Page 27 of In Frame
“I’m—”
“No, really listen.” Sam’s toes poked him in the calf, without force. “That wasgreat. Not, like, great for a first time,not great but you need to work on something, not great with qualifications, just great, okay? You and I have incredible sex. That’s just true.”
Leo considered this. “I suppose I can live with that. Having incredible sex with you.”
“Also,” Sam said, hand wandering down to fondle Leo’s now thoroughly worn-out cock, “this is pretty great too, and I definitely want to find out how it feels inside me, and we did say we’d show you everything, so we’re totally doing that at some point. Sound good?”
Leo’s brain turned that suggestion into a high-resolution color-saturated movie, and played it in vivid imagined detail. “…ah. Yes. You may need to give me some advice about angles and such, but I have, er, done that particular thing. With a girlfriend sort of person, that was. Notexactlythe same anatomy. But similar. At least I’ve got the basic idea.”
“I like you having ideas.” Sam stretched out the leg atop Leo’s, and put it back. “I like you telling me what you like. Was that your stomach?”
“I do keep saying I’m hungry. But I’m also quite comfortable now, if you don’t want to get up.”
“Come on.” Sam sat up. “Let’s find your late-night breakfast.”
* * * *
They got up. They found robes, because of course Leo Whyte had robes: ridiculous fantastical quilted brocade fantasias that a Victorian aristocrat might’ve thrown on to lounge and sip port in. Sam mentally shook his head, pulling a sleeve on. Even the cuffs cavorted with embroidery.
Leo, bundled up in blue and gold, beamed at him. And Sam couldn’t roll his eyes about extravagant clothing anymore,because the robe was hugging Leo and keeping Leo warm, and the blue and gold picked up all the shades of wayward dark blond hair and summer-in-forest eyes, and robes were in fact pretty awesome, come to think of it.
His whole body hummed with pleasure. Satisfaction. Completion. A good workout. A release that left him weak in the knees when recalling it: the tightness of Leo’s body around him, the absolute unflinching joy in hazel eyes, the fearlessness and the yes in that plush voice and the way Leo’d gazed up at him in the moment right after…
Yes. So much yes. He wanted to do that over and over. Again and again.
He wanted to spend the whole damn night here. In Leo’s house, in Leo’s bed. The comprehension shook him to the core. The incongruity hit even harder.
Leo smiled at him more and opened a carton of eggs. “I’m not a genius cook the way Colby is, but I can handle eggs? And possibly beans on toast, though that’s not really an American thing, is it? But it should be.”
Leo Whyte, long legs bare under that robe, recently made love to—for the first time, at least the first with a man—and unselfconsciously comfortable in this small but luxurious kitchen, in this small but luxurious colorful house, practically glowed with contentment. Belonging. Someone who could afford a place in this neighborhood, who did not worry about the price of bread or how much a single snapshot might sell for.
Leo was successful. A good actor with a solid career. A man with a generous lonely heart, offered up without limit, without pretense. Every emotion was real.
Leo was happy. Sam had done that. He knew he had; the thought skewered his chest like a spear of ice, as Leo cracked an egg with one hand and a playful flourish.
Leo deserved better. Leo Whyte deserved someone whofit in here, in celebrity-studded streets and oversized plush robes. Someone who could stand on a red carpet with him and without shame.
He should go. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t’ve kissed Leo ever. And once he had, he shouldn’t’ve done more.
He could’ve let Leo’s first time with a man be special. Magical. With someone who hadn’t promised to send over pictures of all the juicy gossip from that premiere.
But Leowashappy. Humming—off-key, but also not really trying—while poking at eggs. Hair standing up more on one side than the other. Barefoot and glancing Sam’s direction with a smile, every so often.
Sam couldn’t walk away. Couldn’t shatter all that joy.
He didn’t know whether that made him a good person or the exact opposite.
He leaned a hip against the kitchen counter because otherwise he’d reach for Leo. His hands ached to. “Want help?”
“Toss some bread in the toaster?” Leo waved a hand. “And avocado if you want. Not in the toaster. Unless you want that. I wonder if anyone’s invented toasted avocado slices? If not, it’s our idea and I’ll copyright it.”
Some people would’ve said no to an offer of assistance, out of pride or courtesy to a guest or a desire not to have someone poking around their kitchen. Leo took the offer and answered as if Sam belonged here too. As if they had a routine, domestic and established.
Sam looked at the toaster. It gazed back in unruffled appliance-quiet, clearly used to its owner.
The night—London, Chelsea, history and money and quirkiness, chilly February weather and stove-heat—shook out bones and settled in. Serene as a happy ending in a film.
In a film actor’s life. A silver-screen movie-star life. Not Sam’s.
