Page 52 of Give Me What You Will

Frankie seemed intent on talking to every single person in the room, joyously cheering and booing with each pre-fight. And the asshole just had to look good doing it. Dressed in a tight black T-shirt that curved to every line and muscle of his chest, with a thick gold chain around his neck. The tattoos on his left arm were darkly lined and richly detailed in the arena's flickering lights. His black hair was tossed back. His black slacks were pressed, with his freshly polished Italian leather shoes. His whole outfit screamed sex.

Hot, dirty, throat-pounding sex.

Frankie had always been a stylish man, and tonight, given the opportunity to dress up, he did. And Sam… ached.

He ached like a needy fucking schoolboy, desperate for his crush's attention, knowing deep down he wasn’t going to get it. Not in the way he wanted. It didn’t matter what happened the last few days—the kisses, the heated looks, the dirty talk, the blow jobs—none of it mattered. Frankie was determined to run the course of ‘friendship’ and ‘straight’, even though they both knew what they had done.

And Frankie had lost control with him today. Fucking his throat so deeply that Sam’s throat was a little sore, and he noticed it whenever he spoke or swallowed, feeling Frankie's cock and the fierce grip at the back of his head. He hated how much he liked feeling this used.

It was the sexiest cock suck of his life, and he had been the one getting to do it—the one hearing Frankie’s panting moans and breathy whispers of encouragement as he swallowed his fat, thick cock. He nearly came in his pants when he finally touched his own dick, but what Frankie had done had him breaking endlessly—forever in his mouth, even though he barely sucked, teasing him. And Sam loved every second of it.

Fuck.

I’m so pathetic.

I just need to go home and stop torturing myself.

Sam feared that Frankie would never admit to being bisexual. His dad shamed homosexuals and the queer community around him his entire life. He was literally hardwired to think these things. Except Frankie had accepted Sam from day one and had loved him as his best friend. But he couldn’t be one—gay or bi. It was one thing to accept a friend, and something else entirely to accept oneself.

He pushed his fingers into his eyes.

Right, so how come Frankie kissed him like that? And the way he looked at him right before that fucking kiss. So unsure, almost scared, so unlike the cocky, arrogant man he knew.

Sam swallowed, emotions rising in his chest that he had no right to be feeling. He liked that side of Frankie too much. The raw vulnerability of him—the softness of him.

Stop.

Frankie was exploring. That’s it. Just having a little fun at the expense of Sam’s sanity. And he couldn’t stop Frankie if he fucking tried, because the truth was, he’d let him do whatever the hell he wanted to him and thank him for it afterward.

He scrubbed a hand over his temple, debating if he should just leave. Go back home and try to forget this weekend like he tried to forget the kiss at Papi’s funeral. Maybe it was safer this way.

Sighing, he glanced down at the busy bar where he sat and noted the bartender was preoccupied. He needed another drink, and then maybe he’d have the courage to leave.

“Hey,” a deep voice said over his shoulder. He turned, not recognizing the face of the man in a slick designer suit with compelling bright brown eyes. He looked around Ryan’s age, with a bruise under his eye, tousled dark blond hair, and no shirt under his black blazer, showing off his defined, muscular chest and smooth, bronze skin.

“Hey,” he replied, eyeing the younger man curiously.

“You’re Sammy, right?”

“I am.”

“Sorry, I’m Caz, uh—Ryan told me about you.” Caz extended his hand to him, looking somewhat nervous despite his rockstar-like attire. “Ryan told me a lot about you, actually.”

Sam paused, realizing in a sudden rush of clarity that Caz was like him. He saw it in the telling way his eyes dipped over his body, almost appreciative and excited.

Slightly impressed by Ryan’s attempt at a setup, he smiled and shook Caz’s well-calloused hand. “Nice to meet you. Caz?” he asked questioningly.

“Short for Cassidy.” He smirked in a boyishly handsome way. The lines around his eyes crinkled, reminding him of his best friend in LA, Dr. John Donnelly. “Ryan left out how handsome you are. Straight men tend to do that when describing other guys.”

He smiled, agreeing with that statement. “Thanks.”

“Can I buy you a drink?”

Sam resisted the urge to search for Frankie and instead nodded, “Sure.”

The moment Caz reached the bar, the bartender spotted him and immediately approached him. The privileges of being a known fighter, Sam assumed. The average Joe didn’t dress like that and sport a black eye without being a fighter. Hazards of the job.

“What can I get ya?” the bartender asked.