Page 32 of In Frame
“Intensity, huh?” Sam slowed the next stroke, rubbing his big hand torturously gradually along Leo’s poor yearning length; Leo nearly protested, but then Sam caught the head with his thumb and did a little scrape of thumbnail over the tip, right at the slit, and Leo yelped as brightness shot through his entire body, more shock than pain and skewered with pleasure. “Like that?”
“So much like that,” Leo agreed weakly, lying very still indeed now, just letting Sam’s hand take him and take over all of him. “Is that the plan? You just…er…do this, and I come all over your hand? But what about you? What can I do?”
“Hmm.” Sam drummed fingers along Leo’s cock. Leo, delighting in every new sensation and every proprietary edge of the grip, wriggled in appreciation. Sam grinned. “You do like me playing with that. How do you feel about oral? Specifically—”
“Me or you? Yes.”
“Or you could wait for me to finish talking.” Sam leaned down, though, and licked the tip of Leo’s cock, so that was perfect. His hair fell in all sorts of directions, and Leo wanted to kiss him. “Both at once, to answer the question.”
“Oh,” Leo said, and then, “Oh! Yes. So much yes. Er…directorial input, please.”
Sam tugged gently at Leo’s cock: assertive but playful, the way they were both learning that Leo enjoyed. Some more wetness beaded up to play along too. “Lie down. And I’ll just—”
He squirmed around. They ended up pressed together, a proper sixty-nine position, bodies flexible and eager and close. Sam’s mouth nudged Leo’s cock, dark hair tickling Leo’s thighs; Leo, newly eye to eye with Sam’s large heated girth, blinked and considered size and masculinity and that full shiny head and his own mouth.
He wanted to dive in and taste it all—but the wanting was oddly shy as well, something vulnerable and wanton and intimate, utter decadence combined with strange bashfulness. What if he wasn’t coordinated enough? What if he couldn’t think enough to give Sam the same amount of pleasure?
He liked the muscles of Sam’s thighs, though, and the scent of Sam’s body, and the firm male beauty of that cock and those balls and the light fuzz of hair. He licked Sam’s inner thigh on impulse. Sam said, words tracing kisses over Leo’s rigidarousal, “Go on, I like that.”
“You do?”
“You doing what you want, with me? Yeah. Taste anything you want. Go on.”
Leo did not quite laugh, but breathed out an exhale of happiness. Giddy rainbows. Early-morning sun. February air, crisp and alive. Clear in his lungs, in his chest. Like a valentine. Shaped like Sam.
He licked Sam’s cock, a little hesitantly; then he moved his head a bit, found a better angle, and felt the whole heavy weight of it slide into his mouth, over his tongue, into his throat. Filling him up, as he sucked at it and took it down and closed lips around the base.
Sam groaned, wordless and deep; wet heat wrapped around Leo’s cock in turn, and Sam’s mouth began sucking at him, surrounding him, skillfully working him with tongue and lips and throat. Leo tried to moan, became even more deliciously aware of the cock pushing into his own mouth, and felt his hips jerk with reaction.
Sam did more, then. So much more, licking and sucking and causing fiery shimmers and streaks of sensation all through Leo’s body, centered on his cock but flooding out everyplace. He could not have said what, specifically, that marvelous mouth was doing; he could only feel, and he felt everything. Sam’s cock rocking, thrusting, not hard but in quick small motions into his own throat; his body pressed wholly against Sam’s; the smooth cradle of sheets; the iridescent unrelenting swirl of ecstasy that was happening and kept on happening between his legs…
Something pressed lightly behind his balls. A fingertip, a caress. Leo shuddered helplessly, on the brink.
The fingertip, wet and slick, drifted back. It rubbed at his hole: not penetrating, but stroking over the rim, teasing the furl of muscle, hinting at the idea, the remembrance of thrusts theretoo, Sam’s body sinking in. The rubbing did not cease, and Sam’s mouth drew him deeper and deeper, and all at once Leo was shaking and quivering and coming apart, coming to pieces, flung dizzily upside-down and head-over-heels and inside-out by the wave as it peaked and crashed, like this, just like this, with Sam’s cock plundering his mouth and Sam’s hands teasing his body over the edge.
And Sam’s hips snapped forward, harder now and sudden, burying Leo’s face between strong tanned thighs—and there was more heat, more of that fabulous newfound salty male flavor, pumping into his throat and over his tongue, so much it spilled up around the corners of his mouth even as he swallowed and swallowed more, dazed by sheer bliss. He could not think; he could only feel it all and taste it all and take it all, swept away and floating and full of white light.
The ecstatic heat between Leo’s legs lifted for a moment; Sam’s voice murmured something, but Leo couldn’t hear. Sam’s tongue lapped at him again after, bathing sensitive flesh in even more attention; Leo tried to reply by suckling at Sam’s softening cock, a welcome wondrous occupation for his mouth, and also tried to arch his hips up in confirmation that, yes, he loved the exquisite racing sharpness of almost-but-not-quite too much, as Sam’s mouth stayed busy on him.
Somehow he’d ended up more on his back, more or less beneath Sam’s weight, and that felt exactly right. So did the anguished brilliance of the licking and lapping, making nerve-endings fizz and fray and fill with heady static; he never wanted this feeling to end, even as he writhed and squirmed and twitched in place under the anchor.
Eventually the quivery riots of feeling dwindled, ebbing, draining into easier sensations; Sam had stopped moving, and his mouth slid off Leo’s cock. His hips moved too: thick spent length slipping from Leo’s mouth.
Leo whimpered at the emptiness. His mouth felt messy, sticky with trickles of Sam’s climax; he wanted more, or to be held, or to weep from pure unadulterated awe and release, or—
“Leo.” Sam rearranged them hastily. Folded arms around him. Kept him close, secure, tethered. A thumb brushed the corners of Leo’s lips, cleaning traces of everything they’d just done. “Oh, Leo. Shh, you’re okay, I’ve got you, you’re fantastic. So fucking fantastic, Leo, God. Can you look at me?”
That American accent, burnished by tawny contented completion, poured comfort into all the corners of Leo’s bedroom. Burnished white bedposts and dresser drawers and Leo’s heart to a gleaming shine.
He managed, “Leo God, you say…I like that…”
Sam made an utterly undignified sound and hid laughter in Leo’s hair. “Fuckingperfect. I’m sorry about, um, not giving you much warning, there. When I, um. Couldn’tnotcome like that, with you—you just felt so damn good.”
“So thatwasgood?” In the next second he wished he hadn’t asked, hadn’t needed to ask; he could only hope the question had come out flip and casual, as if he’d asked precisely because the asking was a joke.
Sam hugged him more tightly. Said into Leo’s hair, mouth nuzzling Leo’s head, “Yeah, Leo. That was good. That was great. If you hadn’t noticed.” He paused. Pulled back. Searched Leo’s expression. “It was for you, too, right?”
“Yes,” Leo whispered. “Oh, yes.”
