Foreman hadn't assumed that House was imagining him, but House's contemptuous dismissal of even the possibility pissed him off. "House--"
There was no use interrupting, though. House had already launched into a blow-by-blow description. Foreman barely caught a light change, speeding through a yellow turning red, and then had to wrench the wheel to change lanes when he almost rear-ended a pick-up truck. Thank fucking Christ the driver was on his cellphone, didn't even glance over when Foreman blew past him, well over the speed limit. House was going to kill them, far more surely than when he'd been at the wheel himself. Foreman was driving by instinct, taking the fastest route to the hospital without noticing the turns. He pressed the heel of his hand more firmly against his cock, fighting against letting out even the tiniest, strained sound. Not that House would notice. Not that he'd fucking care. He was stroking himself hard and fast, not giving a rat's ass about what effect he was having on Foreman.
It was fucking killing him. Every sound House made--little whimpers, the catch and release of his breath around his groans, the slipperier sounds of his hand fisting his dick--all of it seemed to connect right to Foreman's cock, right where he couldn't do anything about it. A few presses with his hand didn't ease his frustration in the least. It only made it worse. Foreman shifted in his seat, pulling his pants higher in an attempt to stop the material from constricting his cock. Every movement, even just working the gas and the brakes, was torture. He ached for a real touch. And House wouldn't shut up. Foreman had asked for it but he'd never expected House to actually tell him so much.
In the mirror, House's head was lolling back against the seat, his mouth slack, his eyes squeezed shut, but he kept talking. Describing the whole scene. Painting it so that Foreman couldn't help imagining every last instant right along with him. It didn't matter how frustrated he was, he was putting himself in the place of Jake, House's roommate. So it had actually been a relationship. Foreman couldn't think through the implications. He was too worked up, too caught up in House's story. It didn't sound hesistant now. House sounded like he was desperate for it, nearly babbling because of what his fantasy boyfriend was doing to him. Lifting his foot up on the arm rest, his sneaker nudging Foreman's elbow in time with his thrusts. God, Foreman could even hear House's mouth sucking on his finger, the change in the timbre of his voice when he started fingerfucking himself. Higher. Tighter. Foreman's lungs burned. He was sweating underneath his suit jacket, out of control, not even able to stop listening. Not wanting to stop listening, even as he clenched his teeth together at the idea that House wasn't over some decades-ago boyfriend.
House's voice rose, gritting in his throat, harsher and hoarse and finally cutting off in a loud, desperate groan when he came. Foreman could only watch the twist and release of House's expression in the mirror. A moment later he glanced over his shoulder long enough to see House wiping himself down with the t-shirt Foreman had stolen. His cock throbbed in his pants, so fucking hard that it hurt. He clenched his fists on the steering wheel when House's lazy, satisfied voice wafted from the back seat, asking him if he still doubted it. Not a chance in hell. Foreman didn't answer. They were on the hospital campus, and he headed for lot E, the farthest, most neglected corner of the parking garage. Threw the car into park the second he'd found a spot, and reached down to unzip his fly. He let out a short, sharp groan in sheer relief as he pulled his cock out, the tip already leaking. Closed his left hand around himself, tight, and started stroking. Christ. Fuck House. Fucking him-- He'd worry about House's taunts later. "Give me--your t-shirt," he said, forcing out the words. If he came on his suit, there was no way in hell he was walking into the hospital.
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There was no use interrupting, though. House had already launched into a blow-by-blow description. Foreman barely caught a light change, speeding through a yellow turning red, and then had to wrench the wheel to change lanes when he almost rear-ended a pick-up truck. Thank fucking Christ the driver was on his cellphone, didn't even glance over when Foreman blew past him, well over the speed limit. House was going to kill them, far more surely than when he'd been at the wheel himself. Foreman was driving by instinct, taking the fastest route to the hospital without noticing the turns. He pressed the heel of his hand more firmly against his cock, fighting against letting out even the tiniest, strained sound. Not that House would notice. Not that he'd fucking care. He was stroking himself hard and fast, not giving a rat's ass about what effect he was having on Foreman.
It was fucking killing him. Every sound House made--little whimpers, the catch and release of his breath around his groans, the slipperier sounds of his hand fisting his dick--all of it seemed to connect right to Foreman's cock, right where he couldn't do anything about it. A few presses with his hand didn't ease his frustration in the least. It only made it worse. Foreman shifted in his seat, pulling his pants higher in an attempt to stop the material from constricting his cock. Every movement, even just working the gas and the brakes, was torture. He ached for a real touch. And House wouldn't shut up. Foreman had asked for it but he'd never expected House to actually tell him so much.
In the mirror, House's head was lolling back against the seat, his mouth slack, his eyes squeezed shut, but he kept talking. Describing the whole scene. Painting it so that Foreman couldn't help imagining every last instant right along with him. It didn't matter how frustrated he was, he was putting himself in the place of Jake, House's roommate. So it had actually been a relationship. Foreman couldn't think through the implications. He was too worked up, too caught up in House's story. It didn't sound hesistant now. House sounded like he was desperate for it, nearly babbling because of what his fantasy boyfriend was doing to him. Lifting his foot up on the arm rest, his sneaker nudging Foreman's elbow in time with his thrusts. God, Foreman could even hear House's mouth sucking on his finger, the change in the timbre of his voice when he started fingerfucking himself. Higher. Tighter. Foreman's lungs burned. He was sweating underneath his suit jacket, out of control, not even able to stop listening. Not wanting to stop listening, even as he clenched his teeth together at the idea that House wasn't over some decades-ago boyfriend.
House's voice rose, gritting in his throat, harsher and hoarse and finally cutting off in a loud, desperate groan when he came. Foreman could only watch the twist and release of House's expression in the mirror. A moment later he glanced over his shoulder long enough to see House wiping himself down with the t-shirt Foreman had stolen. His cock throbbed in his pants, so fucking hard that it hurt. He clenched his fists on the steering wheel when House's lazy, satisfied voice wafted from the back seat, asking him if he still doubted it. Not a chance in hell. Foreman didn't answer. They were on the hospital campus, and he headed for lot E, the farthest, most neglected corner of the parking garage. Threw the car into park the second he'd found a spot, and reached down to unzip his fly. He let out a short, sharp groan in sheer relief as he pulled his cock out, the tip already leaking. Closed his left hand around himself, tight, and started stroking. Christ. Fuck House. Fucking him-- He'd worry about House's taunts later. "Give me--your t-shirt," he said, forcing out the words. If he came on his suit, there was no way in hell he was walking into the hospital.