Carver made a small sound, a barely breathed oh. Then, before Frank could brace himself—or even fully register what was going on—Carver was on him. In his lap, in fact, scrunching the sketchbook pages and nearly impaling himself on the pencil. Either of which might have concerned Frank, except that Carver was on his lap, and he was naked, and he was…. Good Lord. He was kissing Frank. Sweetly and yet insistently, as if kisses were rationed and he was redeeming all his coupons at once.
Well, if that was the case, Frank had coupons too. Tons of them. He dropped the pencil, grabbed Carver’s head, and kissed back.
When Frank had been a paratrooper, he was always scared to death in those minutes before jumping. Most of the guys probably were, although they all endeavored to hide it. For a few brief moments immediately after each jump—before he had to worry about getting shot at, or the chute malfunctioning, or landing in a flood or on something that was going to explode—he felt ecstatic. Untethered from the world, from his worries, from bad memories. Those few moments were almost worth the fear and, later, the pain.
Right now, kissing Carver, it was as if he’d just jumped. But he wasn’t floating alone this time; Carver was right there with him, as solid and warm as anyone could be, and he was making thrilling little gasps and moans that went straight to Frank’s dick.
Eventually Carver pulled back a bit, although he cradled Frank’s head between his palms. “You’re not only anything, Frankie. But you are overdressed.” He hopped to his feet and held out a hand. “How about showing me your bedroom again?”
Frank could have suspected that this was all part of some elaborate joke, a way for the movie star to tease the nobody. But Carver’s arousal was clear: chest heaving, cock hard, upper torso and face rosy, pupils so wide the blue was hardly visible. His smile was bright and hopeful as he waited for Frank to take his hand. And not, Frank thought, because Carver considered him too crippled to stand by himself. But because they were in this together. Whatever this was.
He grabbed Carver’s hand and stood, allowing the sketchpad to join the pencil on the floor. Instead of heading straight to the bedroom, he gathered Carver into his arms. They pressed together, hardness against hardness, with only a couple layers of cloth between. It was thrilling, actually, to be fully dressed while his partner was entirely nude. Perhaps feeling the same way, Carver ran his hands down Frank’s sleeves and across his back, then hovered at his waist for a second before grasping his khaki-clad ass.
Oh, ass! Frank was now free to touch Carver’s glorious ass, and that was exactly what he did. He was generally a visual person, but in this case touching was far superior to simply looking. Later, he vowed, he’d create a drawing that truly conveyed the superiority and majesty of Carver’s ass.
They were both grinding against each other fiercely, the way that Frank had sometimes ground against another soldier for a few hungry minutes. Fleeting as they were, those encounters had been heady too. Delicious stolen fruit for ravenous men. Frank almost lost himself in the familiar thrill.
But then Carver whispered in his ear—“Frankie”—and Frank remembered that they didn’t have to be quick. Nobody was going to discover them and disgrace them. Enemies with guns weren’t lying in wait. And, for that matter, a raid by the vice squad was highly unlikely.
Frank was going to get a single chance at this, so he’d damn well do it right.
This time he took Carver’s hand. Frank’s limp was irrelevant, the ache temporarily faded away. They were both laughing, giddy and full of the simplest, most primal of joys.
As soon as they got inside the bedroom, Carver started tugging impatiently at Frank’s shirt. “Off! Too many buttons.”
Frank undid just enough to pull the shirt over his head. He paused before removing his undershirt, struck with a pang of self-consciousness. “I’m not a movie idol,” he warned. He was too skinny, too pale. He had scars.
“I don’t want an idol. I want you. Off!”
With a sigh, Frank obeyed. He was rewarded by soft caresses—and then an even softer pair of lips touching his nipple, sucking on it, making him gasp and arch his back.
But then he had to take off his shoes. His stupid, ugly, custom-made orthotic shoes that cost a fortune but allowed him reasonable mobility. He sat heavily on the mattress. Before he could move to unlace them, however, Carver sank to one knee in front of him, that wicked grin in place, and took up the task himself.
“Did you see The Sicilian Oracle?” Carver asked.
No point in denying it now. “Twice.” Carver had received an Oscar nomination for his portrayal of a Roman slave who led a revolt.
“Do you remember the scene when I had to unlace my master’s sandals?”
Oh yes, Frank definitely did. He’d replayed that particular scene in his head several times over the following months—usually in this very bed, dick in hand. “Was the sensuality intentional?”
“Of course.” Carver removed the first shoe, the one on the intact foot, peeled off the sock, and started on the second. “The guy who played my master was pretty uncomfortable with it, but it was important for my character development. And I had a lot of fun. Not nearly as much fun as I’m having now, though.” With utmost care, he took off the shoe. When he removed the sock, he didn’t wince or show any signs of disgust. Instead, he stood and shot Frank an expectant look. “Those trousers can come off now.”
Indeed they could. Along with Frank’s boxers, they joined the other clothing on the floor, leaving Frank as bare as Carver, if you didn’t count his wristwatch. Carver looked, seemingly pleased by what he saw. His erection hadn’t flagged.
“You’re staring,” Frank pointed out.
“You got to look at me forever. I’m trying to catch up. It’s only fair.” Carver cocked his head. “On the other hand, touching is much more fun.” For the second time that afternoon, he launched himself at Frank, who ended up on his back on the mattress, legs hanging over the edge and Carver on top of him.
It was a good place to end up.
For one thing, he had easier access to that ass. For another, their cocks were meeting directly, without any fabric between them. And also, Frank and Carver could kiss some more. Carver was an excellent kisser.
And Carver, bless him, was in no hurry. Whenever things got just a bit too heated, he stopped moving long enough for them to catch their breath. Eventually they scooted around so that Frank’s legs were completely on the bed, spread rather wantonly and with Carver’s legs between them. His leg hairs tickled Frank’s.
“I like your eyes,” Carver said during a brief pause.
Frank’s brain wasn’t working well at the moment. “Wha’?”
