, fucking him, running a hand up his spine under his t-shirt while House arched back against his cock. Foreman swallowed hard before he could manage to keep going. "I doubt it. I don't think he could get you as hard as you are right now." Foreman didn't even care if it was true or not. If he couldn't touch, if he couldn't do anything but strain against his pants and drive, he at least wanted to hear every last detail House cared to share.
no subject
He nearly stomped on the brakes when he heard the unmistakable sound of a zipper, followed by the shift of clothing. Heart slamming in his throat, Foreman glanced in the mirror again, only catching sight of House's head tilted back against the seat, his eyes absent, his Adam's apple bobbing when he swallowed, a flush sneaking up his neck. Fuck. He was actually doing it. Bastard. Foreman wrenched his eyes back to the road. He'd just turned on to the main road, and he had no idea what anybody driving by might be able to see. House's shoulder moving as he stroked himself, maybe. The arch of his eyebrows and the droop of his lower lip when he couldn't hide how good it felt. All Foreman knew was that he couldn't see enough, not without pulling over--impossible at the moment--or endangering both their lives for his dick's sake. Foreman glowered straight ahead, knuckles clenched on the wheel, holding his head resolutely forward. Fucker. Of course he'd do it now. No wonder House had chosen the back seat. More room to slump down. Spread his legs out as wantonly as he could. Fuck.
Foreman jerked his head around fast enough to get whiplash when House started talking. At first, Foreman couldn't even focus, wondering if House was trying to piss him off even more, talking about yet another guy who was apparently even better. But when Foreman caught a glimpse of House's hand, working over his cock, already flushed and well on his way to fully hard, he let out a sharp breath and got it. He turned back to the road, straining to hear House's breath start to shift into a quicker rhythm, the soft sound of his hand stroking his dick. House might be talking about the other men he'd slept with, but the confident tone he'd had outside Foreman's apartment was wavering. He was talking for Foreman. Adding to the show. Not to mention telling Foreman his sexual history, actually volunteering details. Foreman didn't think House was lying; that uncertain hitch in his voice gave him away. And God, it was hot. Foreman dropped one hand from the steering wheel to his fly. Heat was already pooling in his groin, and he'd be following House's example before long if they didn't stop somewhere. Jesus, he couldn't do everything at once. Watch House, in the mirror or in quick glances over his shoulder. Rub himself through his pants. Drive the fucking car.
"The roommate was better?" he asked, staring straight ahead. He was already picturing it, House's jeans down around his ankles, binding his legs while the roommate--invention, reality, Foreman didn't really care--knelt behind House, fucking him, running a hand up his spine under his t-shirt while House arched back against his cock. Foreman swallowed hard before he could manage to keep going. "I doubt it. I don't think he could get you as hard as you are right now." Foreman didn't even care if it was true or not. If he couldn't touch, if he couldn't do anything but strain against his pants and drive, he at least wanted to hear every last detail House cared to share.