Summer Sons(97)
“Me too,” Irene laughed breathily.
“Wait,” Andrew grunted. She paused when he pushed at her legs.
“You okay?” she asked as she lifted her body off of him—furrowed brow, kiss-wet mouth glistening.
“No, let me up,” he managed, pitch cracking with panic.
“Hey,” Sam said. Irene scooted onto the couch arm. Andrew stumbled to his feet, banging his shin on the coffee table and tripping over Sam’s legs. The memory of Sam’s grip tingled across his scalp as he grabbed the banister and mounted the stairs in a frantic bid to get away.
From the living room, Sam said, “I gotta handle this—sorry, dude.”
With no small measure of irritation, Irene replied, “No worries, but maybe ask him beforehand next time. Call me, or whatever.”
Two bounding footsteps thumped the hardwood behind him and a hand caught his wrist, lurching them to a stop in the stairwell. Andrew snapped his arm to the side to yank loose from the grip. Momentum and desperation collided, along with their knees. Sam crowded him into the corner of the landing, his concerned, breathless expression half in shadow, lit by the small window onto the side alley. The kitchen door slammed. Cinders of need burned savage at the base of Andrew’s throat, where Sam had spoken to his skin, glanced against him with his lips. The hand on his wrist slid up his forearm, past the tattoo, to settle around his bicep.
“What’s wrong,” Sam demanded, hoarse. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
Andrew lay his forehead on Sam’s collarbone. Sam went still, his breath stirring the hair over Andrew’s ear. The solid, undeniable strength caging Andrew against the wall provoked a stunning hunger, and his shirt smelled good, smelled right. Andrew arced against the wall to shove his whole body onto Sam’s, sinking his teeth with moderate force and immense desire into the join of his neck and shoulder. The reaction was instant: a thigh forced between his legs, Sam’s startled grunt in his ear. Firm muscle filled his mouth as he clamped his jaw and moaned at the taste, salt and skin. Sam grabbed the longer hair at the crown of his head and pulled; the burn raced across his scalp. Andrew ran his tongue-tip over the divots his teeth had left, the other man shifting restlessly against him from head to toe. Nothing from the past, here, no steps to retread—the fresh lightness of that almost made him laugh, but instead he gripped Sam’s outside leg and slotted their bodies together. The unmistakable swell of dick pressed at the vulnerable notch of his hip and, before he had the chance to second-guess the fire burning at the pit of his spine, he reached between them to grab hold through rough denim. One careful stroking squeeze mapped the width at the base, partway to hard, filling his palm full.
Andrew smothered a reflexive groan in Sam’s T-shirt. That, too, felt good.
“Holy shit,” Sam whispered against the side of his head. His sneakers chirped on the wood as he moved into a better angle. “Fuck, Andrew.”
Sam bent his knees and hitched Andrew’s leg to the side to grind against him. The maneuver compressed Andrew’s hand, wrist bent at an angle and knuckles bruising his own hip bone. Sam’s shoulder clipped his chin. He tasted blood from his own pinched tongue. They struggled together, rough-edged, with the explosive purpose of a race or a fistfight. Sam worked his hand past Andrew’s belt and underwear. His calloused palm and sticky, dry grip were more than enough after so long untouched, and for the first time, like this. Andrew lost himself, frantic gasping in the stairwell, fucking without finesse into the tight hole Sam made with his fingers. As he came he caught Sam’s bottom lip between his teeth, moaning. The small cruelty melded into a sloppy kiss. Stubble scraped his philtrum. Sam made a voluptuous, aching sound into his mouth. The inside of his head rang clean and clear with shocked delight. Sam dragged his hand out of Andrew’s jeans, smeared with his come, and the sight of that glistening mess made his dick twitch again in his tacky briefs.
“More, get to the bed,” Andrew demanded, high on the rush.
Sam steered them to Riley’s door with a ghost of a laugh. A cramp of guilt twisted inside Andrew then disappeared quick as it came. He wasn’t going to do this in Eddie’s bed, and even his own bedroom was a gift from Eddie. The release that cracked his sternum was a consummation of a long-held urge, but not a replacement for anything. He hadn’t known how bad he’d wanted this, before, but—he guessed he had. Sam was alight with matched, devastating need under the moonlight streaming through the windows. He stripped the comforter from the bed and pulled his shirt off behind his head, one-handed. The developed muscles of his chest and stomach, cushioned by a layer of inviting softness, drew Andrew closer, desperate to touch without restraint. He planted a damp palm over the dusting of hair on Sam’s belly, breath shallow.
“Made you come in your pants like a teenager,” Sam said.
Andrew grabbed his ass, digging his thumbs into the swell of muscle at the top of Sam’s glutes, then said, “Shut up, Halse.”
The second time he kissed a man, he meant to do it, reeling Sam in with the grip on his ass and catching his thin lips. The arm that went around his waist forced him onto his toes, a bear hug that made him feel scared and turned the fuck on—something about the rarity of being smaller, though not by much. The pair toppled onto the bed, Sam rolling him onto the bottom of their clinch like he had in the woods and manhandling him out of his shirt, undoing his belt.