"What the fuck are you doing?" Foreman snapped when House got out of the car. Foreman didn't believe a word House said about the security cameras, either, not that he could stop if he did. He didn't need an audience, but for House to fucking abandon him without so much as a glance--and spitefully taking his shirt with him--it was like the story he'd told was entirely for himself, a fantasy he'd only happened to speak out loud, as if he didn't know or care that Foreman might be affected. As if he didn't care about Foreman at all. And what the hell was he taking his shirt for? Did he want to wave the damn thing around the clinic, show off the come stain to anyone who'd look?
At this point, it hardly mattered. Foreman unbuckled his seatbelt and turned to reach behind the driver's seat, where he'd dropped his sports bag. He'd stuffed his clothes from yesterday in there, and fortunately, he'd forgotten the bag in the car when they'd gotten to his place. He yanked the zipper open and grabbed the first piece of clothing he reached. There was no point in drawing it out, and besides, Foreman was too close to make that possible. He covered his lap with his shirt and jerked himself as hard and fast as he could. His orgasm was sharp, and short, and anything but satisfying. Foreman let his head fall back against the headrest. This was all House's fucking fault. He wiped himself clean with the shirt and tucked his softening cock back in his shorts, zipping up quickly. The shirt he tossed back into his sports bag. Three seconds later, he was out of the car and heading for the hospital.
His long, jarring stride caught him up with House as they neared the hospital. Foreman had been trying to burn holes in House's back with his eyes, but when he passed him, he didn't so much as glance in his direction. At this rate, House would be on his heels as they walked into reception. Foreman didn't bother with any pretenses. Cuddy was standing at the admit desk in the clinic, and Foreman pushed the doors open, walked straight up to her, fury radiating from his every muscle, and said, "House can't keep his mouth shut." With that, Foreman considered his part of their excuse finished, and he headed for the stairs--not interested in waiting for Cuddy's response, House's elaborations, or the elevator.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2009-03-28 04:03 am (UTC)At this point, it hardly mattered. Foreman unbuckled his seatbelt and turned to reach behind the driver's seat, where he'd dropped his sports bag. He'd stuffed his clothes from yesterday in there, and fortunately, he'd forgotten the bag in the car when they'd gotten to his place. He yanked the zipper open and grabbed the first piece of clothing he reached. There was no point in drawing it out, and besides, Foreman was too close to make that possible. He covered his lap with his shirt and jerked himself as hard and fast as he could. His orgasm was sharp, and short, and anything but satisfying. Foreman let his head fall back against the headrest. This was all House's fucking fault. He wiped himself clean with the shirt and tucked his softening cock back in his shorts, zipping up quickly. The shirt he tossed back into his sports bag. Three seconds later, he was out of the car and heading for the hospital.
His long, jarring stride caught him up with House as they neared the hospital. Foreman had been trying to burn holes in House's back with his eyes, but when he passed him, he didn't so much as glance in his direction. At this rate, House would be on his heels as they walked into reception. Foreman didn't bother with any pretenses. Cuddy was standing at the admit desk in the clinic, and Foreman pushed the doors open, walked straight up to her, fury radiating from his every muscle, and said, "House can't keep his mouth shut." With that, Foreman considered his part of their excuse finished, and he headed for the stairs--not interested in waiting for Cuddy's response, House's elaborations, or the elevator.