Page 68 of In Frame
“I thought you might.” Sam, who’d met him in the lobby and held his hand all the way up in the elevator, let go to rummage around in a bag on the table by the window. “Got you a present.”
“You mean other than yourself?”
The flight had been long and uneventful. Leo’d read a possible next-project adaptation involving Victorian-era scandal and murder and bigamy, had decided that the two male leads were obviously more into each other than the woman they were supposedly in love with, had watchedAdrenaline Spikeagain just to have some more ammunition regarding Jason and the terrible action-hero clichés, and had utterly failed to fall asleep even though he’d tried. He’d ended up putting on a travel documentary about Machu Picchu and then wondering what llamas felt like to pet.
He’d never been good at sleeping on planes. Always wanted to know what was happening around him. Listening. Observing. Getting distracted.
In this case the distraction involved anticipation. He’d barely been able to sit still in the car on the way to the hotel.
He knew Sam had gone out to the beach that morning, because Colby and Jason were in meetings with Jillian and studio executives most of the day; he knew, because of sent pictures, that Sam had rolled up trouser-legs and sat barefoot in the sand, feeling sun and tasting salt and sea, occasionallycapturing a snapshot of the ocean’s rolling blue glory and some distant surfers riding waves and shared fun.
He knew Sam loved people, in all their messy beautiful complexity. Sam took and saved and made eternal every laugh, every human story, with that camera.
Sam had come back here and brushed off sand and waited for him, because Leo hadn’t publicly come out yet and Sam did understand people and wouldn’t assume that Leo wanted to be swept off his feet and soundly kissed at the airport or even in a hotel lobby.
Leo had wanted that. So badly it hurt: the want stuck a spear in his chest, skewering him in place.
There’d been paparazzi at the airport, of course. Not too many, but a few. They’d snapped pictures of him walking, carrying his bag, signing an autograph or two. He’d waved and been friendly, but the media would say he looked tired, he guessed; lack of sleep would do that.
He turned from the bed. Sam was holding something out. Small. Wrapped in tissue paper. A gift.
Leo took it. His heart looked at the spear in his chest and pushed back against it a fraction: Sam hadn’t tipped him into a movie-cliché kiss downstairs, but had bought him a present.
He unfolded layers of paper. He discovered glass, seashells, glitter: Southern California tourism in snow globe form. “This is brilliant!”
“It’s not anything big.” Sam had tucked hands into pockets, watching him, smiling faintly. “I just thought…we talked about seahorses…and it’s sort of tacky but also sort of not, y’know? Like, it totally is, and you could afford way better souvenirs, but it also goes with your fish pillow.”
“I love it.” He honestly did. Drifting sparkly sand flowed around a seahorse and a sand castle, when he tilted the globe; the base wore glued-on shells with unselfconscious glee.“There’s a whole story to it, isn’t there? He’s built that lovely castle, and he’s so pleased to show it off. Have you ever built a sand castle? I expect I’d be pleased too, if I could make one like that.”
Sam’s smile got bigger.
“What,” Leo said, “are sand castles some sort of bizarre American euphemism for sex, because I can kind of see that, with the towers—”
“No. Or at least not that I know about.” Sam stepped in close, looped an arm around Leo’s waist, tugged him into an embrace. “You’re perfect.”
“I tell people that all the time. I’m so glad someone finally believes me.”
“Idobelieve you.” Sam’s hand wandered down to Leo’s backside, fondling, squeezing. “Want me to kiss you?”
“Yes, if you wouldn’t mind doing that now—”
Sam’s mouth landed on his. Sam kissed with conviction and with tongue, fierce and delighted and seemingly intent on showing Leo just how much fun kissing could be. Leo heard someone make a desperate needy sound; it was himself, as Sam nibbled at his lower lip, nuzzled his throat, left scratches of stubble.
He very nearly dropped his snow globe. His knees wobbled. Sam felt hot and masculine and wonderful, powerful and kind, generous and relentless in the giving of pleasure.
Perfect. Oh yes.
They tumbled in the direction of the bed, under sunshine. Sam’s hands tugged at the buttons of Leo’s shirt, and his belt, and his jeans; Leo arched his back and rubbed himself against Sam, shamelessly loving the feel of him, the way their bodies fit together, the hard hot press of desire. His skin was warm, tingling wherever Sam touched him: like the glitter, he thought, in a snow globe.
He had to laugh. Sam paused.
“Nothing,” Leo said, “I’m just happy, do that again, touch me more,” and carefully sethissnow globe down on the closest nightstand, while Sam’s hand got back to teasing his nipple.
Sam pushed him down onto the bed, sent a few pillows flying with a sweep of one arm, yanked Leo’s jeans all the way off, bent to kiss him: a quick press of affection over Leo’s stomach, above his underwear, which happened to be red today, mostly because Leo had a hazy idea that red was a seductive sort of color and had certainly planned on seducing Sam.
Who announced, lips brushing Leo’s skin, just under his navel, “Missed tasting you.”
“Only just there? I have got other parts you can taste.”
