On the Steamy Side - Louisa Edwards [73]
They climbed the private back staircase up to the Garret, Frankie brooding the whole time on the many ways Jess and Wes matched up.
Same age. Same drive to succeed, same need to prove themselves. Jess and Wes, he thought with a mental sneer. How sickeningly twee, even their bloody names rhymed.
Conversation, what little they’d managed in the din of the bar, had centered around Jess’s photography club and Wes’s plans for after he graduated from the ACA. No one inquired after Frankie’s future plans, which was a damn good thing since he didn’t have any.
Well, none that went beyond getting Jess inside and out of his clothes as quickly as humanly possible.
Bollocks to that, appeared to be Jess’s feeling on the subject of speed nudity. Frankie watched, saddened but unsurprised, as Jess carefully arranged his precious cargo on the guitar stand in the corner before straightening and regarding Frankie with crossed arms and narrowed eyes.
Which was universal body language for “You’ll not be getting into my knickers tonight,” Frankie had always found.
With a sigh, Frankie kicked off his shoes and padded to the front hall closet. When he opened the door to sling them in, he remembered he’d stashed the new lime-green pillows in that closet. There they were, piled together on the floor, taunting him. They looked cheap and thin now, somehow, the cloth worn threadbare in spots.
“We need to talk,” Jess said from behind him.
Frankie winced and shut the closet door.
“I saw that,” Jess warned darkly. “And I know you hate RDTs, but we’ve put this one off long enough.”
“RDT” was Jess–speak for “relationship-defining talk.” “Aw, Bit, must we break our streak? We’ve gone so long without one, we ought to be well on our way to a world record.”
Jess’s mouth twisted in that way that meant he was trying not to smile. “I’m immune to your wheedling ways, Frankie. At least for the next hour or so.”
“The next hour,” Frankie repeated, aghast. “Don’t say that, luv. Fifteen minutes, there’s a lad.”
“Frankie,” Jess said, lips thin and eyes flashing. “We’re having this talk whether you like it or not. Now nut up and take it like a man.”
“Fuck me,” Frankie said. “That’s impressive, Bit. And more than a little sexy.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, but even though he caught a flicker of heat in Jess’s gaze, the boy remained firm.
Unfortunately, so did Frankie.
He cleared his throat. “Are there rules that say we have to stand here all blokey and awkward? Or can we maybe make a nest and burrow in for the duration?”
“The bylaws clearly state that snuggling is acceptable.” Jess kicked off his shoes, hesitated, then drew his T-shirt off over his head, too. Blue eyes dark and soft, he sank down into the closest mound of pillows, a lithe pale form amid the deep jewel-toned velvets and silks.
As ever, the sight brought the scratch of something hard and painful to Frankie’s throat. “Come lie with me and be my love,” he quoted softly and followed Jess down to the floor.
The slow-motion wrestle to find the perfect position curled around each other was familiar and comforting. Once they were settled, Frankie tensed up again, but despite his threats, Jess was silent for long minutes.
Long enough to lull Frankie into a nearly comatose state of contentment, reclined on the decadent, softness-strewn floor of his tiny, cramped pasha’s tent of a home, with the world’s warmest, funniest, most delightful man at his side. Jess’s head was on Frankie’s right shoulder, Frankie’s right arm wound round Jess’s naked back, their legs tangled inextricably.
Heaven.
When Jess spoke, his voice was so low and sweet it didn’t break the spell but instead strengthened it. Frankie floated, finally achieving the peace his music hadn’t afforded him earlier that night.
“I love you, Frankie Boyd. You know I do. You knew it from the first moment I set eyes on you in the kitchen at Market.”
“Mmm,” Frankie agreed, nuzzling the fragrant, silky hair so close to his face. “You were delicious, Bit, all nervy and shy.”
“But I couldn’t stay away, no