Not now. For now, they could forget the past—up to and including this afternoon—and the future, and just be.
He reached out of the shower and grabbed a towel off the heated rack. He folded it a couple times, then dropped it into the water draining off their bodies. He knelt on it, felt Brandon’s resistance, a scrabbling of his fingers as if to pull Frank up again, but Frank ignored it, instead licking along Brandon’s cock, root to tip, before he took it into his mouth. He’d always loved doing this, part taking control, part giving it up completely, especially when his partners invariably ended up fucking him in this position.
He took Brandon’s balls in his hand, squeezed them in his palm, skirting the edge of pain, and Brandon cursed softly but didn’t protest. Frank remembered too well that Brandon liked a little pain, and he was going to make it good, give him everything he had, even that little edge.
Brandon’s fingers dug into his hair at that, the man trembling with the strain of staying still, legs braced, but that was exactly what Frank had counted on. He used his other hand to rub along Brandon’s dam, pressed just right, exactly where he liked it, and felt Brandon dig his fingers in harder.
Frank would have grinned if he could’ve. He slid along the curve of Brandon’s arse, between his cheeks, and rubbed a couple fingers over his opening. Brandon groaned, opened his legs wider, which was all the permission Frank needed. Brandon’s skin was wet enough to allow him to work a finger into him, the tip first, and when no protest came, he withdrew and pushed a little more, doing his best to do two things at the same time: sucking on Brandon’s tip and gently finger-fucking him, rubbing across his prostate with every movement, slowly wrestling control from Brandon as he moved forwards, deeper into Frank’s mouth and then into his throat, and right then it was perfect, fucking and being fucked at the same time, claiming and taking, control just about evenly split.
Frank pushed a second finger in, worked harder and faster against Brandon’s groaning, shuddering body, resentful that he couldn’t—wouldn’t—fuck him, but he could imagine it, could imagine their limbs tangled and feeling him this tight, this turned on, against and around him. Imagined these sounds, their hands entwined as part of the fuck would always be struggle, strain, power against power. He pushed harder, took every inch he could get, and was nearly dizzy with the lack of air when Brandon came in his throat. He pulled back because he had to, swallowed, managed to catch a couple short, hectic breaths through his nose as he freed his fingers and finished himself off while Brandon, still shaking and panting, steadied himself against the tiles.
Frank rose, his own legs not completely steady, and before he was even fully upright, Brandon pulled him into his arms. They were more eager now than earlier, but still gentle, enjoying another kiss for its own sake.
When their mouths finally separated, Frank expected Brandon to say something, or make eye contact, or suggest they finish getting cleaned up. The last thing in the world he expected, though, was for Brandon to wrap his arms around him, tuck his head under Frank’s chin, and just hold on. Frank closed his eyes and returned the embrace, stroking Brandon’s wet hair.
He kissed the top of Brandon’s head.
Remember what it felt like to love someone so much it hurt?
Yeah. That.
Brandon had brought a change of clothes with him, and now leaned against the counter in Frank’s kitchen wearing nothing but a pair of black track pants and socks, completely relaxed, no sign of the rage that had had him ready to beat Chris to a pulp earlier.
Frank, dressed equally casual but with the addition of a faded T-shirt, pulled some of Emily’s leftovers out of the fridge. “Are you feeling better? About earlier, I mean?”
Brandon shrugged. “I’ll live. Might have a few words for Chris next time I see him, but nothing that’ll result in a felony.”
Frank chuckled. “That’s promising.” He began to unwrap a plastic box. “Sorry your paintball day ended up ruined, though.”
“It happens.” Brandon smiled. “The day wasn’t a total loss, though. I can’t complain.”
That sentiment reverberated through Frank. Anyone else would have been dragging and depressed for the rest of the night after the altercation on the field coupled with the difficult conversation in the car. Maybe Brandon would chew on it later and deal with whatever emotional fallout came along, or maybe he really had moved on already. Water off a duck’s back.
Brandon rested his arms on the kitchen island. “What about you?”
“Me?” Frank glanced up from putting the olive and sausage creation onto some of the ciabatta bread Emily had left. “I was worried about you. You had a lot thrown at you today.” And I probably salted that wound nicely on the way home.