by L. A. Witt
Finally, he’d obeyed the order and rested his hands on his thighs.
Something rustled beside him. Fabric under tension, brushing, moving. Leather creaked softly, and Frank realised Stefan had lowered himself beside him. His hand rested on the back of Frank’s neck.
“You’re going to lean down and rest your weight on your forearms.” Stefan slid his hand under Frank’s wrists and guided him forwards.
He’d thought Stefan’s little game with his balance a moment ago was only to fuck with him, but now that Stefan was ordering him to move blindly, to defy all his instincts and put himself in danger of face-planting on the hard floor, he got it. Stefan nudged him farther with the hand on his neck while the other under his wrists reassured him there’d be something solid underneath him until he was able to hold himself up. His hands brushed the carpet, and he exhaled as Stefan eased him down onto his forearms.
“Now.” The sadistic amusement in Stefan’s voice was back in full force. “You’re totally mine to play with.” He trailed his finger down the centre of Frank’s spine again, all the way to his loosened belt and upraised arse. “If I wanted to yank down your trousers and fuck you, good and hard and for as long as I wanted to, I guess you’d have no choice but to sit there and take it. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes.” Most definitely a croak. He tried again. “Yes.”
Stefan chuckled. He hooked a finger under Frank’s trousers and underwear, and that first tug made Frank’s breath catch. As Stefan worked Frank’s clothes off until his arse was completely exposed, Frank’s heart pounded. He’d trusted few men in his life to put him in a position like this, and could think of only a handful who wouldn’t have made him feel vulnerable and humiliated, and not in the fun way that his submissive side enjoyed. He’d only ever tested that theory with three men.
Geoff. Mike. Andrew.
And now . . . Stefan. Brandon. Frank was, as Stefan had pointed out, helpless and at Stefan’s mercy, and that didn’t scare him at all. Which, ironically, scared him.
How far under my skin has this guy got already?
Tearing foil brought Frank out of his thoughts. There’d be time to think later. Here and now, there was only one place for his concentration, and that was on the man who was about to—he hoped—relentlessly and mercilessly fuck him right here on his office floor.
He felt a strong, warm hand on his arse, fingers digging in a little as if to test the muscle, and he almost expected a slap and a tighter grip, and hell, but he could take bruises there, he could take just about anything.
“Only thing we’re missing is a spreader bar.” Stefan sounded matter-of-fact.
Frank heard the squelch of lube and then felt Stefan moving closer, felt the air shift and the friction of cloth against the insides of his legs, the backs of his legs, rubbing against hair there, and pressure against his hole. Brandon knew how much he could take, and that he could take his cock fine after a few moments’ getting used to it.
But woe betide any man who’d take that without either preparation or experience. Stefan pushed in, the movement as inevitable as conquest, and Frank moaned against his own hands, folded on the ground underneath him. The stretch. A burn he relished, being opened, taken, and damn, but being blind made that cock feel even larger than it was.
Anybody who says size doesn’t matter has no fucking clue.
“You’re loving this,” Stefan said coldly, like he didn’t. Or at least not the same way Frank did. Like this wasn’t about sex at all, and only Frank got off on it. Maybe like Stefan was only scratching an itch, performing a necessary physical function.
“Yes.” Frank’s breath hitched when Stefan pushed all the way in.
Bloody hell, full and turned on and helpless like this—his head was spinning, and he opened his elbows for a little additional stability. He clenched his teeth when the pleasure hit on the next thrust, angle just right, but the thrusts were slow, deliberate, terribly controlled. Stefan could have been a fucking machine, thrusting with unerring precision and seemingly endless stamina.
Franks hands formed fists, but God, it was perfect, every slow, deep thrust inside him. There was so much in those movements; like this, it felt impersonal, and Frank almost got lost in his pleasure, accepting, taking, relishing the stimulation in his own body. Even without the blindfold, the restraints made it impossible to look after his partner. Not partner, really. The man fucking him and driving him slowly up the wall.
Frank was panting, his hard cock swinging freely without friction or relief as the thrusts got harder, deeper, rocking his whole body, a counterweight to the relentless force controlling him.
Tap, tap, tap.
The sound was familiar, but didn’t quite register, and Frank grimaced with frustration at the distraction.
Tap, tap, tap.
“Hey, boss?”
Raoul, you motherfucker, I will—
Frank’s thoughts disintegrated back into oblivion as Stefan thrust harder. Not hard enough for their bodies to slap together and be heard from the other side of the door—thank God for the pounding music that always filled the hallway—but hard enough to keep Frank’s attention on this side of the door where it belonged.
He heard another voice. Distant, muffled. Then silence. Raoul and whoever was with him must have given up. Thank fuck. Now he could focus on—
Fuck. Stefan thrust even harder, so hard Frank’s eyes watered. He was still a little sensitive from taking Brandon this morning, and being fucked like this was overwhelming. And amazing. Perfect. Far too much, and he couldn’t get enough.
He tried to rock back and complement Stefan’s motions, but he couldn’t move. Not because of the zip ties, or the position, or anything like that. He just couldn’t move. His body was capable of nothing right then except complete passivity and surrender to Stefan, and he didn’t think he’d ever been so turned on in his life.
Stefan fucked him beyond the point of soreness, and all Frank could do was float in that space and give everything he had and take everything Stefan gave him, arousal racing through his body where it pooled and collected and ramped up to unbearable tension. He couldn’t even think to speak, might not have been able to say anything if he’d had his body under control. Stefan hilted all the way in him, breathing harshly, touching Frank’s sides. They were both sweaty; Stefan’s large hands almost gentling him, still controlling, like making sure he was still there with him.
Just as Frank was slowly thinking a little more clearly, Stefan began to thrust again, and that . . . that was too much. Frank groaned, might have said something—or shouted—he sure felt like begging, when Stefan placed a strong, sweaty hand over his mouth to stifle his sounds.
Frank’s body tightened, and his orgasm blew him away, coiled tension releasing in one glorious rush that didn’t seem to stop. He barely noticed Stefan’s erratic thrusts, just let the orgasm explode and rush through him. Nothing else mattered.
Stefan released his mouth, then ran his fingers over Frank’s shoulder, down his spine, before he pulled out. The last thing that had kept Frank anchored. Now he floated on the post-orgasm haze and fell onto his side, trousers still down, hands still tied, still blind. Nothing mattered.
Somebody—Stefan—wiped at him with a cloth. T-shirt? Towel? The touches to his groin were gentle and almost too intense, and he was glad when Stefan tucked him back in.
Fucking hell, you came without a touch.
Stefan’s fingers were on his wrists, now. Frank pulled his hands closer to his chest, not sure whether he wanted to give them up yet.
“Too tight to stay on.” Stefan’s breath brushed his ear.
Frank nodded and let him take his wrists. A tug, then a snap, and his hands were free again. He moved his fingers. His wrists hurt, but that, too, was far away.
“That . . . that didn’t feel like a two-hundred-quid fuck.”
“I put in some extra for a favourite customer.”
“Oh.” Frank tried to move, but really didn’t
want to, and Stefan touched him on the shoulder, another soothing contact. The touch stayed with him, trailing over his shoulder and neck, relaxing him and keeping him awake at the same time. Eventually, he became aware of the hard floor and that time was passing. He reached for the blindfold, but Stefan touched his temple. “Taking it off now.” And he did.
Frank blinked, a camo-clad knee coming into focus next to his face as Stefan sat on the floor, smiling down on him, his chest bare, his shirt balled in his hand.
“How you feeling?”
“Like I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
“Hold off on the dying part.” Stefan grinned. “Want to get up?”
Frank nodded. “I think.”
“Okay.” Stefan stood first, then offered him a hand.
Frank took it, managed to get his legs under him, and stood. “You’re quite something, you know that, right?”
Stefan nodded. “I’m even better with the right guy.”
Frank closed his belt, surprised that his body obeyed him, but maybe decades of practice were good for things like getting dressed when his brain had suffered a major hard drive crash and was trying to reboot.
His gaze fell on the clock on the wall. Much later than he’d wanted, but after this experience, he was glad he could still identify which century he was in. “I . . .”
Stefan lifted his eyebrows, prompting.
“I have a dinner appointment.” Frank swallowed. “I’ll have to head home.”
“All right.” Stefan gathered up the cut plastic strip. “Careful with the driving.”
“Oh, yes. I wasn’t going to crash into anything or anybody. I’ll be careful. Just . . . if you’d like to come along, you’re invited.”
“I guess I earned a bit of money today already. Should be able to afford it.”
“And it’s free dinner.”
Stefan grinned at him. “Let me put on a T-shirt that’s not full of cum.”
“I wouldn’t mind, but it might be a bit much for Emily.” Frank rolled his shoulders.
“Emily?”
“I’ll explain on the way. Take a change of clothes. You can shower at my place.”
Stefan gave him that ironic eyebrow, likely at being ordered, but did as told. Frank went to the bar again to cool off with a drink. He slid onto a bar stool and then decided he preferred to stand.
Raoul finished serving what looked like a super-dry martini to a City suit and then came down along the bar, hips swaying like he was listening to his own music and not the Madonna song that was playing.
“Anything I can serve you that you haven’t just had?” Raoul suggestively pursed his lips.
“Espresso.”
Raoul stepped to the side to the machine they kept around for staff and flipped a capsule in. As elegant as he was, he could make working the bar look like something of his own personal dance show. Frank wouldn’t have been surprised in the least to learn that Raoul had a past either as a dancer or a bullfighter, though with his width, it would be quite a feat for a charging bull to miss him.
Raoul put the cup on a tiny saucer in front of Frank.
Frank kicked the black coffee back. The bitterness spread in his mouth and the hot liquid trailed down his throat. He blinked and swallowed again. “That hit the spot.”
“Did it?” Raoul’s tone was very nearly catty.
“Different spot.”
Raoul laughed.
“Okay, I’m off. Meeting a couple friends for a late dinner. Anything you needed from me?” He inclined his head and raised an eyebrow. “Or was it taken care of after you came by my office?”
Raoul focused extra hard on wiping down the immaculate bar. “Everything’s handled, boss. Don’t worry about it.”
“What was it?”
“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.” There was definitely a catty note in his voice now.
Frank leaned on his folded arms. “Raoul.”
The bartender looked at him. No, glared at him.
“Am I missing something here?”
A quiet and decidedly humourless laugh burst out of Raoul. “No, it would seem you’re not missing a thing.” He started wiping the bar again. Faster. Probably harder, like he wanted to rub away the lacquer finish.
Frank stilled Raoul’s hand with a gentle grasp on his wrist. “Raoul. Don’t play games with me.” He gestured with his chin towards the back door of the lounge, the one that led to his office. “Why were you coming by my office, and why are you annoyed with me?”
Raoul jerked his hand out from under Frank’s and tossed the rag under the bar. Then he put his hands on the edge of the bar and leaned over them, putting him nearly eye to eye with Frank. “If you knew I was at your door, why didn’t you answer?” His accent was always sharper when he was angry, and this time was no exception. “You ignoring your employees now?” His eyes narrowed and his gaze slid to the left, then came back and met Frank’s. “In favour of other employees?”
Frank didn’t have to look to know that Brandon had come back into the room. He kept his eyes locked on Raoul’s. “I don’t recall ever agreeing to some requirement that I had to answer to you.”
Raoul sniffed with snide amusement. “Answer to me? No. But I’m pretty sure all of these rentboys”—he made a sharp gesture around the lounge—“and us lowly bartenders signed on with the understanding our boss would treat us all equally. And not be indisposed when he was needed.”
“Says the man who practically set me up with Stefan. You knew he was my type, and you all but served him up to me hog-tied on a heart-shaped bed.”
Raoul’s eyes narrowed. “I thought you’d like him, but I didn’t think you’d put him ahead of Market Garden.”
Frank exhaled, pulling back a little. “You’re right. I’m sorry, it should have . . . should have waited until another time.”
Raoul blinked. “So you really are bang—”
“Quiet.” He glared at Raoul. “You and I both know it. There’s no need to say it out loud.”
“What difference would it make?” Most of the fight had already left Raoul’s voice and posture. “Everybody here knows. Everybody.”
Frank’s heart dropped. “They . . . they do?”
Raoul rolled his eyes. “Yes, idiot. Okay, maybe the johns don’t know, but every man who works for you has either put two and two together by now or is too stupid to find his own arse with two hands and an anatomy chart. And nobody would give a damn if it didn’t mean you were indisposed when someone—one of your guys who really believes you care about their safety—needed you.”
Frank’s blood turned cold. The espresso became a moot point; he was wide-awake now without any chemical assistance. He faced Raoul again. “Point taken.”
Raoul relaxed a bit. “And when I came by earlier, it turned out it was a little dispute over some money. Jared called. One of the johns tried to stiff him and Tristan, but Tristan took care of it.”
Frank raised an eyebrow. “Define ‘took care of it’ in this context, please.”
Raoul laughed. “Told the guy he’d picked up one of his business cards off the hotel room floor. If he didn’t pay up, the card was getting scanned and posted on the internet.” Shaking his head, Raoul laughed again. “I think he was a little disappointed the guy paid up right then and there. He had a whole list of things he was going to include when he posted it on the internet, and he didn’t get a chance to terrify the guy properly.”
Frank managed a quiet laugh. “That does sound like our Tristan. Listen, I’m headed out for the evening. Having some friends over for dinner. You’ll call me if there’s any more issues?”
“I will.”
As if on cue, Brandon appeared beside Frank.
“Ready?”
Brandon nodded. “Whenever you are.”
They started to go, and Frank glanced at Raoul one last time. The bartender wasn’t so irritated now, but his brow was knitted just right to ask, “Mate, you sure you know what you’re doing?”
And the truth was, no.
No, he had no idea what he was doing.
Frank used a minute at a red light to text Emily: Running late, couldn’t get out of the club on time.
Then he prayed to the gods of traffic (likely half siblings to the hellhounds and revenge goddesses of Greek mythology) for a smooth flow.
He didn’t get it, but the way out of London was a hell of a lot better outside the rush hour. How that didn’t spark at least one killing rampage a day on his route alone, he couldn’t comprehend.
“Trouble?” Brandon asked.
“Running late. I think I might have thrown the whole thing out of whack. I’m not keen on letting people wait.”
“Sorry.” Brandon’s grin said he wasn’t really, but Frank appreciated the sentiment.
“I’m not.” Frank glanced to the side. “It happens. Emily knows how it is. We’re all busy with stuff. My stuff is just maybe a little different from their stuff.”
“Who’s Emily?”
“Andrew’s sister. We’re still in contact. She was one of our main supports through that time. And we’ve been good friends ever since.”
“I’ve lost my big brother, Frank. I’m hoping I found another one. Please?”
Brandon nodded. “Is it going to be . . . fraught?”
“No. No, this is just us getting together for a meal. Geoff and Mike are coming, too.”
“Hope she’s planned for five, then.”
“There’s always enough left over to feed a little army, don’t worry about it.” Frank squeezed Brandon’s thigh. “We get together for a meal every two or three months. Mike and Emily have something of a competition going who can stuff the most food into guests. Mike’s a foodie, but Emily’s a pro.”
