5. Chapter 5 #3
Sam seethed, deciding to play dirty. “I can do better. I bet Mikey is a better lay than you, anyway. The night’s still young. He’ll definitely answer when I call.”
Frankie’s smile dropped, and in his stunned silence, he gave Sam the opportunity he needed to slam his fist into his solar plexus.
He didn’t wait for him to regain his composure. Teeth grinding into ash, Sam gritted out, “You never could stand competition. Is that what Mikey is to you? Competition? For me?”
Frankie lunged, but Sam, continuing to play dirty, spun, kicking the back of Frankie’s bum knee. Unsteady, Frankie tilted forward, and Sam grabbed him from behind, his steel forearm wrapped around his neck, locking him into a chokehold.
“I felt how hard you got, Frank,” he hissed against the shell of his ear. “You can lie to my face all you want. But your body can’t.”
Frankie suddenly dropped to his knees, slipping out of the hold, and with the grace and skill of a dancer rather than a fighter, rolled onto his back and kicked Sam in the stomach.
Oxygen evaporated from his lungs, and Frankie, face pinched in rage, slammed his leg into his thigh, unsteadying him.
Frankie kicked again, this time he twisted his hips off the ground for extra leverage, and tossed Sam onto his side like a ragdoll, leg pinning him.
Sam let out a painful curse and fell hard, but quickly rolled away, refusing to get pinned.
He’d fought with Frankie countless times and knew how he operated in a fight.
He liked to smother his opponents because of his size and strength. It was an easy submission and win.
Sam would rather die than let Frankie win.
Because Frankie always won.
And he couldn’t stand it anymore.
Frankie grabbed his hips, forcing him back down.
Sam had to get off the ground and fast. He got to his knees and attempted to leap up, but Frankie pushed him back down and engulfed him, his hard, burly chest pressing down onto his back, knees straddling the back of his legs, his thick bicep shoved against his throat.
Sam’s back arched and he tried to break free from the hold, but Frankie was like a vine wrapped around him, impossible to escape.
“Fuck you,” Frankie hissed over him. “Can’t fight fair either, Sammy?”
“You referring to your knee or your cock?” he bit back, hands grabbing at the arm caging his throat.
Sweat began forming at his brow, his pulse skittering in his neck, and Sam suddenly realized what position they were in.
He was on all fours, with Frankie right on top of him, his sex pressing into his ass, straddling him.
Frankie’s heaving chest pressed against him; their closeness was intimate and so deliciously dangerous.
Moving on pure instinct, Sam arched again, provocatively rubbing his ass against Frankie’s thin swim trunks.
“Stop,” Frankie barked, arm tightening against his throat.
“Make me.”
Frankie lifted him upward, no longer on all fours, but still on their knees and still in a compromised, sexual position. He reached for Frankie’s neck, keeping him close, grinding his ass even harder against him.
Frankie's breath was scattered and erratic against the side of his neck. “Stop.”
“Let me go then.”
“This isn’t fuckin’ fighting.”
“So, stop fighting it,” Sam whispered, feeling the pressure of Frankie’s dick come to life against him. “Stop fighting it…”
Frankie trembled, his dick hardening against the curve of his butt.
His stomach tightened with arousal, followed quickly by victory. He felt like he had just won. Because he had. Frankie’s hard-on was undeniable proof that whatever was happening between them—he was excited by it.
Sam let out a low, deep moan, rutting boldly against him now, uncaring of how desperate and needy he was being.
Frankie's arm relaxed against him, his breathing uneven behind him, and his free hand slid to Sam’s hip, fingers digging into his waist, and his hips…
moved. It was slight. Like the flutter of butterfly wings, but Sam felt it and whimpered.
He fucking whimpered.
He never whimpered before in his damned life. Yet here he was, on his knees, begging for any little crumb Frankie would feed him.
Frankie cursed and impossibly… jerked into him again. His cock rubbed against his ass, and it wasn’t a challenge this time. It was active fucking participation.
Thank God.
Sam didn’t want him to stop, and was equally terrified of saying anything that would make Frankie realize what he was doing.
So, he stayed just like they were, his hand reaching behind him, clasping the back of his neck as Frankie humped into him, moving in slow, agonizingly sweet motions.
Frankie’s arm was still positioned at his throat, and Sam slowly moved him down onto his chest. Frankie let him guide the touch and, desperate for sensation, friction, anything to take the pressure off his dick, he debated for a brief moment about placing Frankie’s hand over his cock.
But would that be too much?
No. Fuck no!
Frankie was rutting into him, and Sam couldn’t stop, either.
He took Frankie’s hand from his chest, sliding it down the flat planes of his stomach, and to the bulge between his legs, wrapping Frankie’s fingers around his throbbing dick over his jeans.
Frankie gasped, panting hard now as he voluntarily squeezed.
Sam groaned in relief and pure fucking elation.
The sound must have done something to Frankie, as he roughly palmed his cock, stroking and growling against the back of his neck, and Sam, unable to stand the friction from both ends, dropped down onto his hands.
Frankie fell with him, grinding into his ass with a savage need Sam could have never anticipated.
Fingers shaking, he reached for the metal button of his jeans and unclasped it. He needed Frankie’s touch on his bare skin, was almost wild for it.
Frankie let out a shaking breath, and Sam drew his hand up, once more guiding him. Frankie stilled, sucking in a breath as his fingers slipped beneath his jeans and boxers, and Sam, unable to fit both hands in his jeans, withdrew and waited. Frankie waited, too.
It was the longest moment of his life.
“Please touch me,” Sam whispered, unable to keep the need from his voice.
Frankie’s fingers reached out and curled around the base of his cock, nearly causing him to lose it right there, and instead he let out a weak moan.
“Frank… fuck… yes…” Incapable of controlling his mouth or his body, he arched back so his cock would move beneath his touch. It was limited by the tight fit of his jeans. Frankie seemed to hold his breath above him as he slowly wrapped his calloused, warm palm around his stiff cock.
Sam dropped his head between his shoulders, focused solely on the hand around him, scared that at any moment Frankie would wake up from whatever spell he was under and break the magic between them.
He was so aroused, so painfully hard even in the tight confines of his jeans, that the orgasm was tingling at the base of his spine, all the way down to his toes, and gripping his balls.
He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting against the need to climax so quickly. “Fuck… I’m gonna… I’m gonna cum…”
Frankie stiffened in that instant and suddenly yanked out his hand from his jeans and violently shoved Sam’s face into the hardwood. Pain erupted against his eyebrow, and he felt something warm and liquid coat his face.
Frankie’s large hands were on him again, this time quickly and carefully turning him over.
“Shit, Sammy.” Frankie yanked off his flamingo shirt, holding it to the side of his face.
“Fuck,” Sam released a breath, the sting of the cut now real as he felt the press of Frankie’s hand over his bleeding eyebrow.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Fuck, I’m an idiot.”
He pushed his hand away, touching the wound to gauge how bad it was.
“It’s just a scratch,” Frankie reassured. “But cuts there bleed like a son of a bitch.”
Sam sighed, resigned to Frankie, who resumed pressing on it with his shirt. “I’m gonna ruin your shirt.”
“I don’t fucking care,” he replied tightly, a darkness brewing in his eyes. But it wasn’t anger. It was something else.
“Frankie…”
“Stop talking,” he snapped. “Every time you open your goddamned mouth, you make me think things… Want things… Things I didn’t know I—”
Sam sucked in a breath, heart pounding.
“I shouldn’t have hurt you,” Frankie said, emotion welling in his expression. “I would never hurt you.”
“I know. I know.”
“No,” he shook his head, remorse lining his lips.
Sam grabbed his face, framing it with both hands. “I know you’d never hurt me. This was an accident. I’m okay.”
“What are you doin’ to me, Sammy?” Frankie asked in a cracked voice. “What are you doin’?”
The fortress around Sam’s heart trembled, his defenses weakening in that instant, hands cradling Frankie's face, needing to somehow make this right—make this better.
“I won’t anymore. I’ll stop. You’re right, it’s not fair to you,” he reassured, continuing to hold him, needing to soothe him. “I won’t come back. I won’t interrupt your life. I won’t—”
“Shut up,” Frankie growled.
Sam did, swallowing his words as Frankie dropped the shirt and checked the wound. “The bleeding stopped.”
A tense silence fell over them, both men breathing hard, Frankie still straddling him and Sam still achingly close to his face, looking at each other… waiting.
He wasn’t sure how it happened. He wasn’t sure if he leaned back or if Frankie pushed him back. All he knew was that he was on his back, pinned beneath his best friend, whose dark brown eyes were almost black as he held himself over him, eyes raking up and down over his body.
His gaze felt almost… possessive.
As though he owned Sam.
And he did.
The primal urge to arch and grind himself against him roared in his ears, yet he remained completely still. Every touch had been one he had initiated, and at that moment, with Frankie so intoxicatingly close, he didn’t.
“What are you fuckin’ doin’ to me?” Frankie asked it again, but this time his tone was laced with need.