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It still runs through his head like a scene from a movie every once in a while, striking him when he least expects it. The blaring sound of the prison's alarm rang through the air as he stumbled over his own feet and scrambled over rooftops, desperately trying to avoid the gunshots that missed him by a hair. Until he grabbed his younger brother's hand and the bullets didn't miss anymore, back when he saw Nathan's face for the last time as it darkened with sheer horror, his words a dull sound in Sam's ears. He felt cold and powerless before losing conscience and then he fell, fell, fell.
Sam still feels like that sometimes, like falling when he remembers what happened on that dreadful day twelve years ago. Or are it thirteen by now? It's not like it matters. What matters is that the guards suddenly pull him away from a game of cards under his inner protest because it's cards and not dices, where you actually have to think and not just hope that God has your back for once in your miserable life.
So now Sam can't help but wonder whose bad side he's gotten on. Most of the guards pay him no mind cause all he does is read and work out and win some cigarettes and then lose some. And his fellow inmates? Well, he has two things to offer to those who get too close to him - a cigarette of which he owns plenty or a fist that can pack a hell of a punch by now. But the guard that leads Sam through the corridors to wherever the hell they're going doesn't say anything, simply grunts in response when Sam tries to dig into whatever is going on.
Guess you're having a bad day, Sam jokes inwardly, having learned quick that the guards don't react kind towards his sense of humor. Without further ado and wordlessly, he's shoved into the warden's office.
After that it all happens fast, way too fast for Sam to instantly catch up. The warden unceremoniously hands him a couple of documents as well as his allegedly belongings that Vargas took from him all those years ago, everything stuffed into a green duffel bag. "Saquen a este bastardo de aquí," is all Sam hears before he's dragged out of the office again. And although he wants to protest about being called a bastard at first he suddenly releases that he's getting out.
Sam doesn't believe it, at least not until he steps outside of the prison walls and is greeted by the suddenly far too hot and humid air that hits him like a truck. Thousands of questions race through his head all at once and his mouth stands open, face painted in disbelief. His vision is obscured by the scorching sun slowly setting on the horizon that he hasn't properly seen in so many years.
The silhouette of someone rather small and lean standing in front of a black and expensive looking car suddenly catches his eyes and Sam still doesn't understand. Even less so when he steps into the shadow of a nearby palm tree that grants him clear view. In front of him stands none other than Rafael Adler, Rafe, one of the two people that were with him on that terrible day that turned his life into a cheap and oh so repetitive prison show.
So of course the confusion in Sam's face grows further, taken back as he closes in on Rafe. A little smile crosses the other's features and he seems sympathetic or at least pretends to be. Rafe's always been good at pretending things, Sam can remember that much. He flinches at what follows, not used to being touched anymore and especially not in a friendly manner - a hand is on his shoulder, slender fingers pressing into his shoulder blades with reassuring pressure, quietly confirming that yes, this is real.
The smile on Rafe's lips loses emotion and he looks more like he's finally found time in his busy schedule to pick up a commodity he's recently purchased. And as much as it annoys Sam, he has no reason to be picky considering the fact that it was most likely none other than this man that bought Sam's freedom back. Whether it was probation or if Rafe bribed someone high up, Sam is sure he owes Rafe. Big time.
"Hello Rafael," Sam finally says, blinking a few times while trying to catch his composure. Speaking English to someone other than himself feels weird.
That small pout Rafe already displayed over a decade ago whenever he was mildly annoyed paints his features but he gives Sam a small and most likely fake laughter anyways. "Oh but Samuel, have you forgotten that I don't like it when people call me by my full name? It's so dull," he says and his fingers graze Sam's, taking the bag he's holding. "But hello to you, too."
"Guess that's what thirteen years do to you. You should be happy I even remember who you are." It's a joke, a bad one to boot but as of right now his wit and humor are the only weapons and therefor defense Sam has. He feels vulnerable, feels like he's treading on thin ice. Very thin ice.
But to his surprise Rafe's expressions lightens up, one corner of his lips curling up lightly as he gives an amused huff in response. "I suppose you are right. In a way, at least." Rafe walks over to the car that probably costs more than Sam has ever owned. He opens the trunk that is in the car's front and carelessly throws the green duffel bag inside. A mild frown settles on Rafe's face at the dirt and dust that suddenly emerge into the sky and before Sam can say anything the trunk closes with a loud sound. Rafe continues to move along the car, fingers elegantly sliding along the car's roof over which Rafe can barely look. "I suggest you get inside and I'll explain everything to you on the way to the airport. Unless, of course, you wanna waste another second of your life in this sorry shithole."
Sam only gives a couple of quick nods even though he couldn't agree more.
It's the second or third week in Scotland and it all started to make more and more sense after a few hours, a few days. Rafe - as promised - explained everything to Sam, how him and Nathan barely got away and presumed Sam dead considering the bullets and the long fall that followed. A rumor got Rafe back to the confounded prison in which Sam's life took a turn for the worse and it was Rafe, just Rafe, that got Sam out of there. He won't reveal the exact amount of money he had to pay, just tells Sam that he doesn't look for Avery's treasure to get richer because he really doesn't need it. And Sam believes it especially considering the fact that Rafe simply bought a freaking cathedral in Scotland.
Rafe's excessive determination makes it obvious to Sam that he's most likely seen as nothing more than a very expensive tool to finally find Avery's treasure. But he can't deny that he's enjoying this way more than prison. The climate took some time getting used to but to finally wear normal clothes again, to take a shower every day and whenever he wanted to and most importantly to sleep in a bed, one his frame actually fits into and where there's even space left, one that's soft and comfortable, standing in a room that's his. More or less.
Life is easier and more comfortable now. A lot more comfortable but not a lot easier since Sam has to do what others may consider actual work. Rafe is patient with him though, at least on the outside. He's also not quite the same when Sam last saw him, his intentions and thoughts that he doesn't want anyone to know even harder to read and well-hidden than those long long years ago. And yet it doesn't change the fact that Rafe is still a spoiled rich boy with a large private jet and a short temper. Sam hasn't witnessed it up close yet but when Rafe makes phone calls close by or talks to a woman named Nadine, apparently his business partner of some kind and the leader of the mercenaries around them, he was very quick to anger.
It doesn't stop Sam from glancing at Rafe once or twice though. And then some more. Rafe was always pretty and right up Sam's alley and it's hard to ignore his supple body's obvious charms after spending a decade locked up with some rather unpleasant-looking fellows. Because Rafe has aged and unfortunately enough not in a bad way. Broader shoulders but the same narrow hips and thin legs.
Sam swallows, watching all of it from behind as he follows Rafe who talks while leading the two of them out of the cathedral, black jacket stopping right above his ass and those tight jeans. Is it really fashionable nowadays to wear pants like these? Reaching inside of the blue sherpa denim jacket Rafe has so generously bought for Sam - like all of his clothes - he pulls out a pack of smokes. Once outside he lights the cigarette and catches up to Rafe who is watching how some of Shoreline's mercenaries are working on digging open a grave. Rafe's arms are crossed and his eyebrows knitted together.
In Scotland's faint sunlight Rafe looks a little paler than usual. It's the first time since Sam is out of prison that he has the chance to take in Rafe's face from this close and without it being noticed. They're just standing next to each other after all, right? So Sam drinks those details in. The sharp lines of Rafe's face that have gotten rougher but that are still soft. The lips that are slightly chapped and the cheeks that have a red tinge on them due to Scotland's cold. The two eyes, central heterochromia turning dark outer blue into a radiant brown, long eyelashes hiding them for a second there.
A memory returns to Sam's head, of those late nights before Panama in which Rafe was above him, under him, next to him, pressed tightly against him. In a way that made those otherworldly eyes blaze up and Rafe's boyish features shift in pleasure. Sam's calloused fingertips prickle with the long-gone sensation of touching Rafe's smooth skin and he suddenly chokes and coughs as he exhales the smoke from his cigarette.
And even though Sam quickly averts his gaze when Rafe looks over, he's sure that Rafe caught him staring. A light but arrogant and all saying smirk confirms Sam's suspicion. "Everything alright, Samuel? You're too valuable to me to die. Especially not from something as pathetic as smoking."
Sam just huffs with amusement at the comment, shrugging his shoulders as he takes another drag from his cigarette. "I'm touched by your concern but I'm fine, don't you worry."
"Oh, sarcasm. Finally warming up to me again despite the cold weather and the fact that I won't let you contact that stupid little brother of yours?" Rafe says and his gloved hand travels up to his face, fingers brushing away a snow flake that melted on his colored cheeks.
"The only reason I haven't warmed up to you is that you don't even give me a reason why I'm not allowed to contact Nathan after thirteen freaking years."
"You want a reason?" The tone of Rafe's voice is mordant. "How about he ditched me and Avery's treasure? Threw away all the effort the three of us put into discovering it. And for what? El Dorado? Some forsaken desert? To please his buddy-buddy Victor goddamn Sullivan instead of honoring your work?" Rafe's mouth is a flat line, moving a little as he grits his teeth, trying hard to keep his emotions in check. "But trust me, that's not even the main reason why I never want to see Nathan Drake again. Or hear from him. It's because I was trying to reach out to the jail in Panama, to anyone associated with it to find out if you were still alive or what the hell happened to you. Your dearest brother told me that it was impossible that you were still alive though and that the thought of going back there hurt him too much. Bullshit."
And although Sam is quite sure that only half of this - or even less - is true, it still stings in his gut like a low blow. He's looked Nathan up on the Internet and his little brother seems to lead a pretty interesting and damn near perfect life. Successful treasure hunts in the past years among other things, one of them being an admittedly quite cute wife. Sam clears his throat before throwing his cigarette on the snow-covered and frozen ground. "Fine, I got it."
Rafe just scoffs at that. "Doesn't mean you won't ask for him again." He takes a deep breath, which he exhales into the cold air, transformed into a tiny cloud. "Look, I didn't get you out of jail to hear about your damn brother. Find Avery's treasure not for me but with me and you can do whatever the hell you want to afterwards."
"Is that what I owe your for getting me out of jail?" Sam asks and buries his shivering hands in the pockets of his wide jeans.
The shift in Rafe's expression is minor and Sam can't quite identify the emotion settling on the younger man's face. "You don't owe me anything. Not really." Rafe's fingers tighten their grip on his arm, hugging himself firmer. "You were rotting in that filthy prison for so many years. Could've been me. The least I could do was get you out of there."
"Remorse? You? Of all things? Not very suiting."
"Spare me the mockery, I've backhanded or killed people for less. But the little time we spent in that prison was already unbearable enough to me. I still want to shoot every creepy guard and stinking criminal that lusted after me and thought it was okay to touch me or had the audacity to ask me if I wanted to suck their dick for cigarettes. Urgh." Rafe squeezes his eyes shut for a second there, his whole body shaking in anger or disgust, Sam isn't quite sure. "I can't imagine what it must've been like to be in there for years. When I found out you were still alive, I wanted to burn the whole place and everyone in there down. But getting you out was easier. And maybe cheaper."
Sam simply shrugs. "I've been in worse prisons to be honest. Not for that long but yeah, you get the notion. I appreciate the allegedly concern though."
Rafe snorts at that, one of his hands waving Sam's words off like an annoyingly buzzing fly before he turns around to leave. "Don't let it get to your head, Samuel."
They leave Scotland after another two weeks of not making a lot of progress regarding Avery's treasure but as before, Rafe is patience personified despite his short to non-existing temper. It's just the two of them, namely Sam and Rafe, who take off in Rafe's private jet and to Sam it's a weird kind of sensation when they land on LAX and he can set his feet back on American ground for the first time in what feels like forever. And that even though he's never been much of a patriot.
All Rafe does is to simply roll his eyes at Sam's excitement while he's on the phone, caught up in scheduling business meetings and such. It's the only reason they've returned here, at least that's what Sam overheard when Rafe had a couple of phone calls with his father. He basically forced Rafe to come back to take care of things that really are important unlike hunting after fairy tale treasure for whatever inane reason. Not Sam's fault Rafe puts his calls on speaker more often than not.
It's about forty minutes later that they arrive at what seems to be Rafe's house. Or rather Rafe's picture perfect mansion, nestled along a quiet and sequestered road granting an absurd amount of privacy considering they're around the South Bay area. Sam almost loses his shit over the coastline view once they're inside, the house sitting high on a hillside that overlooks a small beach and Rafe just groans. "It's nothing special."
"Yeah, to you maybe. But I only ever know houses, scratch that, mansions like this from, well, legally shaky activities," Sam says as he takes slow steps through the open foyer, careful not to touch anything or to go where Rafe doesn't want him to.
"My old man bought it to piss someone off. That guy wanted the house badly but my father didn't like him so," Rafe shrugs, following short behind Sam. "He gifted it to me when I turned twenty-one to finally have me out of my parents' houses. Pretentious dickhead." Sam doesn't comment anything on that, just blinks a few times with disbelief. He guesses that's how the rich people get their amusement.
Rafe half-heartedly shows him around the mansion then, while trying to keep Sam's interest limited to one of the guest rooms that is meant to act as his bedroom and the giant library reaching over both of the house's floors.
The following days turn into a week fast and without Sam really realizing it. He's busy going through the information Rafe has gathered over the years and even busier trying to put the big puzzle of Avery's treasure together. Luckily working in Rafe's giant library offers a lot more structure than what the improvised office in Scotland's cathedral offered. A giant wooden table that stems from the seventeenth century is placed in the middle of the large room, with bookshelves that reach high up to the ceiling all around it. Light floods in from a single but two-story and therefor large window that points to the sea. Moveable stairs make the high shelves easily accessable and Sam has to admit that he's really grateful for the working environment at his disposal.
What Sam isn't quite so grateful about are the few hours Rafe spends with him each day. Said hours are mostly in the evening due to Rafe's busy and apparently stressful schedule. Not busy enough to skip his updates from Sam, of course.
In any case, Sam's problem with Rafe's presence is that he looks forward to it, to being around him, to their time together. Despite himself. The thought makes him wrinkle his nose now that he thinks about it yet again because he knows this isn't the way he liked Rafe all those years back. Liked him because he was young and horny and maybe a bit stupid. But to genuinely enjoy Rafe's company? It sounds absurd.
That's why Sam still hopes that maybe, hopefully, it's just him being old and horny and profoundly stupid. Which is a possibility considering his years without anything sexual except his own hand. And then there's also the way his skin prickles whenever their fingers brush on accident or the way Sam's lips become too dry when Rafe leans closer while they go over the same passage in a book.
It's a mild and early evening when Sam can't deny the fact that whatever it is he feels for Rafe goes far beyond his unsatisfied desire for a plain and simple fuck. For once Sam doesn't think about the other man and has actually found the concentration to go over old, really old papers that roughly document the last years of Avery's life. Fortunately or unfortunately enough Sam finds something of interest and he's more than just eager to deliver his findings to Rafe who's going over business stuff in his study.
Or at least that's what Sam thinks until he catches himself overhearing yet another of Rafe's phone calls, the study's door ajar. There's no speaker this time so Sam can only hear Rafe's part of the conversation but he's pretty sure that it's not Rafe's father this time around. "I told you to stop contacting me in any way ever. I know I'm probably so much of a better fuck than your prude little wife but you know what I'm not? A cheap second-class whore you can do booty calls on whenever you damn well please."
Rafe's voice is low yet to Sam's schooled ears audibly raged, having learned quickly before their time in that confounded prison in Panama how to read it. Silence falls upon the room except for Rafe's steps, Sam risking a swift glance to see him path along the room's wide window. A frown settles on Rafe's face then. "No, you listen. And why? I'll fucking tell you why. Because I can destroy your whole damn life in a matter of seconds. And how?" One of those arrogant little laughters Rafe does so well leaves him. "Well, it'll accidentally slip past my lips in my father's presence that his future business partner's son and heir fucked his son. My father won't like that. Not at all. Cause he's a stuck-up piece of shit like that. He'll refuse your father's offer. Your father will blame you. Your wife will know. Leave you. And me? I'll just sit here, not caring a fig about you. So piss off."
The hang-up key tone is heard and Rafe stares at his phone in his hand, nose pulled up in disgust and brows furrowed. And since Sam really isn't in the mood to let Rafe find out about him eavesdropping and therefor giving him a reason to wreak his anger on him, he tiptoes away.
Besides, Sam is currently busy battling an unfamiliar feeling, a feeling that finally confirms his apprehension of him having a thing for Rafe. That feeling is jealousy, something Sam has never actively had to deal with. He groans at the thought as he returns to the giant library, falling down onto one of the white leather chairs placed there. As he leans back his hand wanders onto his forehead, sitting in silence while wondering why in the world he would fall for someone like Rafe of all people. A spoiled brat, even at thirty-something. Who sees anything and anyone as their tool, his to acquire as long as he waves around a big enough bundle of cash.
"What's the matter with you? Bad day?" Sam suddenly hears from right next to him. It leaves him startled for a second before he looks up to Rafe - because who else would it be. The few servants Rafe allows to bask in his favor are only here every other day.
Sam just shrugs, shaking his earlier thoughts off. And yet he can't stop his eyes from following Rafe and the movement of his hips as the other walks over to the large table, books, papers and the like scattered on it. "Yeah, had better days," Sam says. "Worse ones, too."
"Oh, I got a cure for that." Rafe slightly waves the bottle of Bourbon in his hand around that Sam only notices now. He also has two tumblers in his other hand which he places on the table, pouring in the amber-colored whiskey. Without asking Sam if he wants the second glass Rafe walks over and hands it to him. "Cheers," he says although his voice doesn't sound cheerful at all.
They chink glasses and down the little content the glasses hold in one swallow. Sam sighs audibly, not used to alcohol of this quality and strength anymore. "You don't look like you're in such a great mood either," Sam says even though he knows - kinda knows - what's on Rafe's mind.
"Well, for one I would rather be spending my time in a tropical drinking hole than assist my father with his damn business and also," Rafe stops there and Sam can see the wheels in Rafe's brain turning. Usually a quick thinker, the other man seems to be stuck on his words for once. "Nevermind, it's none of your business."
"Whatever you say."
Still sitting, Sam hands Rafe his empty glass who in return frowns at him. "Who am I, your damn maid?" A sentence akin to I bet you would good in a maid costume forms on Sam's tongue and luckily enough he doesn't say it out loud, his mouth opening but his voice stuck in his throat. He must look pretty stupid because Rafe looks irritated, shaking his head as he's about to take the tumbler. His motion stops as his hand jerks away. With reluctance he takes his insistently vibrating phone out of his tight black jeans' pockets. Rafe turns his back to Sam and answers the call, taking slow steps across the room as well. "Do you think I-"
Even from a distance Sam can hear that Rafe got interrupted and it visibly angers him, clenching the glass in his hand tight enough for his knuckles to turn white. Sam can't see the other's face and maybe it's better that way. "You have the audacity to call me again after I told you not even five damn minutes ago to stop harassing me and then you interrupt me to tell me you're sorry? Now for the love of God, I'm too busy to deal with your bullshit. Stop calling me or I will turn what I said earlier into reality."
Rafe hangs up - again. He places his phone and the tumbler still in his hand onto an old book laying on the table, uncaring for the fact that its probably worth a small fortune. Meanwhile Sam tries to find words to overcome the awkward silence. "So, heard any good jokes lately? Or, bad ones?"
"I'm not in the mood for your senseless quips, Samuel."
Sam scratches the back of his neck before his next words and he's not sure if the alcohol has gone to his head too quickly or if he's simply tired of carefully dancing around Rafe. "Trouble with your boyfriend?"
Rafe turns his head over his shoulder, his eyebrows furrowed with irritation. "First, I don't do boyfriends. Second, what do you care? And third, how the fuck do you know that the other person on the phone was a guy I was involved with? I was careful not to mention or say anything about who or what about this call was in your presence." An audible swallow is all Sam manages to give as answer before averting his gaze nervously. Of course Rafe notices it instantly because he notices every little change in a person's behavior, groomed to perceive things like these and use them to his advantage. It's how the business world works and despite not necessarily wanting to be a part of it, Rafe is at the top of its game. He moves over to Sam without hesitation, putting his hands onto the chair's armrest, effectively trapping Sam between himself and the seat. "So, what does that mean, Samuel? Let me guess, you listened in on that call I held in my office prior to this one, didn't you?"
"Y-Yeah," Sam says feebly as he turns his gaze back towards Rafe, trying to let his best puppy eyes show his feigned regret. "I-I can explain. Really. I found a clue about Avery's last whereabouts in one of the documents and wanted to tell you but ... well, you were busy. With. Y'know. I'm sorry, I-"
"So you automatically assume that the douchebag on the other side of the line is my boyfriend just because you heard that we fucked?" Rafe tut-tuts, making his mockery painfully obvious. "Back in Scotland you said that remorse doesn't suit me. You know what doesn't suit you? A petty and unattractive thing such as jealousy. And you are, in fact, jealous. Aren't you Sam?"
Sam swallows once more, feeling like he's on a court trial, bombarded with question that have only one obvious answer. He tries not to let his next words sound like he's intimidated. "N-No, I'm not." Goddamnit.
To Sam's dismay his sentence sounds more like a question and Rafe notices the insecurity behind Sam's words, a cocky halfway smirk around his lips. "You've always been a smooth-talker but a terrible liar." Rafe tilts his head a little and leans closer, close enough for Sam to feel the other's breath ghost over his lips. The half-lidded look of Rafe's different colored eyes petrifies Sam, at least until Rafe leans close enough for their lips to brush for a second there - until Sam jerks away. "What's the matter? You've gotten shy in prison?"
"No. At least - not that I know. It's just ... why would you still be interested in me?"
Rafe cocks an eyebrow at him. "Because you're convenient. You're around. And aside from that, you know what I want. How I want it. At least you did all those years ago." And then it's Rafe who averts his otherwise so confident gaze. "I've dealt with many imbeciles over the years. Men who are bored of their wives. Men who think I'm a nice little trophy. Men who truly believe they're worthy of me." A vile scoff leaves Rafe before he turns back to Sam. Their eyes meet but it doesn't stop there. Both of Rafe's hands take Sam's, guiding them onto his narrow hips. Something akin to a rush of electricity, tiny as it may be, courses through Sam, making him shudder. "But you?" Rafe finally continues. "You know your place. And you're somewhat familiar. And I don't know how you did it but of al the men I've been with, you're the only one who didn't utterly bore me. Rather the opposite."
Somewhere in the back of his head Sam knows that all of this is probably just sweet-talk - Rafe's way to worm himself into Sam's mind like the smoke of his cigarettes worms its way into his clothes. Remaining there even if you try your hardest to wash it off. It's the same way Rafe got under Sam's skin and into his bed all those years ago and it still seems to work, maybe even more so now. Because Sam closes the gap between his and Rafe's lips again, trading fleeting but numerous kisses. At least until Rafe takes his hands away from Sam's that are still resting Rafe's hips. Rafe grabs the front of Sam's brown shirt and it's not gentle, just persistent. As persistent as the way Rafe keeps his soft lips glued to Sam's now, eyes closed, the dark slashes of his eyebrows furrowed.
Rafe Adler has always been an eyecatcher, Sam muses quietly as he closes his eyes as well. He chuckles inwardly at the thought and that it's Rafe who is at his disposal now, more or less. Unconsciously, his grip on Rafe's hips tightens, pulling him closer, and it elicits a low and approving hum from the other man. The small noise reawakens something inside of Sam, like a candle that had been lit and then left to burn out alone and in the unforgiving darkness. A candle that is now lightened again, thanks to Rafe, making Sam feel hot all over.
That heat grows even further when Rafe places one knee on the wide chair and between Sam's spread legs before pressing said knee teasingly against Sam's crotch. The sound that leaves Sam is embarrassingly loud and needy. He feels Rafe smirk against his lips, especially when his tongue slips inside Sam's conveniently opened mouth, seeking his tongue. And Sam can't help but to yield eagerly, parting his lips further as their tongues intertwine and teeth nip at each other's lips every once and again.
Sam tastes the rich Bourbon on Rafe and Rafe probably tastes something similar coupled with the distant flavor of cigarettes on Sam. And as much as Sam enjoys this, it's him who parts the kiss, in dire need for air. They both open their eyes and Rafe has that irritatingly arrogant smile on his face, white teeth shining in the library's twilight. "Out of breath already, old-timer?"
A scoff leaves Sam and he's about to protest when Rafe's teeth stop him from doing so. They dig into his neck before Rafe roughly sucks on the suddenly sensitive spot, making Sam gasp and buck his hips reluctantly. He catches his breath though. "I'm only ten years older than you are."
"Eleven, to be precise," Rafe retorts and presses four precise and long kisses onto the birds in flight inked into Sam's skin. His hands wander in the meantime, unhooking the belt holding up Sam's wide and washed-out jeans with expertise. He chuckles a little when he finds that Sam is half-hard already. "Pretty eager for your age, though."
Sam wants to say something along the lines of not having had sex in over a freaking decade and coincidentally the last person who's touched him like this was Rafe. But he doesn't. Because Rafe will give him that look of humiliating pity and maybe even call this thing off. So Sam just shrugs and lets Rafe do his thing which currently consists of unzipping Sam's fly and palming his cock through his black boxers.
And all Sam can do in return is to suck in a harsh breath, trembling. It's intense, even through the fabric of his underwear and he suddenly feels confident enough to move his hands under the other's tight black shirt, skin hot beneath his fingers. Rafe immediately arches into the touch of Sam caressing over his back and Sam suddenly recalls just how sensitive it was and how very welcoming Rafe had found ministrations to his backside. So one of Sam's fingertips teasingly slides over Rafe's spine then, making him sigh while his eyes flutter close. "You remember," Rafe groans and eagerly slips his hands into Sam's underwear.
A moan forces itself past Sam's far too dry lips, feeling dizzy for a second there because damn has another person's hand on my dick always felt this good? His head falls back against the generous backrest of the white leather chair, mouth agape. "Obviously I do," he grunts between a gasp that's caused by Rafe's delicate hand, wrapping around his cock without even bothering to pull his pants down. Rafe applies a little more pressure than what one might find comfortable to punish Sam's cockiness, but all Sam does is appreciate the way Rafe's hand keeps moving up and down his length ever so slowly. "Good lord."
The friction grows heavenly when Rafe speeds up and it's almost as intense as the first time someone else wrapped their hand around Sam's cock. Rafe's hand recreates the same feeling as back then, a feeling Sam's own hand couldn't provide over the years, a feeling as intense and hot as it can be. Sam's hips buck upwards involuntarily and he wants to say something, wants to tell Rafe to stop because he's so damn close already but he wants nothing more as of right now than for this to last longer. But he's breathless. So much that he can't even release the loud moan that threatens to tumble over his lips, turning into a low whine. His fingernails dig into the skin of Rafe's back and everything comes crashing down when Sam's orgasm hits him, too soon, too quick, staining his pants and Rafe's hand.
There's not even time for Sam to come down before Rafe chuckles. "I know I'm good but that good?"
"Maybe. Or maybe it's the fact that no one's laid their literal hands on me in thirteen years. At least not in the way you just did," Sam murmurs and takes his hands back to himself, brushing over his face and through his messy hair. He groans as he realizes what he just said and blames it on the ringing in his ears and his orgasm's afterglow.
It's worth the confused look on Rafe's face though. Kinda. "Are you saying -"
"That I haven't fucked anyone in that long and that the last person I did fuck was you?" And although he has no reason to, Sam throws a smug grin at Rafe. "Yeah, I am saying just that."
Sam expects something like a heinous and ridiculing laughter or a low blown joke as Rafe's reply but the other man is, for once in his life, dumbstruck. He blinks a couple of times and then suddenly moves his sullied hand, wiping it clean on Sam's stained underwear. Both of his hands are on either side of Sam's face then, the contact slightly tickling against his stubble. And before Sam can even begin to fathom what's gotten into Rafe the other's tongue is back in his mouth, slick and hot, and even more demanding as before, pushing firmly against Sam's. Both of them close their eyes in unison and Rafe's hands wander once more, roughly grasping the front of Sam's shirt, forcefully trying to pull him out of his seat. Sam obeys, his pants hanging loose around his hips as he gets up.
Their lips part while Rafe drags them through the library and into the big foyer. "W-What's going on?" Sam manages to ask, looking down to Rafe as his eyes flutter back open.
"You wanna fuck me, don't you?" Rafe's question is so straightforward that it takes Sam off-guard, as speechless as Rafe was moments ago. "Because I want you to fuck me. Badly. Very badly. I've wa-"
And as much as Sam wants to hear Rafe's word out and despite the satisfaction still lingering in him, he can't keep his resurfacing confidence and desire down. His mind goes blank when Rafe tells him that he wants to be fucked because Jesus H Christ it's like one of the many fantasies that came over Sam on those particularly lonely nights in prison. Without thinking twice his hands wrap around Rafe's fairly slim wrists which causes Rafe to let go off Sam's shirt, still talking but by now it's nothing but white noise in Sam's ears. He forces Rafe against the closest wall, pinning his arms next to his head while crowding as close as possible.
A sensual sigh leaves Rafe at the impact of his back hitting the wall and Sam's body pressing so close to his. It's Sam's turn to lean down and claim Rafe's lips with his now, teeth digging into the smaller man's lower lip with an obvious demand. Sam can feel Rafe's light smile in return, humming with approval as he obediently opens his mouth. The dance of their tongues is the same as before although Sam is the persistent one this time around, exploring Rafe's mouth thoroughly. His hands let go off Rafe's wrists in the meantime, only to grab the hem of the other's black shirt, sliding it up his hips and chest with tantalizing slowness.
The fabric of the shirt teasingly brushes over the swell of Rafe's nipples and he pleasantly sighs into the kiss, the kiss that has taken control of both of them by now. It's carnal and wet, deep enough that even Rafe has to gasp for air during the fleeting moments in which they part. And despite Sam's unwillingness to tear his mouth away from Rafe's he does so, quickly pulling the other's shirt over his head, dropping it onto the ground. "Where to?" Sam pants.
It's hard to hold back and actually relocate this, Sam realizes, his gaze anchored to Rafe. The other's lips are full and swollen from the attention they've gotten, a faint flush on his cheeks that spreads all the way over his neck and onto his bare chest, sparse but dark hair on it. But Sam quite literally swallows his desire and impatience down. He's rewarded with Rafe's hands on his shirt, making quick work of pulling it over his head - although a little awkwardly due to their height difference. Rafe drops it onto the ground next to his own discarded shirt. "Upstairs," Rafe finally says. "But - wait." Before Sam can ask what the matter is he can feel Rafe's slightly calloused fingers brush over the side of his stomach. "Are those -?"
"Oh," Sam replies, finally understanding that Rafe is examining the three scars on Sam's side, grim reminders of the bullet wounds. "Yeah. The doctors ... well, 'doctors' patched me up. Didn't do a very good or pretty job but hey, at least I lived. Somewhat."
Rafe's eyebrows are knitted together but for once not in anger but in contemplation. His mouth opens as his gaze shifts from the scars back onto Sam's face but he chooses not to speak. Instead he places his hands on Sam's neck, pulling him down for another influx of kisses while dragging their entangled bodies up the stairs.
Sam hasn't been in the master bedroom of Rafe's mansion before and if he wasn't breathless from the hungry kissing already, he would be as the two of them enter the spacious room. He can't take in all the details because Rafe's mouth on his neck is far too distracting but the modern design in gray, white and various shades of brown fits the rest of Rafe's home. The back of the room offers extensive sea views thanks to the generous floor-to-ceiling windows and the wide balcony. A partition wall makes sure that the king-sized bed is out of view from the outside and Sam finds himself pushed onto said bed. "Eyes on me, Samuel," Rafe demands as he follows, climbing on top of Sam.
The rising moon's twilight is the only source of light in the room, at least until Rafe claps twice. A soft light way above the bed turns on but Sam barely notices it, dazzled by the comfortable softness of the gray and tightly weaved satin sheets under him. His pants and underwear fall victim to Rafe's swift hands and all the completely naked Sam can do is release a content sigh, not having realized until now that he's hard again.
But whatever it is that Rafe has planned next, Sam is eager to deny it. Without much effort he suddenly flips their positions but Rafe doesn't seem to mind, parting his legs to accommodate Sam. From beneath him, Rafe offers an amused grin to Sam. "Think you'll last longer this time?" Rafe asks, his husky voice giving away his by this point raw longing.
"Yes. Hopefully. Although I can't guarantee it if you keep teasing me like that." Before Rafe can reply Sam moves a little, placing slow kisses onto the curve of Rafe's collarbone, down his chest and along each rib, letting his teeth dig into smooth and heated skin every once and again before sweeping his tongue over it. Sam is thrilled by the rise and fall of Rafe's flat and well-toned stomach that quivers in anticipation of every movement coming from Sam's side.
"Doesn't seem like you haven't done this in thirteen years," Rafe whispers, gasping as Sam places more and more light kisses around his navel. His hips shift restlessly, desperate to move closer towards Sam, desperate for friction. An especially harsh jerk of Rafe's still clothed hips against Sam's bare chest follows, caused by Sam's fingers gracing Rafe's hipbones. Sam loses not another second to yank off the other's tight pants and underwear impatiently, carelessly tossing the clothes off the bed.
"Turn around," Sam says, demands, at least if the little spark that glimmers in Rafe's eyes whenever he's not in control is any indication. The smaller man complies but not before tossing an almost empty bottle of lube and a condom towards Sam who barely catches it. With an arrogant scoff Rafe turns to lay on his stomach, ass teasingly pushed into the air.
The picture presented to Sam demands him to gather all of his remaining restraint as he opens the bottle and coats his fingers with the cold liquid. He warms it between his digits before his index-finger nudges teasingly against Rafe's hole, slowly easing its way inside, drawing a low moan from Rafe. Sam leans down then, distracting Rafe with kisses to his backside, tracing over every dip and rise of muscle, the bump of his spine and his shoulder blades, some of it like Sam memorized, some not.
With a whimper Rafe rolls his hips, desperate to meet the finger that pushes in and out of him. Sam bites into the delicate curve where Rafe's neck meets his shoulder in the meantime, roughly sucking a mark onto the heated skin there. "Another," Rafe demands breathlessly, his head falling back, next to Sam's. And Sam isn't one to deny Rafe, not right now at least, pressing a second and insistent finger inside that joins the first. A surprised gasp leaves Rafe, his eyes screwing shut. "I mean another mark, you idiot."
A soft yet by no means regretful Whoops slips past Sam's lips. He knows how to make his allegedly mistake up to Rafe though, remembers the spot that made him come undone all those years ago. Without hesitating Sam pulls his fingers out - for the sole reason to swiftly and relentlessly push them back inside, curling against Rafe's prostate.
Sam repeats the move a couple of times, enjoying the wet sounds it causes and the ecstatic noises it draws out of Rafe, all the while putting more and more marks over Rafe's back. "Get on with it," Rafe growls soon enough, pressing the side of his face into one of the seemingly countless pillows.
"As you wish." Sam removes his fingers from the other's body, making Rafe whimper at the loss of fullness and contact. Without further ado Sam puts the condom from before on. One of his hands cups Rafe's left, firm asscheek then, pushing it aside to reveal his slicked hole. A sharp intake of breath follows when Sam's other hand places the tip of his cock against it, the moment interrupted by Rafe's rough voice.
"Can you ju-" but then Rafe interrupts himself, a soft but long moan forcing its way past his lips, joined by a deep grunt from Sam. They're both caused by Sam's hips that drop forward, pressing past the slickened ring of Rafe's hole. The feeling surges through Sam with violent force and he pauses his movements, his body rigid with the effort of not simply slamming into the other's still tight heat.
Rafe's impatience comes through, the other man arching his back and pushing his hips backwards, trying to get Sam moving. Sam doesn't put up with it though, placing his hands on either side of Rafe's hips, digging his fingers into soft flesh and hard bone. A frustrated grunt leaves Rafe, protesting. "Sam, fuck - please -"
"I forgot how well you beg when you get needy like this." With a low chuckle to accompany his words, Sam presses his hips forward while leaning over Rafe, his chest flush against the other's back. A whimper escapes Rafe that he muffles by pressing his face into one of the many pillows, his hands grasping the by now messy sheets below him. It's reason enough for Sam to bury his face into the crook of Rafe's neck, taking in the musky scent of the other's sweat.
The speed of Sam's thrusts accelerates then, slowly starting to lose his rhythm. "Hey," he suddenly whispers against Rafe's ear. "Hey, look at me." And to his surprise Rafe complies, if slowly. The other's eyes are soft, as unguarded and honest as his voice, blue color dominating over brown for once. That soft flush from earlier has turned harsher, a pale pink spreading over Rafe's cheeks and down his neck, over his shoulders, the color similar to the several marks Sam has left on Rafe's skin. A couple of loose hair strands of Rafe's usually so perfect hair hang in front of his forehead, making Sam's lips curl into a bemused smirk for a moment. "I also forgot how good you looked like this."
"There you go again with those cheesy ass compliments," Rafe replies breathlessly, managing to form a smirk despite the lust painted so obviously across his face. And for once that smirk isn't arrogant but sensual, even if a little challenging. Sam doesn't hesitate to return it and is pleasantly surprised to find one of Rafe's hands in his thick hair, tugging on it. Their mouths meet once more, Rafe's tongue immediately and insistently pushing against Sam's lips. He parts them willingly and their tongues fight, at least until the next myriad of gasps and moans force their way out of both Sam and Rafe.
Sam feels how Rafe's grasp in his hair tightens as he snakes his hand between Rafe's stomach and the mattress, wrapping his hand around the other's until now neglected cock. He takes in the little quiver of Rafe's lips and how his eyes flutter shut. "Close?" Sam asks and Rafe gives a couple of frantic nods, unable to speak as another moan spills over his lips.
So all Sam can do now is use the pent-up restraint that made him hold back and release it, the fervor and speed with which he moves his hips almost savage. His hand on Rafe's cock copies what little rhythm is left of his thrusts until he feels it twitch and the sweaty body below him tremble. He watches Rafe's mouth open as it releases a long whine, coming undone and spilling his release onto Sam's hand. The other's face and the way Rafe's hole contracts and tightens around Sam's own cock sends him tumbling over the edge as well, his climax hitting him hard.
Both of them are catching their breath, panting into the pillows and the by now heavy air. "This is the part where you get out of me and more importantly off me," Rafe growls, finally letting go off Sam's hair. Sam gives a held back laughter as reply, pulling out of the other man with a groan. Rafe almost immediately rolls onto his back, his slender fingers grazing over the sticky mess of his own cum on his stomach. It's not much since Sam's hand caught most of it, but enough to make Rafe frown. "Be useful and give me a tissue from the nightstand. You could use one or two yourself, I suppose."
They clean themselves as well as the tissues allow them to and Sam is about to get back into the ridiculously comfortable bed when Rafe gets up from it. He wordlessly grabs a black dressing gown from a nearby chair and puts it on before pointing at another chair. With a little sign of exhaustion in his steps, Sam stumbles over to the chair and grabs another dressing gown, although in white. He gives Rafe a confused look, one of his eyebrows lowered. "Put it on, idiot."
Sam does as he's being told although the piece of clothing is a little to small for him. Still, it covers the most important parts. It doesn't stop Rafe from chuckling softly before he steps outside onto the wide balcony, Sam following him shortly. It's dark and quiet outside except for the waves softly breaking against the sandy beach before ebbing away. A low, almost inaudibly sigh leaves Rafe's mouth before he reaches into his gown's pocket, pulling out a pack of smokes. He opens it and puts a cigarette into his mouth, lighting it with the lighter that was stuffed into the almost empty pack. After taking a couple of long drags from the cigarette, he hands it to Sam who accepts it impatiently.
"Just so we're clear, I still don't do boyfriends," Rafe suddenly says.
"Got it."
Rafe turns to leave, stopping for a moment before he steps inside. "Good. Come to bed when you're done with that cancer stick."