Page 81 of Give Me What You Will

Sam shivered, seeing the intent in his black gaze.

“Lie down,” he ordered.

And Sam did. Frankie turned him onto his side and stroked his body, their breathing slowing together. Exhaustion settled over his brain like a fog, and he sank into him, letting himself be spooned and loving every second of it.

Frankie seemed to be just as tired and held him close. “You okay?”

Sam smiled dreamily. “I think I’m better than okay.”

He heard a sigh and felt Frankie’s hand rest on his waist. “You should sleep.”

He hesitated. “Will you…”

Be here when I wake up?

Clearing his throat, Sam asked, “Are you staying?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He released the fear caught in his chest. The last thing he remembered before falling asleep in his best friend's arms was the feeling of Frankie’s lips brushing soft, gentle kisses along his shoulder.

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?”