Page 8 of In Frame
This got a laugh. “Figures. I’ve seen—” Sam cut himself off there, but Leo knew where the sentence had been going. He filled in, “The photographs? Me walking out of that shop with, which one was it, the alien tentacle dildo? Or the one shaped like a rocket ship? I knew there’d be pictures.”
“I didn’t take them.” Sam had gone pink under the tan. “I wasn’t there.”
“I wouldn’t blame you if you had. Neither of those was for me, by the way, but I can’t tell you which person they were on behalf of.” He’d even done some dramatic swooping gestures with the rocket, for the paparazzi. “I haven’t bought anything like that in a while, mind you. I wonder if the media thinks I’vegrown less kinky? Or perhaps I’m simply very satisfied with my purchases?”
“Leo Whyte,” Sam said, and shook his head, and laughed a little. “I don’t know what I was expecting, but you’re not whatever it would’ve been.”
“I do try to confound expectations. I should go, before Jason’s muscles implode from the strain of not collecting a wayward sheep…” He hadn’t moved.
“You should.” Sam, being decisive for both of them, slid out of the booth: got up, left money, held out a hand. “Come here.”
Leo took the hand, getting up as well. He did not mind Sam taking charge, thinking about Leo’s obligations, helping ensure he returned to them. He liked the hand-holding, also.
It felt good. It felt like being seen.
They went out the door—Brian the bartender beamed and threw an encouraging American thumbs-up—and took a step onto the sidewalk, at which point Sam tugged him around a corner and into a side alleyway: deserted, clean by Vegas standards, patterned in tipsy tilted light and shadow. The camera swung, slung over a shoulder.
Leo inquired, “Am I being nefariously kidnapped? Was that your plan? And where are you taking me?” Sam hadn’t let go of his hand, and in fact had drawn him closer, fingers skimming Leo’s wrist, dipping beneath the edge of a sleeve, and oh Leo’s arm had never felt so much like sparklers fizzing away—
Sam laughed, which was good; Leo’d meant the line as a joke. “No kidnapping. I’ll call you a cab. Or a limo. Or whatever you want. But first—”
“But first what?” They had ended up standing close together, up against each other; Leo had gone along willingly, and now his heart was thumping madly and Sam’s body was firm and hot and right there pressed to his, Sam’s hand lifting,stroking back his hair, cradling his face…in a side alley by a pub, in the whirlwind carnival of Las Vegas, in the midst of this whole dizzy celebratory weekend…
Leo had never wanted to be touched so badly by anyone. He’d never been so aware of his own body, the rigid radiant line of his cock, the pulse of his blood. Not with anyone. Not like this.
“First this.” Sam moved, drew closer, eyes intent and hazelnut-gold as promises. His lips were a breath away; his words were warm. “I would’ve asked you back to my place…or yours…wherever. I’d’ve jumped into bed with you and done, hell, everything—everything that’d make you feel good, so good, so amazing. The way you deserve. But you deserve better than that, too. Your friends, your party, your life. Not some guy with a camera who’s gonna send pictures of you to his editor. Not one random night in the closest cheap hotel.”
“What if,” Leo inquired unsteadily, “I wouldn’t mind a cheap hotel?” He imagined he could taste the whiskey again, fiery and scorching and delicious as pleasure.
“No.” Sam touched a finger to Leo’s lips. “You should have silk sheets. Strawberries. Champagne. Or whatever you want. Don’t think I don’t want you, because I do—I want you so damn much, and thatisme being serious—and I can’t believe I’m telling you to go. Even though I am. You have places to be, and people to be with. But…”
“But?”
“But I want to kiss you.” Sam’s other hand had found Leo’s waist, and tugged their bodies even closer; Sam was also hard beneath denim, Leo discovered: hard and thick and clearly aroused by him. By this: by them together. “You said you’d never done anything with a guy, and that’s some sort of crime against humanity, you being interested and never getting even kissed, and I want you to know how really fuckin’ bad I want to kiss you, right now.”
“So…so why aren’t you?”
“Because I’m asking first.” Sam’s hand had made its way to the back of Leo’s neck, and stayed there. Leo’s neck shivered and tingled and learned how to yearn for exactly that. “I know this is new and I’m not gonna just jump on you with my mouth in an alleyway. So I’m asking, Leo Whyte, can I kiss you?”
“Yes,” Leo breathed. “Yes, please.”
Sam kissed him. And the world became spectacular.
Sam tasted like good whiskey—Leo himself must’ve also—and kissed without demands but with experience and control: guiding, initiating, leading. His mouth was honeyed and hot and came with a small scrape of evening stubble, and his tongue teased Leo’s mouth, beckoning, slipping in, flirting.
Kissing Sam was not like kissing anyone else ever, Leo concluded hazily: it wasn’t even about Sam not being a woman, or the way they were so nearly the same height, or the way their arousal fit and pushed together, mutual. Kissing Sam felt like kissing sunshine, if sunshine knew what it was doing and knew how to nibble and lick and gently but commandingly tangle a hand into Leo’s hair.
He tried to kiss back, to reciprocate, to show his absolute eagerness. Sam smiled—Leo could feel it—and murmured into the kiss, “So damn perfect…”
“I’m…mmm…not…oh.” Sam was kissing his neck now, which had developed a direct line to Leo’s knees and the weakness thereof. “Oh, that, yes…”
“Delicious.” Sam drew back, leaned in as if unable to help himself, and landed one more kiss on Leo’s mouth: quick at first, but slow to pull away. “Fuck, you’re amazing. Saying yes, wanting more, wanting it all…oh, hell. One more.”
One more kiss meant quite a lot of tongue, and Sam’s hands running along Leo’s back, pulling him in and holding him there as if keeping him safe. Leo wanted to be kept by Sam.Wanted to feel Sam’s hands on his bare skin. His jacket and shirt were in the way. Too many clothes.
He’d been kissed before. He knew about desire.
He’d never been kissed like this before. And he couldn’t recall the last time desire had felt like this: a paradox of sweetness and flame, sizzling need and sheer exuberant rightness. The thrill and the shock: kissing Sam, who had a camera, who’d followed them and taken pictures of them and then bought him a drink and told him he was worthwhile. Firecrackers, but tinged with melancholy: Sam was moving back, letting him go.
