Free Dark Soul Vol. 3 by Aleksandr Voinov Page A

where Silvio touched him. But he’d been right. It felt so good. And damn if Silvio didn’t know what he was doing, and if he didn’t pour his soul into it, too. To Silvio, there was no separation between body and soul, between emotion and sensation.
    “Silvio.” Franco wrestled for control, didn’t want to give in, couldn’t, couldn’t just yield like that. He touched Silvio’s head, gently pushed him back. The smacking sound when Silvio let go of his dick tightened his balls.
    Silvio glanced up at him. “What?”
    “You don’t know where I’ve been.”
    “Africa.”
    “And some other places. It’s . . . reckless. Don’t . . .” He struggled for words through the concern and fears and worries. The shame, too, just to make things more complicated. “You can’t just . . .”
    “Then I won’t swallow.”
    Good God. Franco tried to clear his throat and failed. But before he could say anything, Silvio stood and kissed him, and then it seemed suddenly all right, give and take, lips and teeth and tongue, Silvio clinging tight to him, his hand continuing where his mouth had stopped. Franco crushed Silvio to him, felt every bone in Silvio’s body align to his.
    If God had made them, he’d improved on the second try, perfected the model and removed that pesky conscience, too. Still, it felt right—the only other man who’d ever understand him. The only man he could trust unconditionally. Franco felt tears sting in his eyes and closed them to not give himself away. He hadn’t cried in years; he was out of practice.
    Silvio pulled back just enough to begin undressing him, and Franco wrestled that old instinct to pull away, slap off hands that tried to take his defenses he’d erected between himself and the world.
    But he let Silvio do this, pull the jacket off and the shirt, too. No undershirt—despite the shop assistant who’d tried to sell him some.
    Silvio tossed the clothes away and kissed him on the sternum. “Trust me.”
    “I do.”
    Silvio chuckled against his skin. “I want you bad, Franco.”
    I know. Franco lifted his hand and cupped the back of Silvio’s head. It felt like defeat that he couldn’t say no. “I just don’t want to regret this.”
    “Do you regret what we did back then?”
    No. We were kids, right? We had no clue what we were doing.
    But that was a lie. He’d always known, had always assumed that if Paolo caught them again, he’d kill them both, and he’d more than deserve it.
    “I want you too.” Push the thoughts away. Just feel. Just be— exactly like Silvio.
    Silvio pulled Franco’s trousers down completely, and Franco kicked off his shoes. Silvio knelt down to take his socks off, and whistled softly when he touched Franco’s bare feet. “That’s some serious callous there.”
    “It’s not ‘march or die’ for nothing.”
    Silvio laughed. “No kidding.” He came back up. “You’re a solid candidate for a pedicure.”
    Franco smiled. “I like the callouses. They’re useful.” Everywhere.
    He pulled Silvio into another kiss, exploring the echo of wine and food and the hot, eager sensuousness that welcomed him and pulled him deeper. Gone. Lost. Too easy to lose himself in these sensations, the hunger he’d kept in check for so long. He could just unleash it. Return to who he was from who he’d become. None of his comrades would believe he was doing this. Touching and being touched, speaking, laughing. He was the silent hunter, the man who didn’t speak, didn’t party, didn’t get drunk, didn’t fool around, fought like a rabid dog when cornered. And now here he was, kissing and holding his half-naked brother.
    “Stop thinking.” Silvio maneuvered him to the couch and made him sit, then slid out of his own trousers and boxers, showing off his hard dick.
    Franco was so riveted by the sight that he blinked awake only when Silvio tapped his legs. He lay back and stretched out on the couch, legs open enough that Silvio could find a place on top of