14. Chapter 14
Frankie stirred the eggs in the frying pan while listening to Audioslave on his phone and smiling like a complete fucking idiot.
In fact, he hadn’t stopped smiling ever since he had woken up at midnight, rousing Sam with a stimulating hand job that had led into another round of hot fuckin’ sex.
He woke up again around six, but this time it was to Sam sucking down his cock like it was a goddamn slushie.
And Jesus Christ on toast, he nearly came at the mere sight of it—at the audacity of Sam to do that to him while he had been asleep. The fuckin’ brat.
They stumbled into the shower after, smelling like sweat and sex, and cleaned each other off before tumbling right back into bed. Finally, deciding to let Sam’s perfect ass get some rest, he carefully slid out of bed around nine, not wanting to disturb him, and started making breakfast.
His every other thought was Sam.
Not Sammy.
Sam.
How he moaned, whimpered, and climaxed for him. It was beautiful and sexy, and fuck, he couldn’t stop picturing him with his head tossed back, those dark grayish-brown curls tousled and his dimple chin quivering, back arching…
Fuck.
His cock thickened and he smirked, sipping his cup of coffee, excited for Sam to get up and go at it again.
If he can handle it. Because he might be a bit sore from last night's fun. Sex with Sam had been so different than anything he had done before. It was wildly sexy and intense. It was rough yet somehow gentle. It was vulnerable. Vulnerable in ways he hadn’t expected.
And when Sam had called him his good boy, his entire body had lit up like a Roman fuckin’ candle, and he had literally felt his brain chemistry change.
Sam had managed to string those common words together into praise that stunned him and somehow reached into his soul, exposing his most vulnerable self.
The one who wanted praise and validation.
The one that needed it more than he needed oxygen in his goddamned lungs, or fuel in his gas tank.
He spent the last fifteen years trying to impress Sam, trying to show off to him, and now he was beginning to suspect that it was much more than that. And if Sam said those words again…
Ah, fuck.
Frankie raked a hand through his hair, pulling at the roots.
He’d do whatever it took to hear him say that to him again.
He’d even let his Superman fuck him. He shivered, tossing the scrambled eggs and sliced veggies together, trying to distract himself.
But he couldn’t. All he saw was Sam, hands on his hips and Frankie’s legs wrapped around his waist, those penetrating bright green eyes staring down at him as his beautiful cock entered him, moaning and humming, and telling him what a ‘good boy’ he was.
And he’d be the best fuckin’ boy for his best friend. He’d do anything for him.
Frankie dropped the spatula, blood rushing to his dick, alarmed and… aroused.
Shit. Fuck. Christ.
He heard the telling sounds of footsteps behind him, and he turned to see Sam scrubbing a hand over his tired, weary face. “You’re cooking breakfast?”
“Yup,” he replied casually, ignoring his hard-on and hoping Sam didn’t notice.
“That all came from my fridge?”
He smirked, busily popping a couple of slices of bread into the toaster. “It sure did. Coffee?”
“Yeah, thanks. I feel like I should be doing something,” he grumbled.
“Sit.”
“Yeah, all right.”
Frankie poured Sam’s coffee, adding a bit of creamer and nothing else before sliding the mug over to him, noticing how slow Sam was walking to the barstool. He couldn’t contain his smile, biting his lower lip as a primal, possessive emotion filled his chest.
Sam frowned, “Don’t.”
“What?” he asked innocently.
“Just don’t.”
Frankie raised his hands in defense, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face. “Sore, Sammy?”
Sam gritted his teeth, slowly sitting down on the barstool and glaring. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
He stayed to make sure Sam was okay as he sipped his coffee, their eyes pinned to one another. He looked peevish and cute, pretending to be irritated with him. Because he knew damn well that he wasn’t. He chuckled, returning to the stove and turning the bacon.
“Sleep okay?” he asked, shooting a smirk over his shoulder at him.
Sam was rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Handsome as always, even in his black sweatpants and plain white T-shirt. The telltale bags beneath his eyes were from a rather sleepless night.
“The best I’ve had in years,” Sam taunted back, sipping his coffee.
Something about that simple confession made his heart skip excitedly in his chest. Especially considering it was his first time with him. He drew a pint glass from the cupboard and went to the fridge, pouring Sam a glass of water and sliding that to him before returning to the stove. “Years, huh?”
Sam eyed the water, then him, before taking a sip.
“Yeah, me too,” Frankie admitted. “Somethin’ about that tight ass of yours… Jesus, it was like fuckin’ a clenched fist.”
Sam coughed slightly, and he glanced over to see him wiping water from his chin.
Damn. I need to kiss him. Lookin’ all flustered and sore because of me.
He flicked off the stove, removed the finished bacon from the hot burner, and set the eggs aside. He strode over to him, turning Sam on the barstool and forcing him to face him as he stood between his legs.
Sam looked up at him, already softening under his gaze, sighing and opening for him.
His armor was completely gone. The man sitting before him now was the Sam from last night. Emotion squeezed his throat as he grazed his fingers over Sam’s whiskered cheek. “My flight leaves tomorrow morning…”
Disappointment flashed across Sam’s handsome face, and he thumbed his lips, addicted to touching him.
“I’m gonna feed you. Then I’m gonna fuck you as much as I possibly can before I leave. Or however much that tight ass of yours can take.”
Sam’s lips curled into a delicious smile, and he glowed like the fuckin’ sun. “Fuck you.”
“Maybe next time.”
Sam’s eyes dilated, and his lips parted in a whoosh of breath. Frankie nearly blushed at his reaction. It was just a flirting tease, but the idea of letting Sam fill him, ride him, take him… He shivered.
Damn, what is he doing to me?
Frankie leaned down and kissed him, wanting to taste all the sunshine and happiness he had helped to create for his Superman.
“And then,” he pulled back from their kiss, “You’re gonna book a flight and come home for your birthday.”
Sam clasped Frankie by the neck, drawing him back down and sucking his lower lip into his mouth. “Is that right?”
He shuddered, cock thickening. “That’s right. Two weeks… you’re mine.”
Sam sighed, retreating, and searched his face. “You want—more?”
“Of course, I do.”
Sam pinched the brim of his nose with his fingers, exasperated. “Frankie…”
“What’s wrong?”
“Don’t you think this is—I dunno—a bit…” Sam released a long breath. “Last night was fun, more than that. It was so fucking incredible. I didn’t want it to end. But we—we’re not best friends anymore. We can’t be. If I come back to Boston, what am I to you?”
“You’re mine, is what you are.”
Sam’s eyes closed, pain washing over his face. “This is what you do, Frankie. You possess, and then you leave.”
“What do you want?” he asked softly.
“I want everything, Frankie. I want you. I want… more.”
Frankie’s heart swooped, emotion clogging his throat, and he stepped back, nearly stumbling over his feet. “I dunno how to do that.”
“Neither do I.”
Their eyes held, waiting.
“I’ll come home for my birthday,” Sam said, getting to his feet. “We’ll do this again and just see where it takes us, yeah?”
He released a breath and nodded.
Sam cautiously stepped forward. Still stunned by his words, Frankie felt rooted to the spot.
More than sex? Of course, he wanted more—and in a way, so did Frankie.
He wanted their friendship and sex. He wanted this, he thought, a sudden realization dawning.
He wanted slow mornings, cooking breakfast for each other, falling asleep in each other’s arms, making love.
Heart skipping, he licked his lips, fingers nervously twitching. Wasn’t this going fast? They had just fucked for the first time last night, but had spent months wanting each other. They had years of knowing each other.
He felt Sam’s fingers brush over his hand.
“You do that when you’re nervous,” Sam murmured, pulling his fingers to his lips, kissing them.
He sucked in a breath.
“Just give me what you will, Frankie. It doesn’t matter. I’ll make it enough.”
Emotion continued to grip him. “What if I can’t give you anything—what if…?”
“This ends?”
“No,” he gritted his teeth. “No.”
“We don’t have to talk about this—”
“What if I hurt you?” he cut in, and Sam’s chin lifted.
“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
“Fuck, Sam,” the lump in his throat burned. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Then you should’ve thought about that before you made love to me last night…”
A rush of breath left his lips as Sam grabbed his shirt and roughly dragged him to his mouth, claiming and loving, all at once. Just like him.
“…before you kissed me back,” Sam whispered against his lips, “before you let me touch you…”
Breakfast forgotten, Sam led him into the living room, dropped him onto the couch, and straddled him.
Frankie gasped, cock lengthening at the sight of his Superman, his best friend…
his lover needing him—wanting him—confessing how far he was willing to go to have him.
He knew he would think of nothing else later.
But that was for later. Right now, he had Sam’s thick hips under his hands, his hard cock brushing against his and looking downright lethal with the heat in his gaze.
“I have only one request,” Sam said, leaning forward, tonguing the shell of Frankie’s ear.
“I’m listenin’…”
“No one else is allowed in your bed but me.”
His pulse thundered in his ears. “I can do that. But that goes for you too, baby. No one touches you but me.”
Sam hummed, grinding his length against his. “Yes.”