Chase likes his lacey underwear. They're soft and comfortable, and he likes having the lace on where no one can see. Usually, anyway. Brett had given him shit about it, about being too "femme" and House has yet to comment. He can feel his attention, however, the way that he looks, how he watches him. He hear that he's stropped stripping, that he's just staring as he changes, and that's hot, hotter than it probably should be, but Chase glows under the attention.

He's dressed and looking back at House when the man catches his eyes, and now it's Chase that's watching, looking at him, leering at his half-hard cock and how he doesn't have any underwear on. The way that it's framed, erotic as he pulls his denims up and slowly tucks himself in, and Chase watches too intently and too long. He knows that this is losing, somehow, but that doesn't make it so that he can tear his eyes away. It isn't until House pulls up the zipper and starts working on his duffel bag that Chase gets his brain back.

He grabs his own bag, hooking the shoulder strap over his shoulder and he squeaks, with a tremble that runs through his spine when House swats at his ass. He straightens, flushed and nodding as he runs a hand through his loose hair. "Yeah, uh, let's go."