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I dimmed the lights to something romantic and insinuating, then stopped at the arm of the sofa where his foot perched.
“I’m actually counting on that,” he said, holding an arm out for me. “Makes for a tighter squeeze.”
I ignored his outstretched hand until it fell. He grinned seductively, tucking both arms behind his head, more than okay with me taking my time to drink him in. “Why do you have to be so fucking sexy?” I asked, disgusted by how much I wanted him at all times. It was tragic, really, because with every hour, with every fucking minute that passed, my craving for this man grew without limits.
“You sound torn up about it,” he said, chuckling. The rich, harmful-to-my-heart chuckle that made me think of more nights like this and an infinity of morning afters.
This will end, Leland.
I swirled a finger around the pad of one of his perfect toes, and his humor faded, replaced with a flash of warning in his eyes as he inched his foot away from my exploring hands.Franky was ticklish. I’d discovered that little nugget after a morning of breakfast in bed where I ate my French toast off his abs. There’d been a lot of clean up required. Syrup had gotteneverywhere.
He’d gone red with the effort of not squirming away from my tongue as it swept over every part of him.
“I’m just glad I get to enjoy it before it’s gone, old man,” I teased.
“I’ll have you know my father had a six-pack until the very end.”
“Mmmm,” I hummed. “So sexiness is in the genes.”
“Stamina too,” he said, canting his hips, his ridiculously well-proportioned cock hard as steel. I enjoyed playful Franky. To be honest, I enjoyed every shade of Franky I could get; the darker the better, though.
His body was a work of art, and the graying at his temples and beard only amplified his hotness. Made him distinguished. And he fucked like a zoo animal, like a beast trying to break out of its cage. Sometimes it felt like his goal was to snap me in two and leave me for dead on the side of the road—or bed.
My mouth watered as he laid there watching me watch him, his dick spasming as it stretched further. The tip of my hard cock grew wet.Always wet for Franky.
“I don’t want to fuck you, Leland,” Franky said with a barely-there grip on his aggression. “At least not yet. But you’re making it hard.”
“Yeah,reallyhard,” I said, wondering if tonight would be the night I managed to suck down more than half his dick without gagging on it—although gagging until I cried was half the fun.
“Get over here,” he said, silently laughing, his shoulders not the only thing shaking as a result.
“I give up my view if I lie down, though,” I complained, entranced by his strong, thick thighs and the light dusting of hair along his calf muscles.
“Ask yourself,” he said, readying his argument. “Do you want to watch the game from the sidelines or on the field?”
I was between his legs in a nanosecond, snuggling into him and moaning as our cocks rubbed together.
“You’re so easy,” he said.
“Hey, no slut shaming,” I said, balancing my chin on his chest.
We were okay with letting our lust cool, although it never went cold. I idly sifted through the thin spattering of hair over his pecs, sucking his nipples at his request as he drew shapes along my back. For now we were content to let things unfold naturally moment to moment.
“Tell me more about your art-bar,” Franky said. He’d asked me the dreadedwhere do you see yourself in five yearsquestion yesterday, and because I was no closer to an answer now than I’d been when my school counselor had asked me the same thing at fifteen, I gave him the first thing I could think of, which was the art-bar, even though it would never happen.
I hadn’t turned the question on him, because I didn’t want to hear about all the great things he’d have going on in five years that didn’t include me.
This will end, Leland.
I should’ve known I’d only bought myself a reprieve, because Franky was determined to see the best in me, to see what great things awaited me, and he was good at tempting me to see and believe it too. He’d never let the mention of an impossible dream of mine skate by without making a concentrated effort to support it, and I did the same for him.
I’d put a listing on one of those marketplace sites for a few of his furniture pieces that were sitting in the garage. I’d done it behind his back, not wanting to discourage him if none of it sold.
“It sold!”I’d yelled a couple days ago, stampeding onto the patio and scaring Franky to death.
“Damn, it,”he’d cursed, dropping the hinge he’d been screwing onto a wardrobe.
“It sold,”I’d said again, calmer this time, shoving my phone, which displayed the listing, at his face.
