Page 71 of In Frame
Sam’s hand slipped away. Leo mumbled sounds, incoherent. His mouth felt wet too, having fallen open.
Sam moved atop him—Leo’s legs flopped down, no longer held up, cradling Sam’s hips—and settled atop him, holding him. The weight felt good; Leo’s cock was now trapped between their bodies, and that felt good too. He tried to say so, but his voice had turned into hazy tipsy giggles, drunk on sensation. His vision had gone a bit hazy too, so that Sam seemed ringed by light, framed by halos.
Sam murmured something. Leo’s name. And touched his face, cupped his cheek. “Leo. God. So good—so perfect—oh, Leo…”
Leo nuzzled into the caress, liking it.
Sam laughed a little, unguarded and affectionate; and kissed him, clumsy with afterglow, noses bumping. “Just a sec, okay?” He pulled back, shifted—pulling out, Leo understood vaguely, and disposing of the condom—and then came back with a large friendly towel and began cleaning Leo’s exhausted quivering body, with exquisite attention to every inch, and occasional scattered kisses.
The towel was fluffy and Sam’s hands were careful, but even the lightest brush to Leo’s cock made him whimper. Sam breathed, “Sorry, sorry, I know, I know that was a lot, I know you’re sore, I’m sorry, Leo,” and Leo surfaced from drowsy rainbow waves to whisper, “What on earth’re you apologizing for, I feel glorious.” He did.
Sam laughed again, brief and hopeful, sitting back. A strand of his hair fell forward, dark over honey-smoke eyes. “Yeah? You sounded like that hurt, just now.”
“Oh…maybe. A bit. But in agoodway. Very good. Come lie down with me?”
Sam tossed the towel away promptly, and did: pulling Leo into his arms, legs falling naturally together, kisses brushed to the corner of Leo’s eye, his nose, his mouth. “Might’ve got a little carried away, there. At the end.”
“Mmm. I enjoyed it. You were right about me.”
“Was I?” Sam ran fingers through Leo’s hair, leisurely, comforting. “About what?”
“Me appreciating sensation. Intensity. I like you doing things to me, I think.”
“I like me doing things to you too.”
Leo poked toes at Sam’s ankle, but not hard, because his toes were full of contentment. “You know what I mean.”
“I do. You like being kind of overwhelmed by it. When it’s almost too much, but that’s what you want.” Sam traced a fingertip along the line of Leo’s throat. “You want everything wonderful. All the sensations.”
“I sound terribly extravagant.”
“No.”
“Self-indulgent?”
“No. Leo, the way you look when you’re happy…the way you dive right in, like you could never be scared, like you trust me to make you feel good…” Sam swallowed. His eyes were heartbreakingly golden: open, honest, raw with emotion. “I’ve never wanted anything as much as this. Seeing you like that. Hoping I can get you to look that way again. It’s been, what, a couple weeks since we met?—and I’m here and you’re here and all I can think about is how much I love seeing you happy. And how damn lucky I am.”
His voice was quiet; the afternoon was quiet too, sun-laced, poignant, clear as exhilarated white bed-sheets and palm trees and the weight of his hand over Leo’s naked skin. Sincerity laced his touch, and the world.
A different person, a role or character, might’ve had more eloquent words. Leo, being cuddled by Sam and therefore foggy with pink-hued satisfaction, protested, “But you’re exactly the person who makes me happy!” and then, “Hang on, you…love…seeing me happy, you said.”
And then he winced. Tact. Not one of his qualities. But. Love. Sam’d said love.
“Yeah, I…” Sam had heard it too. Hesitated. Took a breath. Went ahead. “I do, Leo. I mean…it’s way too soon, it’s all too fast, I know, I’m not gonna come out and say it and make things weird, but…”
“But you’re thinking it,” Leo said. “Er…that is…youarethinking the words I’m thinking, right?”
Sam’s eyes met his. Held them. And joy spread like midsummer fireworks: bright and billowing. “You’re thinking it too?”
“As you said, it’s all a bit fast and we should be mature about it and also you’re literally the first man I’ve ever slept with and…and never mind all that,” Leo told him, “because yes. I keep thinking of you—of things I want to say to you, or to tell you, and I feel like I can say anything even if it’s ridiculous, and then I feel like I can maybe be the person you think I am, someone who’s thoughtful and brave and kind and all those other adjectives, because you look at me like that and you touch me like that, and I feel soright, you feel so right, and I—well, yes. I love…er, seahorses. And snow globes. And this bed.”
He also ran a hand over Sam’s chest on the word. Making it clear: Sam, at the moment,wasmore or less being his bed.
“Youareall those things,” Sam said, loyal and quick andloving; and rolled him over into pillowy bedding and settled on top, letting Leo feel his weight and luxuriate in it. “You’re fucking perfect, Leo Whyte.”
“And perfect to fuck?” Leo asked hopefully. He was fairly worn out, but he’d be up for a round two, given some recovery time. “You did once say we were excellent in bed, together.”
“And perfect to fuck.” Sam dropped a kiss on his nose. “Though not yet, again, okay?”
