Capture & Surrender

by Aleksandr Voinov

  Once again, Brandon relaxed, still more tension melting away.

  “Why don’t we go upstairs?” Frank trailed his fingers down Brandon’s cheek. “Sleep tonight, and we’ll figure out the next step over breakfast.”

  A tired smile pulled at Brandon’s lips. “But we’ll actually do it this time? Talk over breakfast?”

  Frank laughed. “Yes, we will. I promise.”

  “Okay.”

  They separated, and Frank took a moment to put their tea mugs in the sink. As they started out of the kitchen, Brandon slipped his hand into Frank’s, and some lingering tightness left Frank’s back and neck. This shouldn’t have made sense, but to hell with what made sense. They fit too well together, whether Brandon was relentlessly fucking Frank or Frank was holding Brandon against him with Brandon’s head under his chin. That made enough sense, so the rest would fall into place sooner or later.

  In the bedroom, Frank started to free his hand, but Brandon didn’t let go.

  “We should get—” He met Brandon’s eyes.

  Oh, holy fuck.

  No amount of caffeine in the world could rival the second wind he felt just by looking into those beautiful, smouldering eyes. The grin that followed made Frank shiver, and as Brandon used that single point of contact to draw them back together, Frank saw both Brandon and Stefan. And he wanted both of them. Right now.

  Eyes gleaming, Brandon ran a hand up Frank’s arm. “So when you said you were tired, how tired did you mean?”

  Frank let himself be reeled in closer. “Tired enough to go to bed.”

  “Go to bed and sleep?” One eyebrow arched playfully, making Frank’s heart beat faster even as his mind settled, knowing they were moving back to familiar, comfortable ground. “Or just . . . go to bed?”

  Frank cupped Brandon’s face in both hands. “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re not nearly as old as you claim. Or nearly as tired.” Brandon’s grip remained firm, a demand Frank couldn’t resist and didn’t want to fight against. “But I think you’re wearing entirely too many clothes.”

  Frank grinned. “And you’re thinking too much.” He freed his hand to pull his T-shirt over his head and threw it on the chair in the corner. He kicked down the heels of his trainers and stepped out of them. Brandon watched him as he popped the buttons of his jeans and pulled them down, stepped out of them, too, and lost the boxers in the same general movement. “There, fixed.”

  Brandon stepped closer and kissed him. His naked skin rubbing against Brandon’s clothes reminded Frank of how Brandon could keep him focused and centred on nothing but pleasure and anchored in his own body. Teach him to accept and remain passive, and that did wonders for his sanity, more than therapy ever had. It made him feel alive, too, loved and desired. Like someone who was worth chasing down in the middle of the night.

  Brandon held that tension, that possibility between them for what felt like a minute or an hour, then smiled at him. He slipped out of his jacket and dropped it on the chair on top of Frank’s clothes. “How do you want it?”

  Frank cleared his throat. “Don’t care as long as it’s pretty soon.” But then he remembered the rest of the day and that Stefan had had clients, and shrugged. “I’ll take what you can give me.”

  Brandon smiled. “Get on the bed. I’ll get undressed.”

  Frank pulled the duvet back and lay down, one hand behind his head, then he leaned over to dig in the nightstand for condoms and lube, positioning them strategically to his side. Brandon stripped, taking more time than Frank would have expected, but it gave him a moment to appreciate him—he would see him like this more often now, watch him move, the play of muscles and tendons, the planes and curves and patterns that never failed to awe him. Amazing that the basic design was the same, and still everybody looked different in some small way.

  Brandon joined him on the bed, covering Frank’s body with his own, and the skin-on-skin contact was even better than that embrace in the kitchen, or maybe just good in a different way. From soul-wrenching truth to quietly joyful arousal in what, five, ten minutes?

  Frank trailed his fingers along Brandon’s jaw. “Never too tired for this.” He kissed Brandon, admiring his coordination for getting a condom on without breaking the kiss. Professional skills came in handy.

  Brandon did break away to get the bottle of lube off the bedside table. “Stay like that.” He poured lube onto his hand. “Love having you on your back.” He moistened his lips. “So I can see you.”

  “You won’t hear me complaining.”

  “Oh, I’m sure I’ll hear you doing something.” Brandon winked as he set the bottle aside again. “But it won’t be complaining.”

  Frank laughed. “Cocky bastard.”

  “Damn right.” Brandon tapped the inside of Frank’s knee, and Frank obediently spread his legs for him. Half an hour ago, Frank had been aching from Brandon’s absence, and now he ached for him in an entirely different way.

  Brandon pressed in gently, screwing his eyes shut and groaning as he breached Frank. He worked himself deeper, toeing the line of going too fast, but at this point, Frank didn’t give a fuck if Brandon crossed it. He liked pain, and pain like this meant they were both alive and here and together, and tonight, that was everything Frank wanted.

  “Holy shit.” Brandon pushed all the way into Frank. He opened his eyes. God, he looked spectacular when he was turned on. His pupils were huge, his skin already lightly flushed. It was impossible to tell if the wetness in his eyes was left over from earlier, or if it was the same kind of sensory and emotional overload that was blurring Frank’s vision.

  Frank pulled in a breath and was going to suggest that Brandon come down to him, but Brandon beat him to it and lowered himself enough to brush their lips together. Frank wrapped his arms around him, and Brandon slid his hands under Frank’s shoulders. His range of motion was limited like this, but what he lost in his thrusts, he made up for in spades with his kiss.

  Frank rocked his hips with Brandon’s, shivering when a low groan vibrated across his lips. Brandon tried to pick up speed, but after a few short, sharp thrusts, gave up and gave in to Frank’s silent demand for a deeper, longer kiss.

  Eventually, though, Brandon broke that kiss, and he was out of breath as he touched their foreheads together and managed this time to thrust harder. “You really thought—” He sucked in a breath. Kissed Frank again. “You really thought I’d live without this?”

  Frank smiled and held on tighter. “I’ve been known to be wrong.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Brandon kissed him again, harder this time. “Definitely wrong . . . wrong this time.” He slid one hand out from under Frank’s shoulder. Then the other. He pushed himself up and threw his head back as he fucked Frank faster. “Holy fuck . . .”

  Frank would have laughed if he’d had the breath. The tenderness, the humour, the banter, that caring, all of that swirled in his head and soul and body with the lust, the need, the relief, and the sheer joy of it. Love. Love could be all those things, and it was as real as truth, as real as breath.

  He closed his eyes for a few moments, feeling Brandon move inside him, on top of him. Sex was a totally different beast when he could let himself fall and know that Brandon wouldn’t just catch him, but do it with a smile and a kiss and quite possibly a smart-arsed quip.

  God, I love him. So badly.

  He hissed at a harsh thrust, but it was only pleasure now, need and surrender. Spoils of war, Brandon had called it, and Frank would do his damned best to make it very much worth his captor’s while. He grinned up at Brandon, groaning with every thrust and movement, doing what he could to fall into the same fierce rhythm, and then, when the pressure was getting unbearable, began to jerk himself off, tightening against the invasion and the skilful, oh-so-good thrusts.

  “Fuck . . .” One of them whispered it. Frank couldn’t even be sure who.

  Brandon shuddered, throwing his rhythm off for half a stroke, but he recovered, lips pulling ac
ross clenched teeth and sweat beading on his forehead as he fucked Frank hard. His brow was furrowed—Exertion? Concentration?—and every muscle stood out beneath his flushed skin. He mirrored exactly how Frank felt—on the edge, so close it was painful, ready to let go at any second—and God, he was the very picture of sexy.

  Then Brandon closed his eyes. His lips formed what looked like words, but they were soundless, and then he whimpered, and Frank couldn’t take any more. His whole body tensed to the point of unbearable, and then released, hot semen coating his hand and some even hitting Brandon’s abs, and he thought he heard himself cursing as Brandon fucked him right through the peak of his orgasm.

  Brandon’s rhythm fell apart. He thrust deep, pulled out a little, tried to get even deeper, and then shuddered violently. “Holy. Fuck.”

  Neither of them moved for a moment. Frank couldn’t even say they were catching their breath, because neither of them seemed to be able to pull in more than the occasional gulp of air. It didn’t get any better when Brandon’s eyes fluttered open. Then he came down to kiss him, and to hell with breathing.

  “I think now,” Brandon murmured, really slurring, “I’ll be able to sleep.”

  Frank had no idea if he meant because they’d fucked, or because they’d settled things. Could’ve been both. But either way, he too stood a chance at sleeping tonight. After an orgasm like that, sleep was inevitable. With Brandon lying beside him? Inevitable and welcome, even if he was tempted to force himself to stay awake as long as he could just to savour Brandon’s presence.

  Brandon lifted himself up again, and pulled out. He met Frank’s eyes. “Think we should grab a shower before we call it a night?”

  “Think we can get through a shower without winding up like this again?”

  Brandon laughed, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “I don’t think I have anything left.” He smiled down at Frank. “I think I’m just happy with a shower together and sleep.”

  “One thing I like about Americans—you’re all clean freaks after sex.” Frank managed to roll to his feet and then stretched a hand out to Brandon, helping him stand. On wobbly legs they managed to reach the bathroom, where Brandon dealt with the condom while Frank stepped under the shower and got it just right—hot—before Brandon joined him.

  They kissed lazily, drew apart long enough to wash, and then kissed some more. Brandon relaxed in the heat and steam to the point that he slumped against the tiles. Poor bastard. Young and fit as he was, he’d also had the far more physically demanding job today, so Frank mustered enough focus to finish washing him, then switched off the water and wrapped Brandon in a large towel.

  The man looked like he might have protested, but Frank put up a hand. “Humour me for a moment.”

  He rubbed him dry, then quickly dried himself. It felt good to be able to show this tenderness, take care of a partner, even if it was something so small as drying him off after the shower, running a towel over Brandon’s short hair.

  “I’m not going to share you anymore . . .” Frank whispered. “Not for money. You want to fuck anybody else, let me know, but don’t charge for it.”

  Brandon glared at him playfully. “Are you giving orders now?”

  Frank laughed. “No. Just . . . I’d say consider it a request, but . . .”

  Brandon put a hand on the side of Frank’s neck and raised his chin to kiss him lightly. He drew back enough to comfortably hold eye contact. “I don’t want to fuck anyone else.”

  They hung up their towels and went into the bedroom. In bed, Brandon rested his head on Frank’s shoulder, and Frank had to resist the temptation to pull him into a tight embrace. That would have been nice, of course, but not terribly comfortable for sleeping. And besides, this? Lying together with Brandon’s arm slung over Frank’s stomach, and Frank’s hand resting on Brandon’s arm? This was perfect.

  He kissed the top of Brandon’s head. “I’m glad you came back.”

  “Me too,” Brandon said. “Wasn’t sure if you’d want to see me, but I wasn’t going to sleep again until I knew.”

  This time, Frank did hold Brandon a little tighter, but only for a moment before they both relaxed again. “I’d have been stupid to turn you away. I was stupid to let you go.”

  “No you weren’t.” Brandon snuggled closer. “You were scared. So was I.”

  And being scared, I did something stupid, but you’re here now. Thank God.

  He kissed the top of Brandon’s head again. “I love you.”

  “I love you too.” The words were soft and slurred. As Frank stroked Brandon’s hair, Brandon’s breathing fell into a slow, quiet rhythm, and Frank smiled as he closed his eyes. He’d be asleep soon enough himself, but for a moment, he just enjoyed this. Being in love with someone, having that love returned, and simply being. This was the last possible outcome he could have imagined when Stefan had strutted into Market Garden that first night, but it was the best outcome. The only one.

  He couldn’t have known how things would turn out when he’d taken Brandon onto the paintball field. That a game of “capture the ref” would turn into something so amazing.

  But it had.

  Brandon had captured him, fair and square.

  And Frank surrendered.

  As always, Aleks is responsible for any and all misrepresentations and abuses of British culture and language.

  Since we wrote Capture & Surrender, the UK has made same-sex marriage legal, and there have been promising developments in the fields of HIV therapy/treatment, so the story doesn’t actually reflect the most recent state of affairs. We’ve decided to keep the original timeline of the Market Garden series intact rather than retrofit the story to bring it in line with our world. Sometimes, it’s good to be outdated.

  Quid Pro Quo

  Take It Off

  If It Flies

  If It Fornicates

  Conduct Unbecoming

  A Chip in His Shoulder

  O Come All Ye Kinky

  Left Hand of Calvus

  Something New Under the Sun

  Covet Thy Neighbor

  Finding Master Right

  Unhinge the Universe, with Aleksandr Voinov

  After the Fall (A Tucker Springs Novel)

  For a full list, please visit http://www.loriawitt.com

  Scorpion (Memory of Scorpions, #1)

  Lying with Scorpions (Memory of Scorpions, #2)

  (Coming soon)

  Skybound

  Incursion

  Gold Digger

  Dark Soul Vols. 1–5

  Break and Enter, with Rachel Haimowitz

  Dark Edge of Honor, with Rhi Etzweiler

  The Lion of Kent, with Kate Cotoner

  For a full list, go to www.aleksandrvoinov.com/bookshelf.html

  L.A. Witt is an abnormal M/M romance writer currently living in the glamorous and ultra-futuristic metropolis of Omaha, Nebraska, with her husband, two cats, and a disembodied penguin brain that communicates with her telepathically. In addition to writing smut and disturbing the locals, L.A. is said to be working with the U.S. government to perfect a genetic modification that will allow humans to survive indefinitely on Corn Pops and beef jerky. This is all a cover, though, as her primary leisure activity is hunting down her arch nemesis, erotica author Lauren Gallagher, who is also said to be lurking somewhere in Omaha. L.A. can be found at http://www.loriawitt.com, as well as exchanging irreverent tweets with Aleks as @GallagherWitt.

  Aleksandr Voinov is an emigrant German author living near London, where he is one of the unsung heroes in the financial services sector. His genres range from horror, science fiction, cyberpunk, and fantasy to contemporary, thriller, and historical erotic gay novels.

  In his spare time, he goes weightlifting, explores historical sites, and meets other writers. He singlehandedly sustains three London bookstores with his ever-changing research projects. His current interests include special forces operations during World War II, pre-industrial warfare, European magical traditi
ons, and how to destroy the world and plunge it into a nuclear winter without having the benefit of nuclear weapons.

  Visit Aleksandr’s website at http://www.aleksandrvoinov.com, his blog at http://www.aleksandrvoinov.blogspot.com, and follow him on Twitter, where he tweets as @aleksandrvoinov.

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