Page 87 of Give Me What You Will

Sam was close. He could tell as he thrusted down onto his tongue, wildly stroking himself, and Frankie wanted more.

More. More. More.

He hauled Sam upward by the hips, lifting him momentarily off his own throbbing cock, and opened his mouth, listening to Sam’s rapturous moaning sigh, as his brilliant green eyes watched Frankie slip his veined cock past his lips.

Sam speared deeper into his throat, and Frankie took it, all of it, without gagging.

“Jesus,” Sam breathed heavily, eyes on him, pumping into his mouth. Saliva smeared messily all over Frankie’s face, and he didn’t fucking care. He liked pleasing him. He’d do anything to please him—always—forever.

And Sam knew this. He licked him lazily. He tongued lightly over the tip of his best friend’s swollen cock as he fed him. “You’re good at sucking my cock, Frank. So fucking good.”

Frankie’s tip leaked, already on the verge of spurting.

“Take your Superman’s dick down your throat like a good boy.”

His whimper was immediately muffled by Sam’s dick stuffing his mouth. All the saliva in his mouth had built up forcing him to swallow, and Sam let out a stream of praises, his cock being squeezed by the muscles of his throat.

Sam, in that instant, smashed his hips down. Frankie’s nose was shoved into thick pubic hair, and he listened to the telling cry, feeling Sam’s body jerk and seize, unleashing a torrent of cum. He felt it pulsate down his throat, and he clenched his abs and ass, trying not to cum himself, but it was too late. All Sam was doing was tonguing his slit and holding his shaft; he wasn’t even pumping—but it didn’t matter. Feeling Sam unravel was his undoing.

They both climaxed and, for the briefest few seconds, he saw a kaleidoscope of color and stars. Wondering if it was from the lack of air or the second orgasm, he felt Sam lift off him. He took in a deep breath, smelling his best friend’s male musk and tasting his salty cum on his tongue, practically licking his lips at the flavor he was starting to be obsessed with.

Panting and grinning, he grabbed Sam before he could slide completely off him, turning him, cradling him in his lap and kissing the side of his neck, loving how fast his pulse was racing.

“Fuck, how are you so good at that?” Frankie murmured against his throat. “You know exactly what buttons of mine to push.”

“Years of experience,” Sam said with a sly smile and telling blush. “Granted, I just figured out that your pleasing me button is way bigger than I initially thought.”

“Me too,” he bit playfully at his earlobe. “Take a shower with me. And maybe if I’m lucky, you’ll push that button in the jacuzzi tub.”

Sam sighed dreamily and nodded.

Chapter 15

After their shower, they managed to squeeze into the tub, and to Sam’s agonizing delight, he was wrapped in Frankie’s arms the entire time. His heavy muscular arms engulfed him, his chest pressed against his back as they spooned for what felt like an hour in his tub.

He never anticipated that his one and only weekend in paradise with Frankie would feel this—relaxed.

And as he floated in Frankie’s arms, his thighs caging him, the warm water lapping at his nipples, he felt his best friend reach between his legs and lazily stroke his cock.

Sam, utterly limp from the orgasms earlier and now languishing in the bath, relaxed further into Frankie’s broad chest and let him touch him. This seemed to please Frankie incredibly, as he roughly kissed his shoulder, sucking on the skin and biting as though he couldn’t get enough of this—of them—and Sam ached, loving the pain and the pleasure. Frankie hummed encouragingly, before eventually pleading for him to cum, to fuck his fist and find his nirvana.

For the third time that day, Sam did.

He shattered into a million pieces, all at once and with a brilliance that stunned him.

Frankie was there, praising him and affectionately touching his body, not demanding to be taken care of, which he clearly needed, with his dick digging into Sam’s back. When he turned to touch him, Frankie batted his hand away, drained the water, and toweled him off. Every time Sam attempted to do something for himself, Frankie was there, doing it for him.

Without a word, Frankie took Sam into the bedroom, and he collapsed onto the bed, exhausted. He waited to feel the weight of Frankie join him on the bed, but before he did, he was asleep. The weeks of overtime, double shifts, and uncertainty of his friendship with Frankie had drained him more than he had realized.

He woke to an empty bed and to the dimming sunlight streaming through his bedroom curtains. Surprised, Sam shoved on a pair of sweatpants and was about to shove on his T-shirt from earlier when he caught sight of himself in the mirror above his bedside table. He froze, seeing the red bruising hickeys along his shoulder and neck. Pleasure zapped like a hot poker in his belly and he bit his lower lip, already feeling himself get excited as he turned, pulling down his sweatpants and nearly laughing at the bruised finger marks Frankie had left on his cheeks from aggressively and ruthlessly eating his ass. Flushed, he wondered where else he was marked when he heard the telling sounds of a UFC fight playing on his TV in the living room. He pulled on his shirt, walked down the hallway, and was greeted by the smell of fresh pizza.

His stomach rumbled on cue.

Frankie was sitting on his couch, a beer in hand and a picture in the other. Papi’s box was open on the coffee table. Photo albums and letters were stacked beside it.

Sam glanced at the photo in Frankie’s hand and smiled.

It was the picture that Papi had framed on his bedside—the one he had coveted until the very end. It was Papi and Jack Russo, their arms around each other in the jungle, beaming with happiness despite being at war. So young and alive.