Two weeks since House and Foreman had decided to start whatever-the-hell-this-was, House was still learning a thing, or two, or six about Foreman. One: Foreman drank imported beer. Canadian beer. Two: Foreman was willing to shirk responsibility enough to nearly blow him in the locker room showers-would have, if Foreman hadn't been spooked by an unannounced visitor. Three: Foreman was disappointingly not frazzled when House outed him to a roomful of fellowship candidates (who, just as disappointingly, never reacted with more than several blank, unimpressed stares or the bat of a eye). Four: Foreman knew that House was ticklish, and used the knowledge as a weapon. Five: Foreman got his Fruit-of-the-Looms in a twist over the fact that, six months ago, House had accidentally outed himself to his upstairs neighbor when he'd hired a male escort to fuck him until he couldn't think. Six: Foreman, despite what he might think, couldn't always distinguish between House's real threats and his bluffs.
To prove it, House was lowering his jeans and boxer briefs over his hips in the backseat of Foreman's car. On their way out of Foreman's apartment building, House had, in the spirit of acquiring new information and reactions, threatened to jerk off while Foreman was driving, stain his leather interior with a semen sample. "I don't think you're serious. You won't actually do it," Foreman had said, confident and smug. House had marched to the car and waited until Foreman was behind the wheel to climb into the backseat.
Once Foreman began driving, House took himself in his hand, let his head fall back against the seat, and started stroking himself. Foreman glowered straight ahead, knuckles clenched on the wheel, holding his head resolutely forward, and House wondered when Foreman would glance back at him and notice the show. Might as well give him a reason to shift his attention. "You know," House said, his voice already lower, slower than before, "the escort wasn't as good as this guy I knew during my residency. Roommate. Probably outed myself to those neighbors, too."
As soon as House spoke, Foreman jerked his head around fast enough to get whiplash, his eyes flickering down to House's dick, widening before he turned back around. The only problem with the backseat was that, when Foreman actually drove, House couldn't see Foreman's face as much as Foreman couldn't see his. Well, most of his body, anyway. Definitely not his cock, unless Foreman turned around again to watch, which he wouldn't do without pulling over. House had no problem with the latter; it would probably only encourage Foreman's imagination to keep turning. He could tell that it was, despite the bad view, knew Foreman was reacting. House could see the way Foreman's hands tightened on the wheel, how one dropped down to his lap. Foreman was getting hard-had to be-though House could hardly believe it when Foreman spoke.
"The roommate was better?" Foreman asked, staring straight ahead. Foreman swallowed hard before he managed to keep going. "I doubt it. I don't think he could get you as hard as you are right now."
House realized that Foreman was taking credit for how hard he was getting, his need to jerk off, right here, in Foreman's car. Of course the bastard would think that. "Who do you think I'm imagining? You?" House snorted, stroking harder now that he was fully hard, warmer and heavier in his hand. "Technically speaking, he wasn't better. Emilio was a pro, but obviously, didn't know him. Knew Jake for more than a night. He had the balls to lock me in the lounge with him and fuck me on the couch."
It had been years ago, but Jake was really the only regular boyfriend he'd had, a brown-haired, green-eyed guy an inch taller than he was. Jake had surprised the hell out of House when he'd discovered that House had initiated him into his residency by cutting the ass out of his scrubs, extended his hand for an introduction with his cheeks still bared to the breeze, and laughed. In need of a roommate to bring down rent, House had ignored how fast his heart had raced and managed to ask Jake to move in at lunch a month later. The day he moved in, Jake had House sucking his cock before bending him over a stack of boxes, House's jeans down around his ankles, binding his legs while Jake stood behind him, fucking him, running a hand up his spine under his t-shirt. Later House had learned that he could kick Jake's ass all over the residency schoolyard, except the rheumatology corner, where Jake would pull the answers out of his damn pocket as if he were their keeper and smile as he'd wave them in his face, sneaking a kiss before he'd offer to share. He'd been with him for a year and a half; the end of his residency had seen the end of their relationship, and House hadn't heard much of him, besides his name on an occasional publication. But Jake was still the only one who sprang to mind, besides that hot escort, when he ever imagined a man.
Jesus, his mind actually started remembering it, being locked with Jake in the lounge, and House dragged his eyes away from Foreman's profile, focusing on the memory clarifying in his head. Jake had had him pressed up against the couch, over the arm. He'd braced his hands on the table and pushed back when Jake slid inside, thick and long, stretching him open. It had been damn exciting then, moaning into the cushion to muffle the noise while Jake had fucked him hard, deep, knowing the angle to stroke over his prostate. House groaned out loud now, stroking himself faster, using his thumb to spread pre-come over the head of his cock. Someone had knocked on the door when they'd found it locked, and Jake had balanced himself on his knees as he kept thrusting, reached with one hand to cover House's mouth and cut off a loud moan. House had heard the shit-eating grin in Jake's voice when he'd pulled House's head back, whispered in his ear: God, if they only knew I was fucking you, that I'm going to make you come for me, right on this cushion, they'd never sit here again. House closed his eyes, rolled his head back against the seat of the car. "Fucked me when people were knocking on the other side of the-door. Oh, fuck."
House already felt his orgasm approaching, and he couldn't help imaging how Jake's hand had wrapped around his cock then. How he'd made him spread his legs even further, let his right hang off the couch, wanting it, his body begging for it as Jake drove into him. Jake had stroked him fast, fist tight, making him buck and jerk, moan against his palm. "Was jerking me off as he did," House gritted out. "Oh, yeah. Had me naked. He was still wearing everything-shirt, tie, coat-except his damn pants. Fuck." House wondered if he was pissing Foreman off, openly jerking off to thoughts of an ex-boyfriend, but he was talking more for himself now, making himself even hotter, pushing his orgasm even closer. He almost wished he had lube, so he could slump in the seat, reach down and finger himself, nearly recreate the memory. Instead, House tightened his fist, smearing more pre-come, using the added friction.
House was starting to forget where the hell he was, his head fogging over with the fantasy, the pleasure leaping across nerves. Jake's dick finding his prostate and stroking, pounding. Jake's tie sweeping over his back, almost tickling him, but the feeling just adding to the flood of sensation everywhere. Jake's hand moving with the same rhythm, making House writhe until he came like Jake said he would-onto the cushion, come soaking slowly into the fabric-whimpering, breathing hard through his nose over the back of Jake's hand. "Made me come on the fucking couch. Yeah. Oh, God." House was breathing fast, his balls heavy, needing to come soon, his orgasm so close. Frantically, he reached to the side and grabbed for his t-shirt he'd taken back from Foreman that morning-he already had to wash it, after Foreman had worn it-and laid it over his stomach and chest, not wanting to come all over himself or, despite what he'd said earlier, Foreman's car.
He couldn't resist anymore, sliding down in the seat, lifting his left foot onto the armrest between the two front seats. Leaning slightly to his right, House slicked up one finger in his mouth, reached under his left leg, and pressed his fingertip over his ass before pushing in. He worked himself open enough to take in his whole finger, and House started working his dick, thrusting his finger with the same rhythm, just like Jake's hand, his cock. God, he was seconds away, and he couldn't get it out of his head-that memory, that adrenaline rush of excitement, coming so hard and knowing that, despite the cover of Jake's hand, whoever had been on the other side of the door might have heard him, and if they hadn't heard him, they'd probably heard Jake. House had still been trying to recover, to push back against Jake's dick when Jake had come, dropping his hands to House's hips-one slippery with House's come, the other hot from his breath-and thrusting all the way inside. House had felt the heat, the twitch of Jake's body when he'd come inside him, and both of them had groaned softly, vaguely aware that the knocking had stopped.
House pushed his finger as deep inside as he could reach at that angle, unable to reach his prostate that way, but he didn't fucking need it. It was enough just to fill himself with something as he jerked off. The last image played in his mind, and he couldn't stop himself from talking. "Could feel it when he came. No condom. Fucked me like that. God, yeah. Fuck. Fuck me. Fuck-" House pushed his head back, arched his neck when his orgasm slammed into him. Pleasure shot out from his groin as he came over his hand, onto the t-shirt across his stomach, before he relaxed against the seat.
He was breathing hard as he opened his eyes again, withdrawing his finger and balling up his t-shirt. He wiped his hands, taking a note to wash them when he got to work, and sat up, looking into the mirror to meet Foreman's eyes. As he started to pull his jeans and underwear back over his hips, feeling smug and satisfied, he managed, "Still doubt it?"
Somehow, House didn't think so.