5. Chapter 5 #4
He sucked in a breath, a shiver racing over every inch of his body.
“You were so fucking hard,” Frankie murmured gruffly, his tense body easing one limb at a time over him. His warmth, his hard muscles, his scent, it was all overwhelming him.
Sam bit down hard on his lower lip, attempting to somehow control the blood flowing directly to his dick.
“I wanna see it,” Frankie breathed. “I wanna see how much you want me.”
His heart slammed into his chest.
Holy shit.
Frankie shifted, sitting back to get a better look at his cock thickening between his legs.
“Frank…” Sam drawled warningly, unable to catch his breath.
“Show me,” Frankie dragged out each word.
Heat spilled into his stomach and he licked his dry lips.
Did Frankie really want what he was asking of him? Or was this just another game for Sam to humiliate himself? No, he thought, seeing the command, the urgency in Frankie’s expression, the taut lines around his lips, the blown-out pupils of his eyes.
Jesus. Fuck.
Sam nervously reached for the hem of his jeans, the metallic button still opened from before, and he slowly lowered the zipper. The sound was almost thunderous between them. His cock pulsated the moment he grasped himself.
“Take it out,” Frankie directed huskily. “Show me.”
Trembling, he dragged his jeans and briefs down, revealing himself. Too nervous to stop—too nervous to think about how this was possibly a very bad idea.
Frankie’s dark gaze never lifted from his body, seeming to marvel and take in the sight of his cock. His chest heaved in a deep breath before he nodded wordlessly, telling Sam to stroke.
He did.
He obeyed mindlessly. Desperately. Eagerly.
He couldn’t believe this was happening—couldn’t believe that Frankie was crossing this line with him. But he wasn’t. Frankie wasn’t touching him like before. He was simply watching. And it was possibly the most erotic moment of his life. Fucking his fist under Frankie’s watchful, intense gaze.
Gasoline flooded his veins, and he saw Frankie’s tongue edge out of the seam of his lips, eyes riveted to the precum leaking and smearing the swollen tip of his sex.
He stroked his cock up, arching his back slightly, lips parted in a breathless pant.
Frankie swallowed, jaw flexing beneath the tanned olive skin of his cheeks.
With his free hand, Sam lifted his shirt upward, exposing more of his stomach and skin, wanting to show off—to entice—to seduce.
To put on a fucking show for his friend.
Sam blinked, surprised by his own behavior, and yet he couldn’t afford a second of self-consciousness. Not with Frankie looking like that—looking at him like he was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen in his life.
The palm of his hand was dry and rough, and he thumbed the precum leaking from his tip, using what he could for lube, but it wasn’t enough.
“Spit on it,” Sam whispered in a shaky, yet commanding voice.
Frankie arched an eyebrow, and he waited for his resistance. Except he didn’t. He merely hitched his chin up with the slightest indicator of a nod and lowered his face, lips hovering over Sam’s tip.
Oh my god, this is happening.
The onslaught of the sudden, desperate arousal clawing at his insides forced his hips upward to greet those sweet, perfectly plump wet lips.
Frankie’s eyes snapped to his, and he lifted just out of reach of Sam’s throbbing cock and spat.
“Fuck you,” Sam heard himself remark, knowing Frankie was giving what he asked for—but not what he wanted.
Frankie smirked in response before shoving his knee roughly between his legs, adding friction and pressure to his balls, making him whimper again.
Fuck, I have to stop doing that.
He stroked the spit over his cock and began to tremble with such intense desire that he thought he would burst from the inside out.
Frankie watched him fuck his fist, and it was heady and surreal.
This felt different than what they had started before.
Frankie hadn’t been looking at him. But he was now, and there was something about how he was watching him, looking at him—seeing him—the way he always could, through all the bullshit, all the pain—Frankie saw him.
This look was weighted with heat and need and… so fucking sexy he couldn’t stand it.
Sam swallowed hard, racing to the edge of orgasm and feeling the precipice in his grasp.
“Tell me, Sammy…” he drawled. “When was the last time you fucked yourself… thinking about… me?”
Oh shit.
He gasped, closing his eyes, steeling himself from responding.
“Tell me, and I’ll give you what you want,” Frankie rasped.
Sam’s eyes sprang open, “Yesterday. In the shower. I knew I would need to—ah fuck… I would need a release before I saw you.”
“Jesus, Sammy,” he murmured and licked his fucking lips at him. For a split second, he thought that Frankie wasn’t going to do it. That he was just fucking with him.
Frankie moved closer to his cock once again, and he stilled. His lips parted, his tongue darted out, and… he dipped low, licking the precum off of Sam’s leaking tip like it was whipped-fucking-cream.
The sound that ripped through his chest was animalistic and foreign to his own ears.
Frankie did it again. A simple swipe of his tongue. That’s it. That’s all it took.
Sam shook, arms and body trembling, on the verge of total annihilation.
He was about to cum, but he didn’t want to say anything this time. He didn’t want to ruin this moment. His heart wouldn’t take another rejection from Frankie. Not when he was so close…
Frankie licked again, this time flattening his tongue over the tip. It was so fucking hot that his balls clenched ruthlessly, his stomach tightened like a fist, and the orgasm he hadn’t been chasing for long was on top of him, demanding release.
“Frank!” He shouted his name, unable to stop the climax hurtling through him, and Frankie pulled back.
He spewed messily all over his shaft and stomach, releasing wave after wave of hot, creamy ribbons of his seed.
It went on for what felt like forever, making him shiver and curse.
Panting, Sam finally collapsed back onto the floor, eyes locked with Frankie’s as he stared down at the ruined mess that he was.
“I didn’t do much,” Frankie seemed to marvel over him. “You came hard, Sammy.”
He briefly wondered whether he should be embarrassed or not.
Not. This was a dream—a fantasy come to life.