Sam sat beside Clay in the evening commute back home from the pub, lost in his thoughts. The early evening sunshine shone directly on his face from the parted windows and he used a palm for cover. Clay was fast asleep, his head lolling on Sam’s shoulders, drool pooling down his lips onto his shirt and his hand resting on Sam’s ribs.
They’d said their goodbyes and stumbled out the pub at four o’clock, giggling and livened up from lunchtime drinking, so when Clay had suggested Sam should come back to his place for tea – in a sexy, playful tone that wasn’t fooling anyone – Sam was more than happy to oblige. When they’d left the table and got lost in themselves, kissing as they wandered out into the streets, Frank had yelled after them. “Make him beg, Clay!”
Sam had given him a flip as they
