5. Chapter 5 #2
“Why can’t you just let me go? Huh?” Sam gritted out. “Can’t stand to see me happy without you? Is that it, Frank?”
Frankie, for the first time, flashed a hint of emotion, and in his vulnerability, Sam sprang, slamming his entire upper body into him, causing him to stumble back and hit his lower back onto his father’s old poker table.
Dust flew up into the dim light, and he heard Frankie let out a surprised curse, trying to maneuver out of his hold, but instead Sam elbowed backward, striking up into Frankie’s nose.
Frankie instantly shoved him back, cradling his nose, blood smearing the side of his handsome face.
Seeing the blood, seeing the fury and violence breaking between them was exactly what he needed. Frankie licked his lips, eyes darkening as he wiped his nose on the side of his shirt, and nodded. The nod of wrath.
Oh fuck.
“Frank…not Frankie anymore. Not your best friend anymore, either. I’m meaningless to you?” Frankie growled, and Sam wondered if he had ever seen him this mad before.
Frankie raked his hand over his face, hand bloodied and uncaring. “You just wanna fuck me, right? I don’t matter—our friendship—after 15 fuckin’ years, doesn’t matter?”
Sam backed up, seeing the grief and pain lining his face, along with the violence.
Frankie was all rage. His dark brown eyes were nearly black as he stalked after him.
Helpless to the onslaught, Sam was once more pushed against the wall, hard.
Pictures rattled and fell off, frames and glass shattering to the floor at their feet. But neither of them noticed.
Frankie pressed his thick arm across his chest, jaw clenching and unclenching, becoming a magnificent beast. He was mesmerized, and flooded with fear and… desire.
The smell of whiskey and dust, beer and sunscreen filtered through his nose. Their breaths intermingled, anticipation pooling into his belly, his fingers itching to touch.
There was a knock at the door.
Frankie’s hold didn’t let up, refusing to release him. Sam swallowed, not sure he wanted him to. He liked this. The angry, almost feral look in Frankie’s expression.
God, I’m so pathetic.
“Hey—uh—guys, Mikey is waiting…” Brendon said tentatively through the wood of the door.
Frankie cocked his head to the side, his dark gaze sliding intentionally over Sam’s lips while licking his own.
Something crackled in the air between them, like live electrical wire.
He held his breath as Frankie moved an inch forward, using his thickly built body made of pure muscle to press him to the wall, forcing Sam to feel every inch of him.
Fuck.
He shivered, resisting the urge to reach between them and touch. He balled his fingers into his palms, nails pinching into his skin as he shoved down the desire coursing through his bloodstream.
“You gonna imagine me while Mikey’s fucking you?” Frankie asked hoarsely, startling him.
Frankie continued to shock the hell out of him as his hips undulated against him.
It wasn’t out of arousal for Frankie—it was a fucking game. A challenge.
Sam’s cock didn’t care about any of that and responded instantaneously, hardening with a force that nearly made his knees buckle. All he could feel was strong muscles pushing and grinding him into the wall.
Oh, dear-fucking-God.
Frankie’s hands suddenly descended on his immobilized body. His touch was rough and unapologetic. He grabbed and squeezed. Racing his fingers over the pectorals of his chest, squeezing them, working his way up to his neck. Sam tilted his head back, exposing his throat, heat flooding his limbs.
Frankie’s touch was possessive, thorough, and claiming. As if he had every right to do this. His pawlike hand slowly slithered upward and collared his throat. Sam stopped breathing as a bolt of lightning went straight to his cock.
“Jesus,” Sam heard himself gasp and curse at how weak he sounded.
“I’m not stopping you, Sammy.” Frankie taunted, smirking darkly at him. “Go let Blue-Balls fuck you.”
He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. The arousal strained between his legs and the hard feel of Frankie, whose own cock was beginning to respond to the grinding motion. Sam moaned, eyes locked with his, lips parted, and with no escape. Frankie’s power over him was absolute. And it always had been.
“Tell him you’re stayin’,” Frankie whispered, fingers tightening around his throat but not to constrict airflow, merely to control. Powerless, Sam felt himself nod.
Frankie let out a breath at his response, jaw clenching. “Tell Brendon you’re stayin’ here.”
“I’m gonna stay and…” Sam practically yelled toward the closed door, trying not to sound like a panting mess as Frankie's dick pushed against his, dry humping him against the wall. He felt so good, manhandling him, thrusting into him, their panted breaths the only sound between them. Sam barely suppressed a groan but didn’t want Brendon to hear. “Catch up with…”
Fuck…!
Thrust.
Grind.
Squeeze.
His cock leaked achingly, spasming so hard he didn’t think he could last another minute of this tortured bliss.
“Frankie!” He finally managed out.
“Okay…” Brendon hesitated. “You okay, Sammy?”
No. I’m fucking dying.
Frankie's dark eyes watched him, waiting.
“Yeah!”
“Okay.”
He heard the telling sounds of Brendon walking away, and Frankie let out a low, insidious laugh.
“Well, that was easy.” He abruptly released him, taking a giant step back and looking triumphant.
Sam stared, stunned. The air in his chest released, and yet he couldn’t relax. Every muscle coiled tight as a fist. His cock was a leaking mess in his pants.
“What the fuck?” Sam rasped, hard as a sledgehammer, nearly doubling over to give himself relief from the pressure between his legs.
“Ah, c’mon, Sammy, you didn’t really want Blue-Balls,” Frankie declared knowingly.
He didn’t. But that wasn’t the point. Frankie had intentionally sabotaged his night with Mikey.
“Jesus,” he bit out, cock deflating. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“What do you think?” Frankie shot back fiercely. “You showin’ up here unannounced, saying crazy shit to me, and then eye-fucking me all night. Really?”
“You’re such an asshole.”
Frankie snorted, laughing in his face. “Aw, poor Sammy. What, you mad about me blowing up your plans, or me not wanting to fuck you?”
A cold shiver slid down his spine. Tilting his head back against the wall, Sam glared at him, hands fisting at his side. “That didn’t feel like you didn’t wanna fuck me.”
Frankie’s jaw flashed into a steely clench, his laughing smile fading.
“I’m not stupid, Frank.” He pushed off the wall, heart thudding against the bones of his chest. “I felt how hard you got—both times.” He purposely lowered his gaze to his thin shorts. “You still hard for me?"
Frankie growled and lunged. Sam anticipated this and ducked, barely avoiding the furious punch.
He maneuvered quickly into a sidestep, shoving Frankie hard against a booth, dust billowing between them.
Frankie regained his footing a second later and rounded on him, throwing another punch, which Sam also managed to evade.
He’d spent years practicing with Frankie at the gym, so he knew how to fight.
Not as well as Frankie, but enough to stand his ground.
Sam threw a jab and missed, but his uppercut didn’t, landing hard into Frankie’s stomach. Frankie lurched beneath his clenched fist. He went in for the kill, grabbing him hard by the back of the neck, fingers fisting over the muscles, pushing him down in that bent position, wanting to dominate him.
“You ever fuck with me like that again, I will ruin you,” Sam hissed out, yanking Frankie’s neck backward, forcing him to look at him.
Frankie’s nostrils flared, “I can’t do nothin’ right, can I?”
He stilled. Frankie moved, ripping away from him, foot shooting out and kicking his shin. Sam stumbled off balance and slammed into the poker table.
“We only know how to be one way with each other, Sammy,” Frankie said. “I’ve worked damn hard on puttin’ space between us. Lettin’ you be. Lettin’ you go.” His breath caught on the last word, throat bobbing as though he was once more choking back emotion.
Sam stared, rooted to the spot, hands gripping the dusted sheet and table beneath him.
“It’s not fair what you’re doin’,” Frankie whispered. “And yeah, it’s not fair what I just did. We both want something from the other, but we ain’t willin’ to give.”
Sam pushed off the table, stepping up to him, seeing the spark of a challenge reflected in his best friend’s face and wanting to unleash everything he wanted to say into his fists.
Frankie seemed to understand and held out his hands, arms outstretched. “C’mon, Dr. Samuels, show me your treatment method for us.”
Sam couldn’t help but smirk, pulse ticking in his neck. “Bruises, lots and lots of bruises.”
Frankie searched his gaze, smiled, and simply nodded.
Sam swung, and Frankie dodged effortlessly.
He swung again, another miss, another duck.
Seeing Frankie come to life like this, so full of charm and energy, and that delicious smile of his, that was both eager and goading, filtered through his system like a drug, and Sam wanted more than a fight.
He wanted him. He gritted his teeth, angry at himself.
Angry that his fucking heart couldn’t let this man go.
Angry that he spent so long pining for something that would never fucking happen.
So how come Frankie kept getting turned on?
How come he stopped him from leaving with Mikey?
His words and his body weren’t matching up.
Frustrated, Sam let out a stream of curses and raced forward, slamming his shoulder into Frankie’s torso, tossing him against a stack of dusty boxes.
A few boxes fell on Frankie, who angrily shoved them aside before getting back to his feet and making a show of dusting off his pink shorts, lips twisting into a smile. “That it?”
“Fuck you.”
“You can do better, Sammy.” He lifted his chin, letting his hands dangle at his sides, provoking him.