Your Heart on the Line

Frank’s eyes opened and treaded towards mine, slowly and steadily. He fixed his gaze onto me, those copper eyes of his boring into me to the point where I wanted to squirm. His alcohol-glazed expression made it hard to read exactly what he was thinking, and I could only fear what he was about to say. All but bracing myself, his voice came out soft and warm, “What was that for?”
Burying my chin underneath the covers, I spoke quietly, “I really like you, Frank.”
Frank nodded his head. “We’re friends.”
I smiled sadly, explaining, “I like you more than a friend, Frank. I want to be with you.”
Frank stopped, his brow knitted as his alcohol-diluted self finally grasped what was going on. He looked at me for a brief moment before closing his eyes. Just like that, he was leaning into me, kissing me again.
I dropped my jaw and he traced my lower lip with his tongue, making my breath tremble in the slightest. One of his hands made it’s way over to my hip, where he grabbed the bone and squeezed. Desperate to do something with my hands, I put one on his shoulder and brought the other to his side, running nearly shaking fingers up and down his torso. He kissed me harder, biting onto my bottom lip, and I clutched at his stomach as he did so, pulling the fabric of his shirt into a tight grasp. He moved, sitting up to peel off his shirt. He looked down at me and gently reached for the hem of mine, locking eyes with me as he asked, “You want your shirt off?”
Hesitating only for a moment, I nodded. Frank bobbed his head, helping me pull my shirt off. He tossed ours to the floor, then leaning over me. As he shifted, some of the covers fell from his body where they had been draped, revealing a soft stomach and dark happy trail. He was wearing briefs, I was surprised to find, these little grey things with black stripes. He kissed me again, hands grasping either side of my waist. Bringing his thumbs over the arch of my hipbone, I let out a small moan as they moved towards my lower stomach. He traced his fingers around, plucking them against the waistband of my jeans. I kissed him harder in return, placing a hand on his cheek and another on his back. I brought my fingernails, hard and biting across his shoulder blade, pressing into the smooth plumpness of his skin. As I scratched in a way that I anticipated was too harsh, Frank let out a little moan, just the smallest hint of pleasure. Digging my nails deeper, this sound returned, reinforced with the grinding on his hips against mine. I dragged my nails down the length of his back, finally squeezing his ass as well. I could feel how hard he was becoming, and it was then that my judgment came into play. I was tipsy, sure, and the alcohol was having somewhat of a numbing, compulsive effect on me without a doubt. But Frank was drunker, still, and it wouldn’t be right to do much else. I realized this, and my heart sank. Part of me was so overcome with joy that he had returned the feelings, but the smallest sliver of my mind was dreading the next morning, when he’d wake up hungover as shit and forget all about this. Even worse, perhaps he’d remember and put it in his book of the worst things to ever happen to him. I didn’t want to be like Pete, just a discarded lover to mope over and paint with regret. I wanted to be so much more than that, but with Frank the way he was that night, there was no telling what would happen the next day. I was scared, and as I slowed down the kisses one by one, I could only hope that this wouldn’t be the first and last time we were together.
“Frank,” I told. “We can’t do this, you’re drunk.”
Frank pouted, pushed his head against my chest and pleaded, “Come on, I’m fine!”
I put a hand on either cheek, pressing his forehead to mine. “We’re going to bed, okay? I don’t want to do this while you’re drunk. We’ll talk in the morning, I promise.”
Frank hovered a moment, then finally sliding off of me and falling onto his stomach. I grabbed my shirt from the floor, putting it back on as I asked him, “Do you want your shirt right now, Frank?”
Shaking his head, he muttered, “No, that’s okay. I’ll sleep like this.”
I turned to face him, moving a thread of his hair from his brow towards his hairline, over and over just stroking him. “Go to sleep, Frankie.”
He did. Soon enough, he was off, unresponsive and gentle and vulnerable right next to me. I brought my hand away from his hair, gazing once more at his features, his little belly, his collarbones, his line of hair traveling up from the waistband of his Hanes to his bellybutton. Man, he was gorgeous. Everything about him at all times; I couldn’t believe how long I could spend looking at him. I fell asleep facing him, a hand draped over his waist as I cuddled closer to him throughout the night.

Notes

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