Page 20 of In Frame
“I remember you organizing that kitten adoption.” Sam ran a hand over Leo’s head: petting, perhaps reminded by the kittens. Leo’s head liked this as well. “It’s a hell yes about the sex. But only if you want to. If you’re ready. You don’t have to.”
“Ah. I know I don’thaveto. I want to.”
“Then…if you really are sure…” The grin lit up all the little treasure-bits in Sam’s layered brown gaze. “Then I’m honored. That you’d pick me. For your first, what was it you said, trying out the sex with a man concept? Now I’m wondering what a man concept is, by the way.”
“The concept of a man? Probably shaped quite a lot like you.” He poked Sam’s chest again, interested. The limo made a turn; not too far now, Leo estimated. Home. And his bed. And Sam in it. He’d made up his mind about that, and he wanted it. He had not thought much beyond that—what this meant as far as being definitely not straight, or the implications of bringing a journalist home—but he was used to not overthinking; he was himself, and he wanted things, and he wanted this. “You’ll have to give me a few pointers, but I take direction well and I’m not easily offended by corrections.”
Sam began laughing again.
“Well, I’m not,” Leo pointed out. “Though I am offended by blueberries. They know what they did.”
“Not being actually blue?”
“Exactly. Purple-hued liars.” Sam hadn’t given him a quizzical look or saidI have no idea what goes on inside your heador leapt bodily out of the limo. Leo’s heart, unused to this, did a little cartwheel inside his chest. “I’m also allergic to kiwi fruit. Just for the record.”
“Well, damn,” Sam said. “There go my sex plans for you.”
More cartwheels. Somersaults. Acrobatics all over the place. “I’m certain you can improvise. I think I’ve got bananas.”
Sam looked pointedly at Leo’s trousers. “At least one.”
“Oh my God,” Leo said, “that’s a me joke. I mean it’s something I’d’ve said. I mean you’re perfect and I—” Shocked, he hauled back the words. I love you? On a second meeting, in a limo, in the middle of a discussion about sex and fruit allergies? No. Dear God, no.
But the words, having enjoyed themselves on the tip of his tongue, refused to go away. They hung out in his head and orbited around the periphery, fizzing like the London night.
“I figured you’d appreciate it,” Sam said, not pushing for the unspoken words. “Both the joke and the banana. Are we here?” They were. The limo had stopped. The partition went down. The driver—a cheerful curly-haired woman with dangling star-shaped earrings that Leo rather wanted to play with—turned around and said, “Here you go, Mr. Whyte! Have fun!”
“Thank you,” Leo told her, still a bit dazed by his own emotions. Sam, as they emerged, stuck an arm back into the limo and retrieved Leo’s jacket, which both Leo and the jacket were grateful for; and then stopped, looking up at the house. “Nice.”
“It is.” Leo found keys, unlocked the barricade of front gate, held out a hand: wanting Sam to come in, wanting Sam to touch him more places. The house stood up in front of themand beamed in Victorian brickwork and white trim, old bones full of energy. It wasn’t large, but it was his, and he liked the neighborhood: fashionable enough that he had some fellow actors and football players as neighbors, not quite cutting-edge enough for trendy clamorous nightclubs or thumping music, close enough to his parents that he could pop by for tea or advice. “And now you’ve seen it.”
“And now I’ve seen it.” Sam trailed him up steps, through the door, into the small hallway, and out into the openness of the kitchen and entertainment space. “You trust me with this. Where you live.”
“To be fair, it’s not difficult to find out. The first time we organized that big global scavenger hunt with fans, for charity, I accidentally included part of my address in the announcement video.” Leo took a step into the kitchen and considered a teakettle, a bottle of whiskey, the refrigerator. None of these seemed to know proper etiquette for seducing a man, either. “Would you like anything? Tea, a drink, a sandwich—wearemissing the after-party—toast and some sort of, er, fancy jalapeño jam?”
“Really?” Sam turned. Framed by Leo’s sitting room, with the deep blue accent wall and color-changing sequin-covered throw pillows, he might’ve looked out of place—a rumpled American in a too-large suit—but instead set Leo’s jacket on a chair with a lot of care, and instantly belonged. “Whatever you want, I said. Though maybe not the jam.”
“Right, yes…”
“Are you nervous about this?” Sam’s hand, reaching over the countertop to cradle Leo’s, felt warm and firm again, the way Sam’s touch always seemed to. “We don’t have to. You don’t have to.”
“No,” Leo said, stubborn and certain. “I want to. I’ve only never done this before.”
“Neither have I, so we’re even?”
“Of course you have, and you’re not shy about it, you even asked me out—”
“I’ve picked up guys before.” Sam’s thumb made small circles around the inside of Leo’s wrist; Leo, entranced, felt his heartbeat calm. “I’ve gone home with guys before. But not like this. Not with you. Is that a couch pillow shaped like a fish? Covered in sequins?”
“I bought it because I like it,” Leo said. The way he tended to think: instinctive, impulsive, leaping in. Maybe Sam didn’t like that. Maybe Sam didn’t like whimsy. Or fish. Or sequins. “Of course you’ve never come home with me. I think I’d remember. Plus, gay sex virgin, you do recall. Though ideally not for much longer, assuming you’ve still got plans for me.”
“So many plans. I like your pillows. And that wall color. You didn’t hire a designer, did you? It’s all you.”
True, but how’d Sam guessed? “True. How did you—”
“It feels like you. And you’re good at colors. It’s bright, yeah, especially the couch, but they all go together.”
Sam was looking at him with complete seriousness, gravely complimenting Leo’s rust-orange sofa and piscine design choices, holding his hand; Leo flung himself around the corner of the counter and threw both arms around Sam and tackled Sam’s mouth with his. Into the kiss, demanded, “Show me all your gay sex plans for me. Now.”
