House felt like his heart was trying to beat up his throat and cut off his air supply--he was breathing so fucking fast--and the wait for Foreman's answer seemed to make it worse. The longer he stood there like that, the more idiotic--almost panicky--he felt. Naked, standing there ridiculously exposed, and Foreman's hands touching him like he could ignore all the shit that had happened tonight. Like a damn touch would make it better. House didn't know what the hell he was doing. Didn't know why he'd thought coming back here was a good idea, and he nearly pulled away before Foreman's hands slid around to his back.
House felt himself tense, and he raised his hands to Foreman's arms, not wanting to touch back but to try to keep his distance. He forced himself to stop, not resist, because--fine--if this was what Foreman wanted, he could fucking have it. If Foreman was going to work him up slowly, with lighter touches that got to be too much. If Foreman was going to make him take this standing, then, fine. Didn't fucking matter.
But Foreman's words. Jesus, his words stopped House's thoughts cold, and House only half-realized that his breathing had gone from as fast as a fucking racehorse's to nothing in a second. He blinked, then stared, not believing what he'd heard. "What?" he asked, stalling. Maybe Foreman would even repeat himself. Foreman...No, he couldn't have said that. No way Foreman would let him do that. Every time they'd fucked, it was almost taken for granted that Foreman would fuck House. They'd never talked about it. There had never been a need. But Foreman was trying to tell him now that that's what he wanted--that he wanted House to fuck him. Foreman had just told him that he'd wanted to work House up, and leave him hanging, that he wanted to blow him--hell, maybe even fuck him--get off, and get out. House couldn't connect the dots from that to this. Maybe his logic was taking a hit. Jesus.
House loosened his hold on Foreman's arms, all his anger giving way to confusion as he tried to figure it out, make sure he'd heard Foreman right. He met Foreman's eyes. Foreman looked serious. Fuck. House shook his head, still not believing that that's what Foreman really wanted. "No you don't."
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House felt himself tense, and he raised his hands to Foreman's arms, not wanting to touch back but to try to keep his distance. He forced himself to stop, not resist, because--fine--if this was what Foreman wanted, he could fucking have it. If Foreman was going to work him up slowly, with lighter touches that got to be too much. If Foreman was going to make him take this standing, then, fine. Didn't fucking matter.
But Foreman's words. Jesus, his words stopped House's thoughts cold, and House only half-realized that his breathing had gone from as fast as a fucking racehorse's to nothing in a second. He blinked, then stared, not believing what he'd heard. "What?" he asked, stalling. Maybe Foreman would even repeat himself. Foreman...No, he couldn't have said that. No way Foreman would let him do that. Every time they'd fucked, it was almost taken for granted that Foreman would fuck House. They'd never talked about it. There had never been a need. But Foreman was trying to tell him now that that's what he wanted--that he wanted House to fuck him. Foreman had just told him that he'd wanted to work House up, and leave him hanging, that he wanted to blow him--hell, maybe even fuck him--get off, and get out. House couldn't connect the dots from that to this. Maybe his logic was taking a hit. Jesus.
House loosened his hold on Foreman's arms, all his anger giving way to confusion as he tried to figure it out, make sure he'd heard Foreman right. He met Foreman's eyes. Foreman looked serious. Fuck. House shook his head, still not believing that that's what Foreman really wanted. "No you don't."