Page 54 of Give Me What You Will

Fuck, this kid was good.

“Does everyone here know you're out?” Sam asked quietly.

Caz nodded, smiling as he reached across the bar top and helped himself to a pick from the cocktail fruit tray. “Yeah.”

UFC was one of the most masculine sports in recent history, so to hear that this man was publicly out and unashamed about his sexuality further strengthened his favorable opinion of Caz. He watched him chew provocatively on the end of the thin brown stick, white teeth flashing almost wolfishly.

“So—if you're okay with it, maybe we should see if we have chemistry first before we take things further, yeah?” Sam said, a slight edge to his voice, challenging him and wondering if he would publicly do what he was asking.

What he wanted from Frankie. What he fucking needed from Frankie and would never get.

“You want me to kiss you?” the young man asked, eyebrows arching at the gauntlet thrown at his feet.

“I only fuck out and proud,” Sam said and stilled. He’d never said that before in his life, and until this moment, he hadn’t realized how true he needed that to be. Because whatever was happening with Frankie was dangerous. The sad, harsh reality was that Sam was the only one who was going to get hurt.

Caz’s golden-brown eyes sparkled with an almost predatory excitement as he slipped his rough, large hand over his chin and drew him in for a kiss, right there at the bar, in front of hundreds of people who were all too busy watching the fight to give a shit.

Caz’s lips were hot and searching, and oddly tender for a professional fighter.

Sam waited for the heat to reach his chest—the tingle around his balls—anything. But nothing happened. All he could think about was Frankie’s uncertain kiss after he brutalized his mouth with his sex. How his hand had wrapped around his throat and squeezed so good it made the steam in his blood spark into a fire.

Fuck.

Frankie ruined him. Ruined him for anyone else.

No. No. No.

Caz was abruptly yanked off him, and Frankie, flushed with a fury Sam had rarely ever seen, grabbed the young fighter by the back of the neck and slammed his face into the bar, holding him down in a tight grip. The pick in Caz’s mouth spurted out, followed by a surprised whoosh of breath.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Frankie’s voice was low and lethal, and directed right at Sam.

He jumped to his feet, “Me? What the fuck are you doing?”

“He’s a fuckin’ kid!”

“He’s a consenting adult! Let him go.”

Frankie continued to hold him down, snarling and looking absolutely insane. Sam shoved him back, hard. Frankie stumbled, eyes black. People scattered and turned around to look at the commotion. Before Frankie could release him, Caz pushed off the bar and slipped easily out of Frankie’s hold, squaring up with him, a wild, feral smile tugging on his lips.

Caz carefully wiped the club soda off his black suit jacket and glanced between them.

“Clearly, I slipped,” Caz drawled, and Sam could’ve sworn he heard a slight accent in his tone that hadn’t been there before.

He stared incredulously at the young man who didn’t seem offended at all by Frankie's assault. Caz glanced between them. “Ryan said y'all were best friends.” He hummed, lines crinkling in a knowing smile. “It was a pleasure, Sam. Maybe I’ll see you around.” His mischievous eyes danced to Frankie. “Maybe I won’t.”

Caz clamped a firm hand on Frankie’s shoulder before striding off and back into the crowd.

“Where the fuck do you get off?” Sam hissed angrily at Frankie.

Five seconds ago, he didn’t even exist to him.

Frankie’s wild eyes caught his and he shook his head. “What are you doin’, huh? What are you doin’ with him?”

The fury in his tone was laced with something else—something vulnerable.

He stilled, surprised, but he couldn’t care about that. He wasn’t a yo-yo to be tossed and turned and spun out, only to be yanked back whenever Frankie pleased. “Whatever I want. Does that bother you, Frank?”

Frankie huffed out a snort, hands raking through his thick jet-black hair. “You… You can’t be here. You need to go.”