Page 32 of Give Me What You Will

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.

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.