Tom squinted against the light streaming across the bed. It was on the wrong side of his face—and what was that lump digging into his left hip? He shifted, only to encounter a lump with his right foot. A curious flex of toes identified a small rise with a hard half circle at the top.
“It’s a spring,” Frank said. “I have three on my side and one under my pillow.”
Tom turned his head. “Might be time for a new mattress.”
“At least I know why you haven’t been sleeping in here.”
“I haven’t been sleeping in here because Robert died in this bed.”
Frank’s upper lip curled. “Well, there goes my morning wood.”
“Oh?” Smiling, Tom reached beneath the sheet, finding Frank’s abdomen first—slightly furry and sleep warm. He skimmed his palm down toward the tented material at his crotch and squeezed the firmness he found there. “Feels good to me.”
After last night, it shouldn’t be such a marvel to touch Frank so freely. To be in bed beside him and know him this intimately—as a lover as well as a friend. Still, Tom’s thoughts wanted to take a little spin and he let them. It had been a while since he lived for the moment and every moment spent with Frank should be lived.
Frank moved into his touch, hips and body navigating the sea of lumps and broken springs until they were pressed together, locked in a kiss that should have been disgusting. Were they already past the morning-breath phase? Or was the insistent grope of Frank’s fingers between them, that incidental brush and squeeze as he found Tom’s cock, just more important than the slightly bitter odor of Frank’s breath?
Stupid question.
Tom thrust his thickening erection into Frank’s hand and continued his own ministrations—stroking and tugging. He slipped his fingers inside Frank’s pajama pants, his lips pulling from the kiss at the memory of those pants: a concoction of silk, pale blue, and paired with a matching monogramed pajama shirt.
“What are you grinning about?” Frank murmured.
“Your pajamas.”
Frank huffed. “They were a gift.”
“Of course they were. You’d never buy monogrammed pajamas for yourself.”
Frank laughed, his breath just warm now, familiar, and bent to kiss him again. “Stop it,” he said between small pecks. “Can’t kiss you while I’m laughing.”
“Can I have a pair for Christmas?”
As his laughter rose in pitch, Frank continued dropping small kisses on Tom’s lips. “How about a pair in red and green flannel?”
“As long as I never have to answer the door in them.”
“That’s what robes are for.”
“Oh my God. You have a satin robe, don’t you?”
“I have several robes. They’re quite the sensible garment.”
Tom caught Frank’s moving mouth, kissed him deeply. Their hips synced, rocking forward together, drawing back in time. “Do you have one with you?” His question was breathless.
“Yes.”
He was so close—closer than he’d be this quickly from his hand alone. The smell of Frank’s skin, musky from sleep. The lingering scent of soap and sex from the night before. The warmth of his skin and that steady rhythm. His balls were tight, his spine tingling. His heart pounding—
And nearly stopping as someone rapped on the window, calling out, “Frank? Tom?”
“Holy fuck.” Tom fell away from Frank, pressing his palm flat to his chest as though the pressure of his hand would keep his heart from leaping through skin and bone.
Beside him, Frank was cursing and fighting with the sheet, which had become twisted around his legs. He rolled to the side of the bed and disappeared with a thump, another curse, and a cry of pain.
“Are you okay?”
“No, I’m not okay. I fell on my dick.”
Tom swallowed the urge to laugh, coughing instead.
“I heard that.” Frank’s head appeared over the edge of the bed, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with pain.
A voice sounded outside the window. “Frank? You in there?”
Frank was shaking his head. “Fucking Brian.” He raised his voice. “Go sit on the porch, Brian. We’ll be out in a minute.”
Cackling was heard through the glass, and an exchange of voices.
“He has someone else out there with him,” Tom observed. His heart had stopped trying to push through his ribs, but his chest felt sore. Also, his dick refused to deflate. So this is what a fear erection feels like. And at that thought, he felt the shift as blood began to redistribute itself throughout his body. He sat up, pulling his boxers up at the same time, and crawled toward the side of the bed.
Frank was sitting with his back pressed to the side, his legs spread out in front of him. His pajama pants were down around his knees and he was pulling gently on his half-flaccid penis.
Tom put his chin on Frank’s shoulder. “Can’t see any blood.”
“Thank God.”
Pressing a kiss to Frank’s cheek, Tom murmured, “I’ll suck it all better later. Why is Brian here?”
“He sent me a text saying he might stop by this weekend. I didn’t expect it to be Sunday morning, though. And we really need to stop talking about Brian while I have my cock in my hand.”
“He’s a good-looking guy.” Like, seriously good-looking. Tall and blond with gorgeous eyes, a classically square jaw, and the sort of build that usually weakened Tom’s knees.
“Don’t make me cry,” Frank said.
Tom gifted him with another kiss, this time catching the side of Frank’s mouth. “He’s not you.” No one could compete with his Frankie.
Dimly, they could hear a banging on the front door. “He’s just fucking with us now,” Frank said.
“I’ll go let them in. Take your time. Sure everything’s okay?”
Frank raised one eyebrow. “We’ll find out tonight, hmm?”
“We’ll either have the best sex ever or a funeral for Little Frankie.”
“Who’re you calling little?” Frank said with an expression of mock hurt.
Laughing, Tom slid off the bed, picked his shirt up off the floor and went to answer the front door. It was Brian and another tall, handsome man with eyes the most fabulous shade of blue—like cut and polished sapphires. And though the god-among-men had friendly lines at his mouth and eyes, his dark wavy hair held not a strand of gray. He was built too.
Were all of Frank’s friends this gorgeous?
“Good morning,” Brian boomed. He gave Tom a quick up-and-down inspection and grinned. “Hope we didn’t interrupt anything.”
Tom scowled. “I’m beginning to see why Frank doesn’t like you.” He looked pointedly toward the other man.
“I’m Simon,” the guy said, extending a hand. “I stopped apologizing for Brian about eighteen months ago.”
“Heh.” So this was Simon. Forcing a smile, Tom took Simon’s hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Simon’s smile was gracious and seemed genuine. It was hard not to like him immediately, damn it.
“Come on in.” Tom stepped back and gestured toward the office. “Make yourselves comfortable. Brian knows where the coffee maker is. Have you had breakfast?”
“We thought you guys might like to get breakfast out with us. I texted Frank last night and this morning,” Simon said.
“Oh.” Why was he blushing? Tom pressed a not-cool-enough hand to the side of his face. “Um, we, ah, had a long day. Went to bed early.”
Brian was giving him the once-over again.
Tom backed away slowly. “I’m going to get a shower. Frank will probably be up for breakfast.”
Leaving Brian and Simon to confer quietly behind him, Tom fled to Robert’s bedroom. His bedroom? His and Frank’s room? The room they’d slept in last night! He pushed through the door and slammed it shut behind him. Frank was in the shower.
“You need to check your messages,” Tom called into the bathroom.
“I just did. Would it have hurt them to call?”
Tom pulled his T-shirt back over his head. “Honestly, I think Brian was too enamored of the idea of catching us out like this.”
“He didn’t even know we were sleeping together.”
“He sure looked like he knew something.” Tom paused in the bathroom doorway to admire Frank’s shape through the misted shower enclosure.
As though sensing his gaze, Frank turned. “Well, you did answer the door in boxer shorts.”
“Would a robe have been more appropriate?”
“Yes!” Frank turned back around, ducking his head under the water to rinse his hair.
Grinning, Tom stepped out of his shorts and slipped into the shower behind Frank.
Frank groaned. “We don’t have time.”
“I know. Pass me the soap. I’ll do your back, you do my cock, and we’ll be done.”
Frank bent to kiss him, wetly and noisily. “I adore you.”
“Right back at you.”
Tom took them to a local diner for breakfast. Some part of him wanted to discombobulate the fabulous Brian and Simon. He’d liked Brian when they’d first met. Less so this time—mostly because he was embarrassed. He didn’t want to like Simon. He was too goddamned stunning and put together. Cultured in a way Tom would never be. He could see why Frank spoke so well of him. Neither man seemed discomfited by the orange vinyl booths, cheap brown coffee mugs, and creased plastic menus, though.
“I’m going to have The Duke,” Brian said, putting his menu aside.
“Have you ever eaten sausage gravy before?” Simon asked.
“Just because I grew up in Jersey City doesn’t mean I don’t know how to country. If you’ll remember, Morristown is in the actual garden part of the state. We eat biscuits all the time.”
Snorting softly, Simon put his menu aside.
Frank watched the pair with a bemused expression.
Tom squirmed in his seat.
A server took their order and Brian leaned back, draping an arm casually behind Simon’s shoulders.
Simon shot him a look.
“Sorry, sorry. Forgot you’re all but married now.” Pulling his arm away, Brian lifted his chin toward Frank. “And don’t you two make another happy shiny couple?”
“Jealous?” Frank asked.
“I told you I’d have him if you didn’t want him.”
Tom cleared his throat.
“Don’t be an ass,” Simon said.
“Where’s Charlie?” Frank asked.
“Keeping vigil. It could be any day, any second.” Simon checked his phone. “If I get a text, I’m gone.”
“Any day?” Tom quirked an eyebrow in Frank’s direction.
“Charlie’s daughter is very, very pregnant.”
“Ah.” He vaguely remembered Frank mentioning it. “Um, congratulations?”
Simon’s return smile was strange—a mixture of pride and confusion. It made him seem more human in some way. No less handsome, but maybe a touch more approachable. “I’ll pass that on. Charlie will appreciate it.”
“He will,” Frank agreed. “He’s that kind of guy.”
Everyone but Brian was smiling now.
“So what’s the occasion?” Frank asked.
Simon spoke up. “Brian showed me the pictures he took last week, caught me up on your plans. He wanted my opinion on a refit, and I wanted to see the place for myself, if you don’t mind.” He turned to Tom. “It’s a gorgeous example of Dutch Colonial architecture. Do you know when it was built?”
“It belongs to Frank. It was in Frank’s family,” Tom said, trying not to squirm.
“You know more about it than me,” Frank said.
Simon was still smiling in Tom’s direction. “From what Brian told me, I got that impression too.”
Tom glanced at Frank and Frank gave him a small nod. He took a deep breath. “It was built by Robert and William’s father, Harold Tern, in 1932. It was modeled after Groeneveld Castle, in extreme miniature.” He laughed. “Only twenty guest rooms, all with private bathrooms, which was pretty forward thinking of him. Harold valued comfort, though, which is why the first thing you see when you come inside is the lounge—which is another hallmark of the style.”
Simon’s impossibly blue eyes brightened, and really, he shouldn’t have been able to become more handsome, but he did. Jesus. “You’ve studied the style! That will be so very handy when we draw up plans.”
“Plans?”
The server interrupted them, laying out breakfasts: Brian’s overflowing plate of biscuits topped with chipped beef and sausage gravy, home fries, and some sort of relish on the side. Tom secretly wished him heartburn, then took it back as he acknowledged the gift Brian had brought them. Simon was sketching an outline on the back of his paper placemat, which he moved out of the way for his two eggs, poached, and whole wheat toast.
Frank was having eggs Benedict, because of course he was. Tom had ordered his usual: a short stack and hot maple syrup.
“Brian mentioned adding outdoor space and showed me pictures of the barn. It appears in remarkably good condition,” Simon was saying. “I’ve not suggested a renovation for a barn before, but we recently designed a neighborhood based on a Moravian farm and we did all of the outbuildings, garages, sheds, and whatnot, in a similar style.”
And on it went. Pausing only to eat his eggs before they got cold, Simon filled the back of four placemats with rough sketches of ideas he’d been percolating. “I’d like to walk through the house. See the barn, take more precise measurements. Brian has given me an idea of the larger scope of the project. I can tell you about the individual buildings. What did you want to do with the cottages?”
Brian chipped in with a vague outline of the business model Tom had proposed during his visit. Tom glanced at Frank. Could Frank afford this? He supposed they’d have to decide that after Simon and Brian told them what it all might cost. Would there be a point where Frank weighed the apparent cost of repairs against their new relationship? He and Frank were older now. Supposedly wiser.
Was there harm in allowing everyone to dream up until that point?
Beneath the table, Frank took his hand and squeezed it, and Tom took that as his answer.
No. No, there wasn’t.