Chapter 2 After-party

The where in question turned out to be behind the theater: an alleyway currently being lurked in by a sleek black means of star-conveyance. Leo Whyte, jacket removed, stood there leaning on the open back door like a moment out of classic Hollywood: glamorous good looks, chiseled cheekbones, rolled up sleeves and studied casual pose.

Sam wanted to kiss him. Sam wanted to unbutton that springtime-pink shirt and find out how Leo looked, felt, tasted, all over. Sam wanted—

So much. More than he should. More than he deserved.

Leo smiled at him, playing up the moment like a shot on a film set, and swept a dramatic hand at the limo. “My turn to abduct you, isn’t it?”

“It’s not a kidnapping if I’m willing.” A step closer. Two. More. Somewhere in those steps he’d made a decision. This night, like his previous night with Leo, was a mirage, an illusion, an enchantment out of one of those romance-fantasy novels his sisters loved; he could have the dream because it wasn’t real. He could play along. Could pretend he belonged right here.

He touched Leo’s hand, where it dangled against a polished car door. The less polished real-life back wall of a theater watched over them. The night was cool and crisp, and the ground was hard under his feet. “You were wonderful. Your movie.”

“Of course I was,” Leo said lightly, though his fingers brushed Sam’s and curled around and held on briefly. “I did think I’d seen you in the crowd before we all went in. I hoped I had.”

Straight to the point, unflinching; that was Leo, Sam thought. And the thought made him smile: Leo would say exactly what was on his mind, no disguise or deception, and would take the world’s reaction for what it was, whether that meant amusement or dismissal or appreciation.

He got into the limo. He had not, in fact, ever been in a limousine before, and said so. Might as well. Honesty for honesty, in this magic spell.

Leo raised eyebrows at him. A bottle of champagne appeared from nowhere, as did two glasses. “Then we’re celebrating. So many firsts. Yours and mine. If you’d like to ride around for a bit I can have the driver take us anywhere. By which I mean anywhere in London. Under the sea might be a bit more complicated.”

Sam laughed. Bubbles slid over his tongue, into his chest, into his heart.

“We’re going to my place,” Leo said, watching him. “If that’s all right.”

“Your place?”

“Unless you’d rather not?”

“No, I meant…of course you live here. London.” You want me at your place, he did not say. You trust me to see where you live, to come home with you.

He downed another gulp of champagne. Noticed that the sleeves of his rented suit were far too large.

Leo’s suit fit beautifully. Tailored for him, of course.

Leo hadn’t expressed astonishment about Sam never having ridden in a limousine. Hadn’t made a joke about that. Had talked about this being a first for them both.

“Of course I live here,” Leo said. “It’s where we grow half the British acting talent. Sometimes they let us escape to Los Angeles or Vancouver if we’re well behaved. More seriously, though, I like living here. I’m only about ten minutes’ walk from my parents, which sounds dreadful but honestly is marvelous, because my parents are also marvelous. Which is where I get it, naturally. You did say you liked Steadfast ?”

“I did.” Sam set down the champagne. Reached out and found Leo’s hands, both of them. Natural. Simple. As if his hands had been made for this. “So much. The detail, the scenery—Will’s library, I mean, wow—and the emotion. Like I was right there feeling everything with them. The whole story.” Leo’s fingers were long and graceful, and wove into Sam’s in fascinating ways.

“Yes.” Leo looked at their fingers too. “Colby and Jason are so very good, and Jill’s one of the most intuitive directors I’ve ever worked with, and then Colby’s script is brilliant, as well. I imagine there’ll be some awards on the horizon.”

“They’re good,” Sam said, “but they have everyone behind them, too. That world-building. Every character—I cared about Lord Cary, and about Percival Crawford, even if he is awful to Will, and about you. Edward. I honestly thought you might die in that storm sequence—and when the ship went down—and I hated thinking that, because you were so important, you’re Stephen’s friend and right hand, and you needed a happy ending too, and I think I said thank God, out loud, when you were alive at the end.”

This sentence came out rambling, disjointed, inelegant; but he meant every word. Leo began smiling even more, at the first part, and did not stop.

“It’s an important movie,” Sam said, and probably he was saying too much now, words erupting messily all over the place, but he wanted to see that smile keep happening. “Seeing our stories—our history—up on a big screen, with a happy ending…that matters so much. And you got to bring it to life.”

Leo’s pleasure danced in those hazel eyes, fireflies among forest groves. And he leaned forward and in and his lips found Sam’s in a kiss.

Leo Whyte really didn’t hold back, Sam managed to think dazedly; but then he was kissing Leo and discovering a clumsy near-lapful of Leo, bodies pressed together in the back seat of the limousine, heated and firm and ecstatic. That became Sam’s whole world: the eager explorations of Leo’s mouth meeting his, Leo’s tongue teasing his, Leo’s body—and, God, that body, lean and flexible and enthusiastic—under his hands, against him, all motion and excitement.

He touched Leo everywhere, the way he’d wanted to: hands learning the planes of that gym-honed back under a shirt that skimmed fingers like silk—he’d bet it was—and then venturing lower, to the tempting perky curve of Leo’s ass, which beckoned further playing. Leo’s eyes went even wider, mid-kiss, but he only paused long enough to grin and then nip deliberately at Sam’s lower lip.

“Oh really,” Sam murmured, entertained, and ran a hand along Leo’s thigh: learning how Leo squirmed and arched into the touch. “You like me touching you.”

Leo paused again to sparkle at him. “I’m beginning to suspect I do, yes.” His hair stood up, teased out of the red-carpet smooth wave. Sam’s fingers had done that. Sam’s mouth had left that mobile English one all pink and newly kissed.

“I want you to come home with me,” Leo said. “To celebrate my premiere. To be here. With me.”

“I want to.” He had a hand on Leo’s hip, over expensive suit-fabric. He was rubbing a thumb over that spot, the suit and the taut muscle beneath. He couldn’t help it. “But I just…I mean, are you sure?” He managed a steadying breath, and clarified, “You could be…should you be appearing at…after-parties, parties with friends, anything you want…anyone…publicity…”

“I want to be here.” Leo put out a hand and touched Sam’s chest, curious; Sam’s chest ached sweetly in that spot. “I know I’ve never done this, but I do like you touching me and I like the way I feel. With you. Unless you’re planning to kiss me and call me a cab and run away again.”

“I did not,” Sam said, ruffled, “run away—I was giving you space, a choice, something better than—”

“I’ve decided I’d quite like to try out this whole sex with a man concept,” Leo said, “and I want to try it with you.”

Sam, silenced by this, couldn’t reply.

He could put hands in Leo’s hair and tug them into another kiss, so he did. The kiss became soft and incredulous, because he couldn’t believe it. All that courage. That fearlessness. That faith in him. In him . Sam.

He shook his head in minor disbelief, laughing; and stroked a fingertip over Leo’s cheek because he could.

* * * *

Leo, whose cheek was presently discovering how much it liked being caressed by Sam’s fingers, attempted to ask, “Was that a no?” His voice emerged breathy and low, laced with audible desire; he was fairly certain that Sam was on board with the plan, given all the touches and the evident bulge in that not-quite-fitted suit, but then that had been a headshake, so he thought he ought to make certain. “You are free to say no, I realize I’ve rather sprung this on you and you only just came to see a movie and take some red-carpet photographs—you did get some, didn’t you? I can pose here in the limo for a few moderately scandalous ones if they’d be of use.”

“Leo.” Sam put both hands on his face this time: cupping Leo’s cheeks, stilling him, steadying him. Rather mortifyingly, this sensation—being held and soothed by Sam—went straight to Leo’s cock, which grew if possible even stiffer, trapped by his suit and quiveringly sensitive.

“Leo,” Sam said again. In that deep voice Leo’s name became chocolate, rich and molten, swirled long and lazy over tongues. “I love your movie, and, yeah, I did take some pictures. But that’s not really why I’m here. I’m here for you.”

“Because I practically dared you to come to—”

“Because I want to be here. Because it’s important to you—because you’re important.” Sam searched his eyes, and must’ve seen the crack at the core of Leo’s heart, because the words got repeated, slow and firm: “You’re important, Leo Whyte. I’ll tell you again if you want. You matter. In your movie. And here. With me.”

“Of course I’m important,” Leo announced. Bridges over chasms. Graceful and laced with ribbons, to hide any missing steps along the way. “I’m a gift to the world. And to kittens everywhere. So that’s not a no about the sex, then?”

“I remember you organizing that kitten adoption.” Sam ran a hand over Leo’s head: petting, perhaps reminded by the kittens. Leo’s head liked this as well. “It’s a hell yes about the sex. But only if you want to. If you’re ready. You don’t have to.”

“Ah. I know I don’t have to. I want to.”

“Then…if you really are sure…” The grin lit up all the little treasure-bits in Sam’s layered brown gaze. “Then I’m honored. That you’d pick me. For your first, what was it you said, trying out the sex with a man concept? Now I’m wondering what a man concept is, by the way.”

“The concept of a man? Probably shaped quite a lot like you.” He poked Sam’s chest again, interested. The limo made a turn; not too far now, Leo estimated. Home. And his bed. And Sam in it. He’d made up his mind about that, and he wanted it. He had not thought much beyond that—what this meant as far as being definitely not straight, or the implications of bringing a journalist home—but he was used to not overthinking; he was himself, and he wanted things, and he wanted this. “You’ll have to give me a few pointers, but I take direction well and I’m not easily offended by corrections.”

Sam began laughing again.

“Well, I’m not,” Leo pointed out. “Though I am offended by blueberries. They know what they did.”

“Not being actually blue?”

“Exactly. Purple-hued liars.” Sam hadn’t given him a quizzical look or said I have no idea what goes on inside your head or leapt bodily out of the limo. Leo’s heart, unused to this, did a little cartwheel inside his chest. “I’m also allergic to kiwi fruit. Just for the record.”

“Well, damn,” Sam said. “There go my sex plans for you.”

More cartwheels. Somersaults. Acrobatics all over the place. “I’m certain you can improvise. I think I’ve got bananas.”

Sam looked pointedly at Leo’s trousers. “At least one.”

“Oh my God,” Leo said, “that’s a me joke. I mean it’s something I’d’ve said. I mean you’re perfect and I—” Shocked, he hauled back the words. I love you? On a second meeting, in a limo, in the middle of a discussion about sex and fruit allergies? No. Dear God, no.

But the words, having enjoyed themselves on the tip of his tongue, refused to go away. They hung out in his head and orbited around the periphery, fizzing like the London night.

“I figured you’d appreciate it,” Sam said, not pushing for the unspoken words. “Both the joke and the banana. Are we here?” They were. The limo had stopped. The partition went down. The driver—a cheerful curly-haired woman with dangling star-shaped earrings that Leo rather wanted to play with—turned around and said, “Here you go, Mr. Whyte! Have fun!”

“Thank you,” Leo told her, still a bit dazed by his own emotions. Sam, as they emerged, stuck an arm back into the limo and retrieved Leo’s jacket, which both Leo and the jacket were grateful for; and then stopped, looking up at the house. “Nice.”

“It is.” Leo found keys, unlocked the barricade of front gate, held out a hand: wanting Sam to come in, wanting Sam to touch him more places. The house stood up in front of them and beamed in Victorian brickwork and white trim, old bones full of energy. It wasn’t large, but it was his, and he liked the neighborhood: fashionable enough that he had some fellow actors and football players as neighbors, not quite cutting-edge enough for trendy clamorous nightclubs or thumping music, close enough to his parents that he could pop by for tea or advice. “And now you’ve seen it.”

“And now I’ve seen it.” Sam trailed him up steps, through the door, into the small hallway, and out into the openness of the kitchen and entertainment space. “You trust me with this. Where you live.”

“To be fair, it’s not difficult to find out. The first time we organized that big global scavenger hunt with fans, for charity, I accidentally included part of my address in the announcement video.” Leo took a step into the kitchen and considered a teakettle, a bottle of whiskey, the refrigerator. None of these seemed to know proper etiquette for seducing a man, either. “Would you like anything? Tea, a drink, a sandwich—we are missing the after-party—toast and some sort of, er, fancy jalape?o jam?”

“Really?” Sam turned. Framed by Leo’s sitting room, with the deep blue accent wall and color-changing sequin-covered throw pillows, he might’ve looked out of place—a rumpled American in a too-large suit—but instead set Leo’s jacket on a chair with a lot of care, and instantly belonged. “Whatever you want, I said. Though maybe not the jam.”

“Right, yes…”

“Are you nervous about this?” Sam’s hand, reaching over the countertop to cradle Leo’s, felt warm and firm again, the way Sam’s touch always seemed to. “We don’t have to. You don’t have to.”

“No,” Leo said, stubborn and certain. “I want to. I’ve only never done this before.”

“Neither have I, so we’re even?”

“Of course you have, and you’re not shy about it, you even asked me out—”

“I’ve picked up guys before.” Sam’s thumb made small circles around the inside of Leo’s wrist; Leo, entranced, felt his heartbeat calm. “I’ve gone home with guys before. But not like this. Not with you. Is that a couch pillow shaped like a fish? Covered in sequins?”

“I bought it because I like it,” Leo said. The way he tended to think: instinctive, impulsive, leaping in. Maybe Sam didn’t like that. Maybe Sam didn’t like whimsy. Or fish. Or sequins. “Of course you’ve never come home with me. I think I’d remember. Plus, gay sex virgin, you do recall. Though ideally not for much longer, assuming you’ve still got plans for me.”

“So many plans. I like your pillows. And that wall color. You didn’t hire a designer, did you? It’s all you.”

True, but how’d Sam guessed? “True. How did you—”

“It feels like you. And you’re good at colors. It’s bright, yeah, especially the couch, but they all go together.”

Sam was looking at him with complete seriousness, gravely complimenting Leo’s rust-orange sofa and piscine design choices, holding his hand; Leo flung himself around the corner of the counter and threw both arms around Sam and tackled Sam’s mouth with his. Into the kiss, demanded, “Show me all your gay sex plans for me. Now.”

Sam was laughing, holding onto him, kissing back: tongue teasing Leo’s mouth, hands roaming all along Leo’s body. Leo’s whole body thrilled to the exploration. “So liking your couch is a turn-on, huh? I like the chair, too, with the stripes.”

“We could have sex in it,” Leo encouraged. Arousal built and pooled in his stomach, in the weight of his cock and balls, which liked that idea.

“I’m not going to make your first time happen in a chair!” Sam nuzzled a kiss into the spot below Leo’s jaw; the scrape of stubble plus the tenderness made Leo’s knees nearly fold. He’d kissed people and been kissed before; this was different. This was Sam, undeniably masculine and strong and experienced; part of Leo’s brain was astonished at himself and how right this felt, and the rest was jumping up and down and shouting that it did feel right, Sam felt right, and more of all that rightness would be excellent in the very near future, please.

Sam’s hands were untucking his shirt, sneaking under, finding bare skin. Leo might’ve whimpered.

Sam pulled him closer, hips rocking into his. This time Leo gasped because the friction was glorious, their bodies and desires colliding and grinding against each other. Sam trailed fiery kisses along his throat, and inquired, “Where’s your bedroom? And…you’ve got supplies, right?”

“Supplies…oh, yes. I have had sex before. With other people. With myself. With toys.”

“Might need to show me some of those, later.” Sam ran a hand over Leo’s hip, flirting with the waist of his trousers, then sliding between them. And gliding, torturously slow, over the line of Leo’s cock. “You like me touching you like this?”

Leo made a sound he’d not known he could make, inarticulate and pleading. His cock pulsed; the tip grew wet, he could feel it, and he knew he’d be getting it all over his suit, messy smears of desire staining expensive fabric, under Sam’s hand. The thought made him arch his hips into the caress, helplessly; he did not know why the idea felt so good, making a mess of himself as Sam teased him, but he craved more.

Sam stroked him again, then lifted the hand. Leo wobbled in place.

“Bedroom?”

“Oh…yes…right…” Stairs. His house had them. He and Sam tumbled up them in a tangle of bodies and hands and heat. The door swung partially open; Leo’s foot hit it, which might’ve hurt but didn’t because Sam was kissing him and unbuttoning his shirt and baring his skin, and Leo was touching too, hands wandering over Sam’s arms and chest and hips because he couldn’t not, fascinated and needing and wanting it all.

Sam backed him up toward the bed. Peeled away Leo’s shirt. “God. Look at you.”

“Thank you? I’m not Jason, but I— oh —” Sam had put a hand on his chest. Leo managed, “I like to think I do all right.”

He did go to the gym regularly, plus the random hobbies of any given year, which’d ranged from fencing to waltzing to snorkeling in exotic places. He’d never have the type of body that grew muscle like tree limbs, and he had the sort of paleness that resolutely refused to tan, but he also had decent abs and lean strength he was generally proud of. Sam, on the other hand, had broader shoulders, wider all round, built like oak and sailing-ships and those treasure-chests of gold, meant to last.

Sam had at the moment found Leo’s left nipple with a hand, and was playing, gently: rolling, pinching, tugging. A bedside lamp—Leo’d left the one on the right turned on accidentally, heading to the premiere—spilled amber sun over white floorboards, crimson rug, exposed bodies. “You’re perfect. These’re perfect. Tell me if you like this. Not every guy does, but some people get real into it. How’s this feel?”

“Nice but not terribly more than—oh dear God .” Sam had done…something…with quite a bit more force, and Leo’s entire body suddenly got very confused indeed, hot and throbbing and aflame. Pleasure and a hint of pain streaked outward from his chest. His hands were clutching Sam’s shoulders.

“Ah,” Sam said, with some satisfaction. “Good sound?”

“Do that again!”

“You like things a little rough, then?” Sam did it again, a twist and tug of glittering sharpness. “Good to know.”

“I…I…how did you learn how to do that? I mean, I’ve had people touch them before but…” He tried to look down at his own chest. At the reddened pebble of need where Sam’s fingers remained, casually toying with him. The sight became overwhelming; he shut his eyes, bit a lip. His cock dripped more slickness all over his pants, all over himself. “Please.”

“Please what?” Sam took the hand away. Lifted Leo’s chin. “You want more, or you want to stop?” His own arousal jutted out, tenting trousers, clearly on the side of the former.

“More,” Leo murmured, not backing down. “Show me.”

“Did I say perfect? You are.” Sam swooped in for a kiss. Happiness bubbled up and overflowed, down Leo’s spine, into his toes; he had to laugh, amazed.

Sex with Sam. Sheer fun, along with the scorching heat. Who could’ve guessed?

He put a hand on Sam’s belt, and tugged until it came unfastened. The sprawl of his bed, at his back, cheered him on in low dark wood and a heap of indigo duvet-fluff.

“Yeah.” Sam’s voice was ragged; Leo had done that. “Yeah, go on—”

Leo did. Sam’s suit fell in a clumsy heap to the rug; he’d dealt with his shirt already, and he stood there in simple black boxer shorts, all tanned skin and power and just a hint of chest hair, a light dusting. Leo wanted to put fingers into it, and did; Sam tensed all over.

“Is that all right?”

“More than. Might be over pretty quick, if you keep wanting to try things.” Sam’s grin was crooked, ecstatic, intimate: for Leo, and Leo alone. “The way you touch me, the way you look at me…”

“Like I want you.”

“Like the best thing I’ve ever seen. Leo Whyte.” Sam’s eyes shone the way Leo thought his own heart must be. “Wanting to try this with me. I can’t even—God. How’d you even say yes to me?”

“You came to my premiere. You made a joke about bananas.” He hooked a finger into the waist of Sam’s shorts. “You wore a dreadful suit and kissed me in our limo.”

“It is a dreadful suit,” Sam said, “and this is the best night of my life.”

Leo looked up. The flip comment died on his lips; Sam’s gaze held only truth, sweet as rain on a forest floor.

The moment extended, woven in discarded suit-folds and laced with honesty.

Leo, because he was himself, said, “I’d like to take these off now,” and tugged at Sam’s boxers. “May I?”

“You’re asking? Yeah, of course, go on.” Sam seemed to be about to say something else, but stopped and shook his head. “This is about you. What you want.”

“I want to know,” Leo told him, “everything,” and pulled fabric away, and couldn’t not look.

Sam’s cock was large and thick and curved, with a fatter head than Leo’s own; it was flushed with want, wet-tipped, deeply colored and pushing up. Leo had not thought much about the reality of finding another man’s anatomy physically in front of him, but suddenly he was aware of how very imminent it was. Right there. As it were.

He realized how much he wanted to touch Sam’s length, to find out the heft and firmness and fit of it in his hand.

He even wanted to taste it. To know how it would fit there as well, in his mouth.

He spared a second for some more amazement at himself.

Then again, he’d always liked oral sex with women, both giving and receiving; he was good with his tongue, or so he’d heard, and he loved watching and tasting and listening to a partner fall apart with pleasure. And he knew what he liked, as far as his own cock. So this wouldn’t be much different. In theory.

He put out a hand. Wrapped fingers around Sam’s shaft. Sam groaned.

The length of it felt splendid: hard but velvety, a little wet from all the leaking, hot in Leo’s hand.

He tested a stroke, a pump of his hand up and down. Sam groaned again.

“Good?” Leo inquired, hoping so.

“So much yes. You’re not scared of anything, are you?” Sam dropped a hand atop Leo’s, guiding, adjusting tightness; the next stroke pushed his cock into their combined grip. “Should’ve guessed…you’d jump right in…”

“I like jumping in. How does one know whether one likes something, without trying?” Speaking of trying, he had a thought; he rubbed a thumbtip over Sam’s dripping slit, gathered wetness, lifted his hand. Licked his thumb.

He’d tasted himself once, out of curiosity. This tasted a lot like that, male and musky and maybe a bit sour but in an interesting way, warm and tempting on his tongue. He thought he might like to try it more.

Sam actually swore out loud. More visible need gathered shiny and slick over the head of his cock. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Leo informed him, and knelt, carefully, shirtless and with undone trousers, on the rug at Sam’s feet.

Looking up, he found Sam looking down; Sam’s hand stroked his hair, rested on his head, and Leo got a bit dizzy, except it wasn’t like being dizzy; it was clarity, lightness, brilliance. He needed to be right here. Kneeling for Sam.

His own cock bobbed, stiff and straining. But that felt good as well; he did not need to touch it, not yet. He wanted to make Sam happy; he wanted to learn how it felt to take a man’s cock into his mouth, his throat.

He leaned forward and kissed the tip of Sam’s arousal, feeling the blunt hot weight of it.

Sam said that same word again, shaky, and his fingers tightened in Leo’s hair. “Oh, fuck—God, Leo, you’re so—do that again, with your tongue, just like that—”

Leo did it again, an obliging lick or two. He definitely liked the taste, he decided.

He had a decent idea about what to try, hypothetically speaking; he slid forward, taking more of Sam into his mouth. That felt even better, filling him up, pressing over his tongue.

Sam shuddered all over, and more of that delicious taste landed in Leo’s mouth; Leo, thus encouraged, attempted more, and deeper.

Deeper might be a problem. He choked, coughed, sat back. Took a breath. Wanted to try again. His lips were wet and sticky, and so was his chin.

“Fuck,” Sam whispered, sounding as thoroughly consumed by this as Leo himself felt. “Jesus. Leo—”

“I can try again.” Was that his voice? Rough and used, full of the presence of a man’s cock? “I can do more. I want to.”

“You—oh, fuck. Oh God. Okay. A little…not too much, don’t push…here, just relax, let me…” Sam’s hand guided his head. Up and down, a rhythm. Keeping him from plunging too deep, but setting a steady pace. In and out, fucking Leo’s mouth.

Leo, on both knees with Sam’s hand on his head, felt the knowledge of the moment not like a realization but like a resurfacing, a piece of himself he’d always carried but never known. He liked sucking Sam’s cock. He liked the sensation of his mouth being filled up with it. He wanted to do this more.

His body sang with lightness, with need. He moved a hand, rubbed at his cock through fabric: aimless, not trying for release, but needing to feel something, anything, right where he ached for it.

Sam thrust hard, as if unable to hold back; Leo gagged, choked, trembled in place. His eyes prickled. Sam pulled back abruptly; the hand cupping Leo’s face was an apology. “Sorry. You’re so fucking good, I forgot…you okay?”

Leo nodded. He wasn’t certain he could talk.

“No,” Sam said firmly, “no, come on, you gotta talk to me, okay? I’m not doing anything you don’t say you’re okay with, out loud.”

“I’m fine.” His voice emerged oddly small, not out of any reluctance, simply coming out hushed as the lamplight over the room. “I…I want…I like that. I do like that. This whole…sex with men concept. So far.”

Sam regarded him for a minute, then got hands under Leo’s arms and lifted him back to his feet. “Okay. But I think it’s my turn. Taking care of you.”

“Do you…” He did know the terms; he could use them. “Top? Bottom? Both?”

“I switch. Versatile. Depends on the person, on the mood.” Sam’s hands tenderly and efficiently whisked the rest of Leo’s suit, plus Leo’s clinging briefs, down, while somehow simultaneously shoving bedding out of the way. “Oh, look at you. You did like that, didn’t you? My cock in your pretty mouth?” One fingertip traced Leo’s lower lip; Leo, brimming over with need, closed lips around the finger and sucked.

Sam laughed. And eased him back into the bed. “Tell me where your stuff is.”

“First drawer under the bed…I like your cock in my mouth, yes.”

“Then we’ll do that one again. Later.” Sam popped back up, supplies in hand. “You buy good stuff. And a lot of it.”

“No reason not to,” Leo pointed out, mildly offended by the implication that he wouldn’t be as hedonistic as possible. “I assume you found all the varieties of lube.”

“Yep, and a couple of your toys. That’s not everything, is it?”

“Ah…possibly?” He tried to recall what’d been in that drawer, versus the one beside it. He didn’t think of himself as particularly kinky—certainly not in comparison to some; he had suspicions about what Jason and Colby got up to, especially after witnessing Jason feeding a happily quiet Colby by hand—but he liked doing what partners enjoyed, and he’d historically been up for purchasing any requested items. The drawers held a dildo or two, some scarves, some flimsy play handcuffs, a blindfold, a feather. “You can look around. If that’s not enough.”

Sam sat down beside him. Set a hand on Leo’s stomach: not anyplace more immediately erotic, more soothing than tantalizing. Leo’s cock, which had not understood the distinction, twitched and dribbled a bit of want, untouched.

“You mean that.” Sam tapped fingertips over him, and Leo lay still and gloried in it. “You’d let me open all your drawers, go through your house…if I wanted something, you’d do whatever you could to make it happen. No matter what it cost you.”

“I’m an open book,” Leo said. “I’m not complicated.”

“Yeah, you know, I’m kinda thinking you’re wrong about that.” Sam bent and kissed his stomach. Leo, startled, couldn’t think of anything to say; his eyes felt strangely heated, as if something had sparked tears, but that couldn’t be the case.

Sam swung legs up and stretched out beside him, partly atop him, so that they were touching lots of places. Sam’s weight felt nice, solid and anchoring; Sam’s leg hair was lightly scratchy, and Sam’s cock nudged Leo’s hip, and this was and wasn’t like lying in bed with a woman, and Leo liked it all.

Sam, nose to nose with him, added, “I think you might seriously be the best person I know,” and Leo shook his head, throat tight and body bizarrely turned on and thrumming with the words.

“I want you,” Sam said. “I want this to be good for you. So good. You deserve that, Leo. So just…don’t move, stay right there, looking at me—yeah, like that, that exact face—and let me just—”

He wriggled lower. And practiced wet heat enveloped Leo’s cock; Sam’s mouth, skilled and focused and all-encompassing, took Leo’s whole length and made starbursts flare across the room.

Leo gasped Sam’s name, inadvertent, drowning in starlight. His hips jerked up; he could’ve no more stopped them moving than he could’ve ceased breathing. He tangled hands in his sheets, head falling back.

Sam took him and took him apart and brought him to the brink, over and over; Leo moaned and sobbed and proceeded to lose any semblance of self-control he’d ever had, pleading for more, for Sam to never stop, to let him come, please, dear God, please, more.

Sam paused to smirk at him. Leo had had sex before, and good sex; this was lightyears beyond that. Incandescent.

He lay limp and panting, while Sam obviously enjoyed the sight of him spread out and debauched.

“Got an idea,” Sam said, “stop me if you don’t like this,” and got back between Leo’s legs, which parted further instantly. Sam’s mouth and tongue came back, only lower—lapping at his balls, decadent and filthy, and Leo gasped and made all sorts of noises and swore that he was going to come, he had to, he needed—

Sam’s tongue flicked lower. Behind his balls. Over sensitive skin. One hand coaxed Leo’s leg up and out of the way.

“Oh God,” Leo said, “oh my God —” and then Sam was licking him there , right over his hole, and Leo had never even imagined but it felt so good, so wrong and dirty but so hot and wet and good —

He might’ve screamed. Or wailed. Or some other utterly uncontrollable noise. He was absolutely coming, shaking into pieces, flying and falling and spilling release all over himself, sobbing with drawn-out euphoria, feeling the jets of his own climax spurt across his stomach and chest.

Sam lifted that head, dark hair standing up and fluffy, eyes all golden and self-satisfied. “ Definitely a good sound.”

Leo whimpered a bit.

Sam kissed his inner thigh. “Leo Whyte. My Leo, tonight. God, if you could see the way you look…just feeling everything, letting me see everything, how good you’re feeling…fucking gorgeous.”

“I can’t think,” Leo said pathetically. “You’ve broken my brain.”

“And we’re not even done yet.” Sam scooted up. “Stay put.”

“I couldn’t move if I wanted to.” Melted. Liquid. Ice cream in sun. “How’re you going to top that? Or, in this case, me?”

Sam laughed more. It made his eyes even more radiant, sunnily happy. Leo liked that. “Got plans for you. And, yeah, me on top. Unless you want it the other way. Um…I do want to kiss you. Got mouthwash? Y’know, since I just—and some people don’t like—”

Leo flopped a hand weakly toward his bathroom. “Anything you’d like. Is that a sort of gay sex politeness?”

“Not necessarily, but I’m not gonna horrify you too much.” Sam went, and came back. He’d also brought towels. Leo, busy being a puddle of ice cream, lay in place appreciating the view.

“God, you look good,” Sam said aloud, accidental telepathic mirroring, and Leo let out a breath that wanted to be a laugh but was tired.

“Something funny?” Sam sat back down. His hand skimmed over Leo’s body again, shoulder to hip; Leo wondered whether Sam simply liked touching, an anchor on that side as well. His words carried a scent of mint, cool and refreshing. “You do look good like this. And all the time. But right now, all naked and messy because I just got you off, and you loved it, and you look like everything I’m gonna dream about forever…”

“Ah,” Leo observed, “you like me well-fucked and in bed with you,” and batted his eyelashes. Dramatically. Regaining energy.

Sam muttered something that sounded like, “Fucking perfect ,” and kissed him. Hard. Fierce. So deep Leo felt it everyplace inside, resonating. Head to toe.

His spent cock stirred, taking an interest. Even more so when Sam began to fondle him, to tempt and caress and summon hardness back. Leo breathed out, softly—he’d meant to say words—and ended up simply watching.

Sam’s hands—broad masculine hands—on his vulnerable half-hard length. The contrast. The tenderness. The devastating sensitivity. He blinked rapidly; he wanted more, he wanted Sam to never stop touching him, he wanted to come again with those hands on him, with Sam inside him, above him, all around him.

“So sweet when you’re getting attention.” Sam trailed a finger over his tip, over the slit; sensation flared and rolled upward, a coruscating wave of too much and not enough. “You need that, don’t you? Someone making you feel good, thinking about you, paying attention to you…and I get to. Because you jumped in front of my camera.” His voice was quiet, wondering. “Because I was lucky enough to be the guy who was there. Me and my fucking job. You know what I do. And you said yes. To me asking you out. How’d that even work?”

“I like you,” Leo said hazily. “You. Not your job. Sam. Are you planning to fuck me soon? Only I might actually come from you doing this, right now, with your hand, so if you’ve got plans, we should get on with that.”

“Oh,” Sam said, “you’re the bossy sort of bottom, okay, got it,” and kissed him. The kiss came with a bottle-snap: lube, Leo’s rainbow-filled head understood. “You know we’ve already had awesome sex. It doesn’t have to mean penetration. Not that I don’t want to be inside you—the only guy ever, which, wow—but I’m checking in one more time. You want to try?”

“How many times would you like me to say so? Yes, thoroughly. Soon if possible.”

“Brat. Behave. Guessing you’ve at least maybe tried some things? With the toys?”

“Mmm. Yes. I had a girlfriend once who liked to put the smaller one inside me—it vibrates—while she, er, you know, got on top of me. I’ve never tried anything terribly large.”

They both paused to eye Sam’s cock. Sam’s cock sat up and happily redefined the word large in its favor.

“Well,” Leo said eventually, “I do enjoy lots of attention, and that’s certainly…a lot?”

Sam snorted. “Thanks. Here, though, starting slow…” His fingers brushed Leo’s hole, not shy about it. The lube made everything slippery and welcome; Leo’s hole, still slightly wet from Sam’s earlier ministrations with that talented mouth, fluttered and clenched eagerly.

“Shh,” Sam soothed gently, and moved a finger. The first intrusion came easy; Leo’s body knew the feeling of opening up, though never with a man, and he knew about bearing down and pushing back and relaxing. Sam’s finger slipped into him, penetrating him, and he gloried in the rush of it.

Sam was cautious with him, to the point at which, two long fingers buried deep in his body, Leo demanded, “More, please, can we get on with this?” and earned himself a light swat on the thigh from Sam’s other hand plus a calm, “I’m not going to hurt you, so no.”

“I’ve had toys up there—”

“And you’ve never had anything bigger than that little one, and we’re getting you ready.” Sam adjusted fingers, curled, moved them differently. White-hot supernovas burst abruptly behind Leo’s eyes; gasping, he quivered on Sam’s hand, hanging between crystalline drops.

Sam stopped doing the marvelous thing. “Have you…never…found your…”

“I mean…I thought…I’ve felt good…but this is…it’s different when you do it!”

“I hope so. For one thing, I know what I’m doing. And I like doing it to you.” Sam did the thing again. Leo let out an honest-to-God shriek and rocked his hips frantically, chasing that sensation. Sam, under his breath, added something mildly uncomplimentary about Leo’s previous partners and none of them getting him to feel this good; Leo got breath back enough to say, “Oh, that’s unfair, I did feel good, no blaming anyone else, it’s just you’re some sort of genius…”

“Glad you think so, but this is about you.” Sam slid the fingers back, plunged them in again, a thrust: finding that spot and working it relentlessly. “The way you react, the way you feel it all…you feel that, me doing this to you? That’s you feeling it. Your body. What it can do.”

“With your help, yes…” Even the air had become incendiary. Every nerve ending crackled. His cock smeared a pool of its own wetness over his stomach. “I need…please…it’s good because it’s you, you’re doing it, but please do more…you said you’d fuck me, you’d show me how that feels, so please…”

“A little more.” Sam twisted fingers, stretched him, opened him: playing with him now, getting him slick and ready, pressing a third finger in evidently just to torture Leo’s senses, which had collectively become firecrackers and sugary rain.

Ice cream, he thought tipsily, and giggled, which was not a sound he’d expected to make at this point. He did feel a bit drunk. Intoxicated. Floaty.

“Still good?” Sam. Checking in. So kind. Big worried golden eyes, and a bit of hair falling forward into his face.

“Sprinkles,” Leo explained. “Ice cream.”

Sam thought about this for a second, then leaned down to lick the tip of Leo’s cock, a swipe of considerate tongue. “Delicious.”

Leo, to his own surprise, ended up giggling more. This made Sam laugh, and then they were laughing together, smiling at each other, Sam’s hand moving inside Leo’s body and the coziness of familiar sheets all around.

“Okay.” Sam moved the hand. Leo’s muscles rippled unhappily, empty. “Okay, I’m going to…um, it’ll be easier if you turn over. As far as angles and this being, well. Easy.”

“No. I want to see you.”

“ Definitely a bossy bottom. But I like seeing you, too.” Sam made a lunge, grabbed a pillow. “Here. Under your hips.”

Leo squirmed around. “Satisfied? Or is there anything else? Where do I put my hands?”

“Anywhere you want.” Sam knelt above him, over him; close enough that Leo could see every flex of muscle, those small taut nipples, the thick shaft of that cock. Sam bent to kiss him; Sam had, after all, said anywhere , so Leo reached up and wrapped a hand around the girth and felt all the heat and veins and textured-satin thickness.

Sam’s hips shifted into the grip; his cock slid through Leo’s hand. “Your hands’re pretty good there. And you can touch all you want. But you want something else, too. Tell me what you want. I know you want to say it.”

“I want you,” Leo whispered. “Inside me.”

“Happy to.” Sam stretched out an arm, scooped up a packet—oh, yes, they should indeed use condoms, Leo remembered amid the clouds—and took care of putting it on, plus some extra lube. He knelt back between Leo’s thighs, after. “Okay, we’ll take this slow, and you stop me if it’s not feeling good, understand?”

“Yes, understood, just get on with—” The words dissolved. Sam had moved, and the head of that big thick cock pushed into the entrance of his body, and Leo forgot how to know anything except that.

So big. So much. Pressing forward and in, and it did not hurt, not precisely like pain , but he felt stretched, pulled wide open, stuffed to the brim—

He wasn’t certain he could take more. He tried pushing back, opening up, breathing; his body trembled and struggled to accommodate the width. Sam moved more, sunk deeper, and Leo gasped and clung to Sam’s shoulders—when had he begun holding on?—and might’ve been crying a bit. His vision blurred.

“Oh, Leo,” Sam was saying, voice cracking, “Leo, look at me, you’re okay—tell me you’re okay—God, you feel so fucking good—so good, taking this, taking me—is it hurting, am I hurting you, do you want me to stop—?” One hand, not the lube-messy one, came up to stroke Leo’s hair. The other was taking some of his weight. “God—you’re crying—”

“Because it feels,” Leo managed. “It feels…you feel…so large…so much…I’m not hurt.”

“Are you sure?” Sam kept petting him: comfort for the both of them. “We can stop.”

“Don’t you dare! I like feeling you.” He shifted his hips experimentally. Sam hadn’t stirred, no doubt afraid to. But that cock filled him up in a way he liked, hard and piercing and satisfying in a bone-deep sense, as if he’d needed this all his life.

He wriggled again, and suddenly something got even more right: celebrations of glitter streaked along his veins. “ Oh .”

“More good sounds?” Sam kissed him: a quick brush of lips, eyes intent on Leo’s. “You want more? This angle?”

“Oh yes. More.”

Sam promptly found that angle again. Thrust. Drew back a bit, and thrust again. Leo let out a breath, long and shivering, and then discovered that he could move too and it felt lovely when he did, himself rocking up into Sam’s thrusts, hips meeting and working together. Sam kept hitting that iridescent spot inside him and Leo kept making tiny wordless sounds, and he never wanted to stop, he wanted this rhythm forever, he wanted to be fucked by Sam like this forever, on his back with those radiant eyes gazing down at him.

Sam’s motions sped up. Faster. A little harder, and then even more so. Leo had thought everything felt resplendent; he realized he’d been wrong, this was more, this was wild and pounding and swelling and building, brightness gathering up and winding tighter and tighter, and he could only think of the word yes, so he said it over and over again.

Sam groaned his name. Got a hand on Leo’s cock, between their bodies. Slammed forward. And the brightness burst and cracked and spilled diamonds everyplace, wrung out of Leo’s body and all over Sam’s hand and his own stomach, as Sam went tense and openmouthed, shaking with release as Leo clenched around him.

They lay still for a moment, breathless, triumphant. Lamplight hugged Leo’s shoulder, Sam’s bicep.

“Well,” Leo managed finally, “I’d say…satisfying…is certainly one word…”

Sam dropped a kiss on his nose. “I like paying attention to you.”

“I like everything about this.” At some point he might have to process what that meant. His sexuality, his future, the fact that he’d just slept with a man who carried a camera around.

He didn’t feel like processing it all this second, however. So he chose not to. “I think I may be hungry. Is that appropriate etiquette? Food after sex?”

Sam kissed his eyebrow this time, evidently affectionate post-orgasm. “Sure. But let me clean us up first.”

“Oh. Should I help? Do you want—” He broke off. Sam had withdrawn. Slipping out of him. The question transformed into a hiss of air between teeth, as muscles returned to well-used reality instead of twinkling horizons.

Sam winced. “Don’t move. Lie still. I’ll take care of you, I swear.”

“I’m all right.” He was; it’d just been the shock and the dwindling endorphins and the awareness that he’d never had anything quite so extensive up there before. “I feel wonderful.”

Sam petted his leg this time, and dealt with the condom, and cleaned him with the towel, and coaxed his thighs more apart, and checked him over despite Leo’s protestations of being fine. Leo, who had not ever had anyone gently inspect his hole post-sex before, had to put an arm over his face. His cheeks burned.

“ You’re not embarrassed,” Sam said, amused. “I mean, you . Leo Whyte.”

Leo moved the arm. “I’m not.”

Sam kissed his knee, leaving a faint scrape of stubble-burn, then lay down and put an arm around him. “It’s okay if you are. Sorry. Didn’t mean to tease you.”

“You did, and it’s fine.” He wiggled fingers at the air, a gesture. “I’m always fine. I’m always fun. I’m not embarrassed.”

“You don’t have to be all of that,” Sam said. “I like that you’re you. Around me. Complicated.”

“I said I wasn’t.”

“And I said you’re the best person I know. How’re you feeling?”

“Good,” Leo decided. He was. The bizarre attack of bashfulness had faded. Sam’s arm around him, Sam’s body nestled against his, felt like a blanket, the secure cozy sort he could settle into on a rainy day. “Sitting down might be interesting later. That’s a dangerous weapon you’ve got. But you use it for fabulous purposes, so I’m not complaining. Was…it…good, or at least all right, for you?”

He’d almost said was I good? But the question was far too needy and the answer was obvious; Sam, with all that experience, surely had a definition of good that did not include Leo’s first-time difficulties. He imagined it’d been at least acceptable; Sam had inarguably finished.

“What makes you think it wasn’t amazing?” Sam cuddled him even closer, bringing them face to face; one leg draped over both of Leo’s. “You’re amazing.”

“If you tell me what I ought to work on, I promise to try? For a next round? Can there be a next round? After food. I honestly am hungry now.”

Sam opened his mouth, shut it, sighed. “Leo…”

“I’ve got eggs, I think. And bread. And an avocado. Breakfast should always happen in the middle of the night. I keep telling people that.”

“Leo,” Sam said again, “yes to breakfast at night. Maybe to a next round. Something that doesn’t leave you sore. And you don’t have to work on anything.”

“Practice makes perfect, my grandmother always used to say?”

“We can practice if you want. But, and listen when I tell you this, you’re pretty damn perfect.”

“I’m—”

“No, really listen.” Sam’s toes poked him in the calf, without force. “That was great . Not, like, great for a first time, not great but you need to work on something, not great with qualifications, just great, okay? You and I have incredible sex. That’s just true.”

Leo considered this. “I suppose I can live with that. Having incredible sex with you.”

“Also,” Sam said, hand wandering down to fondle Leo’s now thoroughly worn-out cock, “this is pretty great too, and I definitely want to find out how it feels inside me, and we did say we’d show you everything, so we’re totally doing that at some point. Sound good?”

Leo’s brain turned that suggestion into a high-resolution color-saturated movie, and played it in vivid imagined detail. “…ah. Yes. You may need to give me some advice about angles and such, but I have, er, done that particular thing. With a girlfriend sort of person, that was. Not exactly the same anatomy. But similar. At least I’ve got the basic idea.”

“I like you having ideas.” Sam stretched out the leg atop Leo’s, and put it back. “I like you telling me what you like. Was that your stomach?”

“I do keep saying I’m hungry. But I’m also quite comfortable now, if you don’t want to get up.”

“Come on.” Sam sat up. “Let’s find your late-night breakfast.”

* * * *

They got up. They found robes, because of course Leo Whyte had robes: ridiculous fantastical quilted brocade fantasias that a Victorian aristocrat might’ve thrown on to lounge and sip port in. Sam mentally shook his head, pulling a sleeve on. Even the cuffs cavorted with embroidery.

Leo, bundled up in blue and gold, beamed at him. And Sam couldn’t roll his eyes about extravagant clothing anymore, because the robe was hugging Leo and keeping Leo warm, and the blue and gold picked up all the shades of wayward dark blond hair and summer-in-forest eyes, and robes were in fact pretty awesome, come to think of it.

His whole body hummed with pleasure. Satisfaction. Completion. A good workout. A release that left him weak in the knees when recalling it: the tightness of Leo’s body around him, the absolute unflinching joy in hazel eyes, the fearlessness and the yes in that plush voice and the way Leo’d gazed up at him in the moment right after…

Yes. So much yes. He wanted to do that over and over. Again and again.

He wanted to spend the whole damn night here. In Leo’s house, in Leo’s bed. The comprehension shook him to the core. The incongruity hit even harder.

Leo smiled at him more and opened a carton of eggs. “I’m not a genius cook the way Colby is, but I can handle eggs? And possibly beans on toast, though that’s not really an American thing, is it? But it should be.”

Leo Whyte, long legs bare under that robe, recently made love to—for the first time, at least the first with a man—and unselfconsciously comfortable in this small but luxurious kitchen, in this small but luxurious colorful house, practically glowed with contentment. Belonging. Someone who could afford a place in this neighborhood, who did not worry about the price of bread or how much a single snapshot might sell for.

Leo was successful. A good actor with a solid career. A man with a generous lonely heart, offered up without limit, without pretense. Every emotion was real.

Leo was happy. Sam had done that. He knew he had; the thought skewered his chest like a spear of ice, as Leo cracked an egg with one hand and a playful flourish.

Leo deserved better. Leo Whyte deserved someone who fit in here, in celebrity-studded streets and oversized plush robes. Someone who could stand on a red carpet with him and without shame.

He should go. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t’ve kissed Leo ever. And once he had, he shouldn’t’ve done more.

He could’ve let Leo’s first time with a man be special. Magical. With someone who hadn’t promised to send over pictures of all the juicy gossip from that premiere.

But Leo was happy. Humming—off-key, but also not really trying—while poking at eggs. Hair standing up more on one side than the other. Barefoot and glancing Sam’s direction with a smile, every so often.

Sam couldn’t walk away. Couldn’t shatter all that joy.

He didn’t know whether that made him a good person or the exact opposite.

He leaned a hip against the kitchen counter because otherwise he’d reach for Leo. His hands ached to. “Want help?”

“Toss some bread in the toaster?” Leo waved a hand. “And avocado if you want. Not in the toaster. Unless you want that. I wonder if anyone’s invented toasted avocado slices? If not, it’s our idea and I’ll copyright it.”

Some people would’ve said no to an offer of assistance, out of pride or courtesy to a guest or a desire not to have someone poking around their kitchen. Leo took the offer and answered as if Sam belonged here too. As if they had a routine, domestic and established.

Sam looked at the toaster. It gazed back in unruffled appliance-quiet, clearly used to its owner.

The night—London, Chelsea, history and money and quirkiness, chilly February weather and stove-heat—shook out bones and settled in. Serene as a happy ending in a film.

In a film actor’s life. A silver-screen movie-star life. Not Sam’s.

He’d picked up his phone and dropped it into a robe-pocket, going downstairs: habit, both for work and in case a sibling needed him. Interestingly enough, so had Leo. Sam wasn’t sure what this meant, other than that Leo might be one of those people who liked having the comfort of constant connection to the larger world.

“Late night brunch means mimosas.” Leo plunged into his fridge. “Obviously. This isn’t the best champagne, but it’s not the worst either. Also we’re celebrating. Glasses are in that cupboard to your left, no, other left, sorry.”

“We’re celebrating?”

“My loss of gay sex virginity? My film premiere? You being here? All of the above.” The cork popped. Leo did that with casual ease, Sam noticed: not flinching from the release. “And you’re spending the night, aren’t you? We did say there’d be a round two.”

The lightness in that tone belied the question underneath. Hesitance opened chasms under the assumption.

The toast bounced up. Right into the moment.

Sam went to collect it, did not have a plate, glanced around. Picked a logical cupboard, and was correct. Leo bought interesting plates, grey with little glittery flecks that pinwheeled down one side like dandelion fluff.

He said, between dropping hot toast onto the plate, “Yeah. I mean…if you want.” He couldn’t quite look at Leo. What if, between the cork-pop and the cupboard, those quick hazel eyes had figured out just how much Sam didn’t belong? What if the offer was only Leo being kind, the way Leo Whyte was kind at heart?

No. Leo meant words when saying them. Unfiltered. Real.

“I do want.” Leo put eggs on a piece of toast, posed a champagne-flute beside it, whipped out his phone. “There. Pictures. Well, just one. Social media. The fans like it. I’ll tag it as after-party and confuse everyone. Actually it won’t, never mind, they’re used to me not doing the expected.”

“You share your life,” Sam said, picking up a mimosa, “with your fans.”

“I don’t have secrets, and it makes some people happy, somewhere, sometimes.” Leo twitched a shoulder, not exactly a shrug. “It’s just eggs.”

“You want me to stay.” He waited until Leo took a bite first. “I can. I want to. I have to leave in the morning.”

“I thought you might.” Leo fiddled with the stem of his glass. “Or you could…not. I’ll be in London for a while. Staying here. Until the New York and then the Los Angeles premieres.”

“I can’t,” Sam said. That specter of helpless distance rose; he couldn’t even be angry. Another world, another planet. “I can’t just…decide to stay. I need to go home. I need to check on my sisters. And then I’ll have to be in Atlanta, I think.” Trying to get set pictures, he did not say, from the latest superhero blockbuster. “I can’t drop everything and stay with you. I don’t even have a toothbrush.” True. It was back at his peeling-paint hotel.

“I have spares.” Leo’s eyes got a little more—not sad, not exactly. Resigned. Sam hated the emotion and the fact that he’d put it there. “But never mind. It wasn’t a fair question. This is tonight, and this is wonderful, and I’m glad you’re here. Though I’m realizing how much I don’t know about you. Sisters?”

“Two,” Sam explained, “the twins, plus my brother,” and then ended up telling Leo all about his family, not about the finances or the grief but about Diana’s work for her school newspaper and Thea’s varsity letter in swimming and Carlos’s acceptance to a PhD program, about the time the three of them had made him a completely terrible breakfast in bed for his birthday, about the reasons they had a family ban on playing Monopoly and how they’d never found the top hat playing-piece again.

Somewhere in the back of his head the puzzle pieces didn’t align, or only did so with disbelief. This was himself, talking about his family to Leo Whyte. Over eggs and toast and mimosas at two-thirty in the morning. In Leo’s kitchen. Naked under a robe. After one of the best orgasms of his life.

He even took out his phone and showed off a picture or two, carefully chosen. A birthday party, a swim meet, a heap of siblings on the sofa watching a movie. He adored his family; he wanted Leo to see them. Leo did not try to take the phone and scroll through photos; his expression went from surprise at the sharing to soft warmth, looking at the screen.

Leo was also a good listener: asking questions, nodding, inviting more words with eyebrows and head-tips. So mobile, so expressive. Nothing hidden, everything on the surface, worn openly. Sam loved that. Sam loved—

He froze mid-word. Love?

Mimosa. A sip. A large one. Faking crumbs in his throat. The toast, being a good ally, did not betray him.

“You miss them,” Leo said. “I would too, if I had siblings. Of course you’ll need to go. What time’s your flight?”

“Ten. Not too bad, but I’ll need to get there early. The airport.” Words. Making sense. What were they?

He couldn’t be in love with Leo Whyte. Not so fast. Not after a night. A night and a kiss.

That wasn’t how love worked. Love was more difficult, hard-won, rare. In Leo’s movie it’d required sacrifice, a battle, a lost arm. From what Sam had seen, his mother and Jack had both been nervous, finding a second chance with someone new, after scars and time.

Love wasn’t the slide of Leo’s robe off one bare shoulder, or the way Leo had simply accepted Sam’s priorities, or the fact that Sam had successfully guessed which cupboard the plates would be in. That wasn’t possible .

He stared at a corner of toast. The toast, despite general helpfulness, did not spontaneously provide an answer.

This wasn’t possible. Because he was who he was, and movie star Leo Whyte was Leo Whyte. No getting around that. A roadblock. Massive.

“We can sort out the airport in the morning.” Leo shamelessly licked butter from fingers. “I had a question. Only wondering.”

“Sure…”

“What’s your favorite subject? For photographs. I don’t mean for the job. We’ll continue avoiding that elephant for now. I mean what you like. Your family, those pictures, even the casual ones—you capture such life in them.” Leo regarded him over toast-crumbs and an empty glass. “I thought it felt like love. Not only for your siblings.”

Sam had just picked up the end of the toast as a distraction, and nearly dropped it.

He’d never been asked that before. Not by anyone. Not ever. Before he’d left college he’d had conversations about favorite styles, techniques, specific locations, color or lack of color. The choices of artistic subject had sometimes been assignments, and sometimes just taken for granted: he’d picked what he found interesting, self-evidently. And after…in his job, this job…

Leo had asked. Leo wanted to know.

He said, “People,” and heard the roughness in his voice. “Not necessarily close-ups or anything posed. From a distance, even. In motion. On streets. Farmers’ markets. Concerts. Shopping. Just…being people.”

Leo nodded, taking this in, taking it seriously. “I can see that. The way you see the world. Stories in the ordinary.”

“You’re not ordinary,” Sam said, and their eyes met. The champagne sparkled. The toast-crumbs cheered.

They ran back to Leo’s bed hand in hand. They lost clothing and fell into sheets, and Sam tried to kiss Leo from head to toes, every inch of pale English skin, every word he didn’t know how to say. Leo laughed and kissed back and wanted to know more, to discover everything, to get hands and mouths everyplace. Their robes met in a single discarded heap, cheerfully mingled.

Sam refused to let Leo be overly sore and also genuinely wanted Leo to try everything, so they ended up with Leo on top, long lovely cock sinking into Sam’s body as Sam’s fingers teased those pink nipples some more, with the hint of roughness that’d worked so well. They both caught breath simultaneously, rocking together.

They came that way, together, too.

Leo, having come three times and trembling all over in the aftermath of this one—Sam had maybe gotten a bit too rough, he concluded guiltily; Leo hadn’t said to stop, but his nipples were visibly reddened and he’d been shaky and wanting to be held, after—got a little unfocused, sex-hazy, soft and pliable and quieter than before. Sam helped steady him in the bathroom, where Leo’s extravagant shower and tub took up an ocean’s worth of space, and figured out hot and cold taps.

He opted for the shower because it’d be quicker—they’d barely get much sleep as it was—but he kept stealing glances at the tub. He wanted to set Leo into it, surrounded by steaming water and cared for by his hands.

He wanted to let the heat soothe Leo’s soreness, and maybe to get in with him, or just sit on the side and wash that stylish blond hair and maybe tease that delectable cock a time or two.

He wanted more time. He wanted more .

Leo was tactile, cuddly, wanting to be touched and to touch, under shower-spray. Sam washed his back and cleaned him up. Felt the pang in his chest, beneath his breastbone, as if a drop of too-hot water had slipped into his heart and scalded it.

He wouldn’t mind the scalding. He’d carry this night with him in every form. Every scar.

Back in bed, Leo promptly curled up into Sam’s arms. Sam thought he might be falling asleep, and was prepared to hold him and keep him warm for whatever hours they had left.

Sleep wasn’t important. Holding Leo was.

Leo, who was not asleep, observed, “I’m very tired. But that was…phenomenal.”

“It was.” You are, he thought. “Still okay? Not hurting anywhere?” His own body ached a bit, deliciously so; it’d been a while. He liked the feeling.

“Not hurting.” Leo yawned into his shoulder. “Sensitive, I think…everything’s good but sort of laid bare round the edges. As if I’ve been turned inside out. All the nerves on the outside.”

“That…doesn’t sound comfortable.”

“It’s wonderful, in fact. Twinkling. Tingling. Is this normal for you? So much in one night?”

Sam had to laugh. “No.” Nothing about this night was normal. The opposite. The shining reverent reverse of normal.

“Good, then. I do like to be memorable.”

“You are.” He stroked Leo’s hair. “You are. Go to sleep.”

“Mmm. Tell me something else. Something about you.”

“Anything in particular you want to know?”

“No. Just something. Where you grew up. How old you are. Nothing big. I only realized I don’t even know that.” One of Leo’s eyes opened enough to peek up at him. “Nothing you don’t want to say. I just…like knowing things.”

“Well,” Sam said, and touched the spot by Leo’s eye, lightly, “I did grow up in Vegas, or just outside—the suburbs—and I’m thirty-one, and I like really good dark chocolate but not milk chocolate, and I’ll admit to having a Zak Starfighter action figure on my desk. Mostly for nostalgia.”

“Oh my God,” Leo said, deadpan and untroubled and languid against him, “I’m sleeping with a younger man.”

“You’re my age! Aren’t you?”

“Close. Thirty-three.” Leo yawned again. “I like dark chocolate as well. Though I also like sweetness. I’d watch cartoons with you if you wanted. I like most things really.”

“I know you do.”

“I like you . I shouldn’t, we both know why, but I do.”

“Well,” Sam said again, amused and aching, heart full to the point of breaking apart, “good. I like you, Leo Whyte. Kind of a lot.”

“You can take a picture of me in sweatpants in the morning,” Leo said sleepily. “At home. If you need something. I know…I know it’s your job. And you came home with me, not to any of the parties and events where there’d be proper celebrities…I can do that for you.”

Sam’s heart, which had been teetering at that fracture-point, shattered. He made himself breathe around the impact.

Leo Whyte at home, intimate and personal, an exclusive shot, would be worth a decent amount. Not as much as, say, Colby Kent doing the same; but nobody got pictures of Colby. And magazines always wanted spots filled for those features: stars being just like us, eating food, wearing sweatpants…

He could sell it. And Leo had offered.

He said, “What the hell do you mean, proper celebrities?” and wound a lock of Leo’s hair around a finger and tugged, not hard. “You are.”

“Sorry,” Leo said, more awake, “were you scolding me, just now? Ouch. Or something.”

“Really ouch, or more something? And don’t fucking say that. About yourself. Or I’ll do it again.”

“Ah…more like you pinching my nipples. Or playing with my dick when I’ve just come and I’m over-sensitive. A lot, but in a sparkly way.” Leo sounded drowsy, surprised, and kind of into it. “I do like you being a bit rough with me, evidently. And you didn’t answer, about my offer.”

He should’ve known. Leo would never step out of the way of a hurtling boulder. Would try to face it head-on and keep it from hitting anyone else if possible. “I didn’t. I don’t know. I…should say yes.” Jameson and the Daily World News would love him. Other outlets might be willing to pay for non-exclusive copies.

“Then if you should, and I don’t mind, is there a problem?”

“I guess…not.” His chest felt hollow. He didn’t know why. He bought time by loosening his fingers and running them through Leo’s hair. “You’re worth more than you think.”

“This will help you, and it won’t hurt me.” Leo tightened an arm around him, Sam, in turn: underscoring the decision. “Sleep with me. For whatever time we’ve got.”

A few short hours. An illusion of another life. Suspended between an antique movie theater and the bills and mortgage payments back home. A flickering scene.

A snapshot.

“I’ll wake you up,” he said, “in the morning. With enough time for…whatever. We’ll see. Just rest. I’m here.”

“You are.” Leo nuzzled more into his chest. “Sam. And my soap. Lemon. ’S nice. Like sex with you. Nice.”

“I’m glad I can be your lemon?” He kneaded the back of Leo’s neck, let his hand cup Leo’s head. “Go to sleep, Leo.”

Leo let out a contented wordless mumble and did, almost instantly: as if secure with Sam’s hand on him and Sam’s body wrapped around his in bed.

Sam exhaled. Leo’s breathing whispered steady over his skin; the shapes of a dresser, a lamp, their robes, collectively turned the bedroom into an oasis, enclosed in shades of night.

The morning would be the morning. He’d face it then.

They’d face it then. Because if he’d learned anything about Leo Whyte, that was the heart of it: Leo would never not want to do something, on behalf of a friend.

And they were friends. Sam didn’t know how, but that’d happened; in a limousine, in Leo’s kitchen, in Leo’s bed. The sex had been incredible and he hoped—God, he hoped—that Leo had loved every introduction and wouldn’t regret any of it. But even beyond that…

He’d made Leo laugh. Leo made him want to laugh. They’d made toast.

Leo had asked about taking pictures. Had seen him, seen clean through him, to the person who still sometimes wished the world had been different, who wanted photographs in gallery exhibits and art books that people would save and look through and be moved by. Had used the word love .

Sam, in the dark, holding Leo and holding onto Leo, felt his heart thump against the cage of his chest.

He knew Leo had arranged this night. Leo had wanted to try sex with a man, and had for some reason liked Sam. Had been intrigued by him. Trusted him.

Leo had chosen him, and Sam would never be anything but honored; he couldn’t ask for more than this encounter. Wouldn’t dare. Lucky enough to have this time, this second time, when he’d never thought he’d see Leo Whyte again.

He’d have this and he’d keep the memory safe, tucked like a sepia-toned picture next to his heart, a love-letter he could imagine from time to time, when he needed to smile.

He kissed the top of Leo’s head. The scents of lemon soap, of papaya shampoo, made him smile as they stabbed his heart.

He shut his eyes, and held on.