Do You Trust Me?
"Do you trust me, Mikey?"
The first time Sam asked him that, they were standing on a Sumatran mountain with twin machine guns at the ready, their eyes painted in camouflage patterns and their backs aching from a long haul and a climb up a sheer cliff to the hideout of a warlord.
The second time Sam wondered if Michael trusted him, he had confronted him with a parcel of information; the truth behind Sam's long lunches with his government palls. They were sitting by the docks in Miami, Sam with both hands in his pockets and his eyes downcast, Michael with a vein throbbing in his temple, anger etched upon every feature.
The third time Sam asked him, Michael was stretched out on his bed naked, his hands bound above his head, his cock on Sam's lips, throbbing and on the verge of orgasm, Sam's other hand groping for a lit candlestick.
The answer is the same as it's always been: yes, yes, yes.