by L. A. Witt
Frank finished off his kebab—it was a great deal more food than he normally had this late in the evening. He signalled the waiter for the bill. And damn, the guy running this place had exquisite taste in men, too. Long-limbed and lean, dark eyes and dark hair, pale faces and strong noses. Persians or something. It was quite astonishing to see that kind of beauty again in random strangers, but without the resentment that he couldn’t have them or the bitterness that they were young and gorgeous and he was really neither. Beauty had become an unexpected gift, and one he was so much more gracious about accepting.
He put twenty-five pounds on the table and stood, shifting to let Brandon pass first, then followed him outside.
“What now?” Brandon slid into his jacket.
“You might as well rest up at my place. I’m heading home.” Gotta take my pills, too.
“Resting?”
“I’d accept a friendly cuddle, too. Breakfast is just nicer with such charming company.”
Brandon glanced back to the restaurant, then pressed his tongue up against an eye tooth. “Breakfast sounds good.”
Something warm and abrasive startled Frank out of a dream. He immediately forgot the dream, and slowly started remembering where he was. Right. His own bed. And—
Brandon’s scruffy jaw brushed the back of Frank’s neck again. Ooh, yes. Now he remembered.
“You’re awake.” Brandon’s voice in his ear gave him goose bumps. “About time.”
Frank laughed, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the morning light. “What time is it?”
Brandon’s hand drifted down Frank’s side, and then he pulled Frank’s hip a little so his erection brushed against Frank’s arse. “It’s time for you to wake up. I could use some help with this.”
Frank tried not to grin. “You can’t take care of it yourself?”
“I can.” Brandon’s hand was on the move again, and this time his fingertips skated along the underside of Frank’s dick, which was well on its way to being as hard as Brandon’s. “But, what’s that saying?” He kissed the side of Frank’s neck. “You jerk my dick, I’ll jerk yours?”
Frank laughed. “I’m not sure that’s verbatim, but close enough.”
“Mm-hmm. Close enough.” Brandon’s fingers closed around Frank’s hard-on, and as he started stroking slowly, he nuzzled Frank’s neck, his stubble scratchy enough to raise a shiver.
Frank closed his eyes and pressed back against Brandon, not only his erection but the warmth of his entire body. The kid was all lean, powerful muscle, hard where he needed to be and soft everywhere else, and Frank could never get enough of touching him. Especially when one of those talented hands was stroking him.
“Like that?” Brandon stroked faster. He wasn’t after a long, languid handjob this morning. One-way trip to an orgasm. Frank was barely even awake, and he was already starting to come unglued as Brandon squeezed him just right, stroked him perfectly, and growled in his ear. “How much you want to bet we end up back here after a shower?”
Frank bit his lip and thrust into Brandon’s hand. This kid was fucking insatiable. Even when he hadn’t had an orgasm yet, he was already thinking ahead to the next time. His stamina was going to kill a man Frank’s age, but what a way to go.
“I was thinking.” Brandon’s voice was shaking slightly with the rapid rhythm of his hand. “Couple of handjobs, and then a shower, and then I fuck you. All before breakfast.”
“Oh bloody hell,” was all Frank could say, and even that barely came out clearly. He felt around for something to grab onto and steady himself, but he didn’t want to disrupt Brandon’s strokes, so he gripped the edge of the bed. With that anchor, he had some leverage, and he thrust harder, and Brandon responded by tightening his grip. This early in the damned morning, barely even conscious, Frank never came quickly—had never really tried to—but he couldn’t help it this time, and he gripped the bed tighter and groaned as he shuddered against Brandon and came over Brandon’s hand.
Before he’d even caught his breath, he whispered, “Your turn.”
Brandon lifted his eyebrow, as if to ask, What’s taking you so long, when Frank slid his left arm around Brandon’s shoulder and held him close enough for a long, playful kiss while he wrapped his hand around Brandon’s cock. He knew that Brandon relished some burn, so he didn’t really bother with lube or spit, just pumped him, slow and steady at first, getting a feel for how exactly he liked it (in bed, not up against a tree), and found that a tight, almost punishing grip worked perfectly, making Brandon gasp and shudder into that long and drawn-out kiss.
Frank drank those moans in, held Brandon tight. And I’ve captured you and I’ll make you come. He briefly glanced down Brandon’s powerful, taut body, the way he dug his heels in, all that long torso and the pattern of his muscles, the skin glowing with exertion as Frank gave what was shaping up to be a champion handjob, somewhere between fierce and possessive and laced with the pain of friction. He’d love cooling it with his tongue, his mouth, to blow over the heated skin and squeeze his balls, but for that, he’d need his other arm free, and there was no way in hell he’d let Brandon go now.
Frank felt him getting closer; the jerky hip movements were a dead giveaway, but regardless of those, he could also read the pattern of Brandon’s breathing, and the heat of those moans. And he wondered for a moment if Brandon could be convinced to switch. He’d love to give Brandon everything he could, and he could play the power game, too. With the right partner, which Brandon seemed to be.
“So strong.” Frank brushed against Brandon’s hungry lips. “So beautiful. Maybe I’ll never let you go. Chain you up and keep you.”
Right then, Brandon came, and came, semen covering Frank’s hand and his own belly.
“Oh my God.” Brandon’s goofy grin as he caught his breath warmed Frank’s heart. “Keep doing shit like that, I might let you chain me.”
Frank felt a momentary pang of . . . of something he couldn’t quite identify, but it disappeared as Brandon raised his head and kissed him.
“I shouldn’t wear you out. You still have to work tonight.”
Brandon grinned and didn’t let Frank pull away. “I’ll just last longer with the johns.”
Okay, that pang was definitely a little bite of jealousy, but Frank shrugged it away. “You and all that youthful stamina.”
“Hey, as long as I’ve got it, I’m going to enjoy it.”
“Good plan.” Frank kissed Brandon’s forehead, and then pushed himself up. “Maybe we should get started on that shower.”
“We should.” Brandon sat up, rolling his shoulders before he reached for the tissues beside the bed. “Sooner we get started, the sooner we get back to bed.”
Frank gulped. Something told him Brandon wasn’t kidding.
Being the enthusiastic lover of a younger guy at the peak of fitness with stamina to burn was amazing, but also a double-edged sword. Hours after they’d left his bed for the second time, Frank sat in one of the booths at Market Garden, wincing at—and savouring—a few lingering aches. Whoever hired Brandon tonight would have his hands full, that was for sure.
Frank chuckled to himself. That was one way to make sure clients were happy. Get those fast, frenzied rounds out of the way, and leave the longer fucks and hard-earned orgasms to the men who paid for them. Being both Brandon’s lover and Stefan’s boss made that a win-win proposition.
His humour faded. The boss fucking his employee, and the man fucking the prostitute. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about either of those things. All he was sure about was how much he loved Brandon’s company and that gorgeous, insatiable body.
The lounge door opened, and Frank glanced up, since he tried to keep an eye on who came and went. This time, it wasn’t a john.
Bloody hell, but Brandon was hot when he had the Stefan mask on. His camouflage pants ironically made him stand out in the sea of suits and black leather, but Frank probably wouldn’t have been able to miss him anyway. Not with that sculpted body
and the palpable “go ahead, come fuck with me” attitude. Some guys with that cocky persona came across as phony, especially once Frank knew what was underneath, but Brandon looked just as real whether he was playing Stefan or himself. The cockiness wasn’t a front. Sure, he played it up, but it was as genuine as the sweet kid underneath. And he wasn’t obnoxious about it like some of the other punks Frank had seen come and go.
Brandon caught his eye and winked, which seemed to reignite all those cooling aches in Frank’s body, as if his nerve endings were hardwired into Brandon’s presence, and flared to life whenever he walked by.
Or when he came closer.
Which he was doing right now.
Oh God.
Frank straightened a bit in his seat when Stefan walked up to him, pushing his groin so close it was right there in Frank’s peripheral vision. Bulge on display, tight abs above it, the way the leather belt hugged the trim waist mouthwatering. It said, Turn your head and suck me off.
All thoughts of doing any kind of work fled. Likely through the ears, with most of his brain matter.
“Seeing anything you like?” Stefan asked him over the loud music. Britney Spears? Raoul really deserved a whipping. Though “I’m a Slave 4 U” made Stefan’s hips move that tiny bit that suggested absolutely everything.
Frank glanced up, let his gaze trail along the ridges of abs and curves of pecs past those powerful shoulders and relaxed, sculpted arms to the strong neck and the line of his jaw. Taking his fill of the rentboy, right here in the middle of the club, first thing in the evening. His lips twitched, and he pointedly didn’t look in Stefan’s face, just studied his body, tempted beyond reason to throw caution to the wind, pull his tight shirt up, and kiss and bite those amazing abs, right here, right now. He swallowed, thought of blowing him, knew Stefan was doing that thing where he flicked a switch and exuded sex and dominance and power and youth and health. He was so perfect it made Frank’s mind spin.
“Seeing a great deal. How much?”
Stefan drew a sharp breath. His abs tightened further. “How long are we talking?”
“I’m thinking a very quick, rough fuck against a wall somewhere.”
“Giving or taking?”
Frank gritted his teeth. Fuck. He wanted Stefan, wanted him so bad it tasted like blood somewhere in the back of his throat. “I thought you top.”
That enticing bulge moved closer. “I’d take it from you, big guy.”
No. Hell. No.
Frank’s breath caught in his throat. Of course Brandon was doing this to tease him, arouse him, but what it also did was give him control. And that was a dizzying thought. Forbidden. Utterly beyond the pale. The absolute last thing he wanted to do was get risky with Brandon. And the kind of sex that he craved right now, in this exact moment, wasn’t safe.
You’ll never get me to hurt you.
“You’ll give it.” Had that come out as a croak?
“Two hundred.” Stefan didn’t lose a beat.
Frank took four fifties out of his wallet and placed them on the table.
Stefan scooped them up, folded them twice, then pushed the money into his back pocket. “Lead the way.”
Office. It was the closest place where he could be guaranteed some privacy.
As he slid out of the booth—gingerly, thanks to his tighter trousers—he caught Raoul’s eye. The quirk of the bartender’s eyebrow said he’d witnessed the entire thing, and Frank had no doubt he’d hear about it later. If Raoul knew what was good for him, though, he wouldn’t come knocking on Frank’s office door in the next few minutes.
Brandon kept a more or less platonic distance on the way out of the lounge. No hand on the back, arm, or waist to announce to everyone else “This one’s mine, back the fuck off.” Probably in part out of discretion, but, and maybe this was just Frank fantasising, he wondered if Brandon deliberately didn’t make a public show of possession because he didn’t need to. An extension of his attitude. Of Stefan’s arrogance.
I don’t have to tell anyone you’re mine.
In the hallway, Brandon still kept his hands to himself as Frank pulled out his keys and approached the office door. His skin tingled with the absence of Brandon’s, every inch of his body hyperaware of the lack of contact. A lack of contact that would be resolved as soon as he got this damned door open, which was not nearly as easy as it usually was.
Brandon closed his hand around Frank’s, quieting the jingling of his keys. “Want me to open it?”
Frank swallowed. “Go for it.”
Brandon gently freed the keys from Frank’s hand and unlocked the door. They slipped into the office, and Frank rolled some tension out of his shoulders as Brandon shut the door.
“So.” Brandon tossed the keys onto Frank’s desk, and then faced him. Smirking, he folded his arms across that tight black tee. “You’ve got me for as long as it takes for me to earn two hundred quid.” That eyebrow rose, as did one corner of his mouth. “Question is, are you paying for Brandon or Stefan?”
“That depends.” Frank moistened his lips. “What’s the difference?” He folded his arms too, hoping he didn’t look like he couldn’t form a coherent thought, because he was getting damn close to that point. “Is Stefan what I’ve seen out on the paintball field?”
Brandon shrugged. “A little of both, I guess. Though I tend to think that’s the horny soldier living out some battlefield fantasies.”
Oh. Fuck.
Frank shifted his weight to hide a shiver. “Then I guess I’ve never had Stefan, have I?”
“No. You haven’t.” Brandon’s Cheshire cat grin weakened Frank’s knees. “Think you can handle him?”
Frank licked his lips again. “Lock the door. I want to find out.”
This time, it was Brandon who shivered, and Frank couldn’t help a triumphant little grin of his own as Brandon felt around blindly behind himself for the door lock.
“Do you want me to handle that?”
“Watch it.” Brandon arched that eyebrow once again, and he was instantly one hundred per cent Stefan. The door lock clicked. “Because Stefan doesn’t play quite as nicely as Brandon.”
Frank gulped. “Good. I’m counting on that.”
“Figured as much.” Stefan stepped closer, and all the oxygen between the two of them seemed to scatter, getting as far from Frank as possible and leaving nothing behind for him to breathe. “Get on your knees.”
Without breaking eye contact, Frank knelt, the movement perhaps slower than Stefan would have liked, but he didn’t say anything. Knees a few inches from Stefan’s combat boots, Frank realised how ironic this position was: the employer in his own office kneeling before the employee. Oh, but it made sense to kneel in front of this particular lover, whether the face looking down at him was Brandon’s, Stefan’s, or some spine-tingling mix of the two.
Above all, he didn’t trust anybody else to do this, apart from Geoff or Mike if the mood was right. He’d never done it with a rentboy, least of all one of his own. And besides, of all the rentboys who’d come and gone, only Nick would possibly have been able to handle him, though Nick’s brand of domination was different. Stefan’s seemed more hands-on, using the assets he had: sheer power and size. Geoff, on the other hand, phrased orders as suggestions, never raising his voice, gently coaxing him where he wanted him to go.
“Safeword?”
“Same. From the game.”
Stefan nodded and pushed closer, planting one foot firmly between Frank’s knees. “Taken in battle and now you’re mine.”
Frank shuddered and closed his eyes. He could work with that. Wanted it. From the thought of fucking Stefan to accepting anything the man would give him in maybe three minutes flat.
Stefan slipped something over Frank’s eyes and fastened it at the back of his head. Not a bag like soldiers used in war zones, something less substantial, and Frank was damn glad for it. A bag would have kept him from giving a blowjob, for example.
“Lift your hands.”
Frank pushed against them, but they only bit into his skin, decidedly uncomfortable, much more so than any bondage restraints Frank had ever used, and definitely tight enough to make this feel real. The restraints kept his focus on his hands, the blindfold isolated him from his surroundings; this was now a no-space, no longer his office. Nothing at all to distract him.
“Prisoner.” Stefan’s cold, decisive tone nearly curled Frank’s toes. How did he sound so businesslike and so goddamned hot? “You’re my prisoner.”
“Yes.” Frank was out of breath suddenly. “Your prisoner.”
A finger trailed up the centre of Frank’s back, the touch warm but dull through his shirt.
“So that means you’re at my mercy.” Stefan’s voice had that combination of amused and cold that added up to the sound of delicious sadism. “Anything I want you to do, you’ll do, won’t you?”
Frank nodded.
Stefan’s hand rested on Frank’s shoulder. He pulled slightly, just enough to scramble Frank’s equilibrium. With his hands bound and eyes covered, any shift in his centre of gravity sent panic through him, but Stefan didn’t pull him so far that he actually lost his balance. He held him right at that edge, teetering between solid ground and the terror of falling.
“Do you trust me?” That voice was less sadistic and more Brandon.
“Yes.” Frank swallowed. “Completely.”
Brandon’s thumb ran along the top of Frank’s shoulder, but the pressure didn’t let up. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” The hand lightened, and Frank regained his balance and his centre. Stefan stroked Frank’s neck. “Unbuckle your belt and unzip your trousers.”
Frank furrowed his brow behind the blindfold. With the zip ties on? Oh, you fucker. It was a challenge and a half, manoeuvring something as simple as a belt buckle with such unforgiving bindings and almost no space at all between his wrists. The zipper wasn’t much better, especially with his hard dick pressing against it. Not that his erection made the zipper harder to work, but the vibration of the separating metal against sensitive flesh made him lightheaded. The occasional quiet sniff of sadistic amusement from the peanut gallery didn’t help, either.
