by L. A. Witt
Frank couldn’t even find a breath. The thought of being forbidden from Andrew’s bedside made him ill. Even worse was imagining Brandon twisting in the wind for six long weeks while he was kept away from the man who’d taught him to mix drinks and kept him up until seven in the morning because they enjoyed each other’s company.
After a while, Brandon broke the silence. “That’s why I came to London. I needed to get away from home, and across the Atlantic seemed far enough.” He turned to Frank. “There’s no way in hell I can stay in a country where someone could keep me away from someone I loved when they were dying. Just . . . no way.”
“No, that’s . . . beyond the pale.” Downright evil. People like Chris, that wasn’t evil. Chris was scared, judgemental, and exceedingly rude about it, but this was a completely different level of human cruelty. He’d heard bad stories about the US, knew of a great many people coming to London to escape this and that, or trying to become invisible in a place where being a freak and an outsider was more or less the norm.
Worst thing that had happened to him and Andrew? Andrew’s business partner referring to Frank as “the current blue-collar crush” at a cocktail party, and Andrew delivering a scathing riposte to the effect that if he ever called Frank that again, he’d better cough up a few million for trying to buy Andrew out. Very civilised, very incisive, which was so very . . . Andrew.
“I’m so sorry,” was all Frank could manage. He’d had it easy compared to that. Worst thing was that people had expected Andrew to end up with another City type, and instead he’d fished Frank from the gutter.
Frank pulled into the driveway and killed the engine, then turned to Brandon. What he saw shocked him. Brandon looked drawn and haunted, like that past had clawed its way up to the surface.
I shouldn’t have asked.
I needed to know.
He took Brandon’s hand, and Brandon faced him. A bit of dirt was smeared along his temple, some more clinging to his neck.
Frank squeezed Brandon’s hand. “Why don’t we grab a shower? And there’s cold food Emily left. Some kind of risotto.”
Brandon nodded, and they got out of the car, took their bags, and went into the house. Frank was ready to stay down in the kitchen and start heating the food, but Brandon touched him on the shoulder. “Food can wait. Come.”
He followed Brandon upstairs, and out of habit glanced along the hallway. Last door at the end was closed, not like in that dream—or nightmare, or half dream, half memory. He gulped and followed Brandon, almost rushed, as if something could bite at his heels if he dawdled, something invisible and horrifying, like he’d imagined as a child when he wasn’t allowed to switch on the light at night when he went to the toilet.
They dropped their gear unceremoniously on the floor in the bedroom and went into the bathroom. Neither spoke as they stripped off their muddy, sweaty camouflage, and Frank turned on the shower.
While the water warmed up, Brandon touched Frank’s arm, and when Frank turned, they came together in a soft kiss. Brandon didn’t make the move, Frank didn’t make the move; one second they were apart, the next they were together.
Brandon’s fingers ran through Frank’s short hair, the movement gentle but still somehow not. Like he was just resisting the temptation to grab on. Not even to pull it or to put Frank on his knees, but to grab and hold.
Frank held Brandon tighter, one arm around him and the other hand gripping the back of his neck. They were both getting hard—it was impossible not to when their bodies rubbed together like this—but Frank was only distantly aware of his own erection or even Brandon’s. The kiss held most of his attention, the sheer closeness of their bodies.
Brandon pulled back. “We should . . . get in the shower.”
Frank nodded, but then kissed him again. Brandon didn’t resist. As the shower ran beside them, they indulged in one more long, drawn-out kiss.
Finally, though, they pulled apart. Brandon got into the shower first, and Frank followed. They each stood under the water for a few seconds to wet their skin, and when Brandon started soaping up his hands and looked at Frank with a playful gleam in his eyes, Frank drew him close again.
“You know we’re going to end up needing another shower, don’t you?” Brandon was grinning.
“Yes.” Frank slid his wet hands down Brandon’s back, pulling their hips closer together. “I’m counting on it.”
Brandon set the soap aside and put both lathered hands on Frank’s chest. “Should get clean before we get dirty again.”
“I’m thinking getting clean with you is just as dirty as anything else.”
Brandon’s grin broadened. His hands slid up Frank’s chest and around the back of his neck. He may have had some witty retort, some typically Stefan smart-arse comment, but if he did, he let it go as soon as Frank leaned down to kiss him. For all their playful banter and the fact that they were naked and wet and hard together, the kiss was subdued and languid, completely undemanding and existing for its own sake rather than as a precursor to something else. There would be more, of course, but all of that could wait while time stood still and let them share this.
Brandon was breathing hard when he broke away, his shoulders rising and falling with his ragged breaths. He looked up at Frank. Right then, he was a mix of everything Frank had ever seen in him: The self-assured rentboy with a dominant side. The cunning soldier on the paintball field. The wild-eyed kid with a Cheshire cat grin. The lost boy. The exhausted lover. It was almost painful to look at him because Brandon ignited so many feelings Frank hadn’t had in far too long. Feelings he never thought he’d have again.
And staring at him now, Frank couldn’t help but wonder how mutual those feelings were.
All the things Brandon stood to lose, though.
Everything. His health, his life, his job, his reputation, the ability to move unmolested amongst people like Chris. Simply by being with him, Brandon stood to lose everything he was.
Frank shook his head, pushed that thought away, and for now just examined that sweet ache in his own soul as he looked at Brandon.
I’ll never hurt you.
The words were on the tip of his tongue, right next to his pulsing heart. Those words.
Not now. For now, they could forget the past—up to and including this afternoon—and the future, and just be.
He reached out of the shower and grabbed a towel off the heated rack. He folded it a couple times, then dropped it into the water draining off their bodies. He knelt on it, felt Brandon’s resistance, a scrabbling of his fingers as if to pull Frank up again, but Frank ignored it, instead licking along Brandon’s cock, root to tip, before he took it into his mouth. He’d always loved doing this, part taking control, part giving it up completely, especially when his partners invariably ended up fucking him in this position.
He took Brandon’s balls in his hand, squeezed them in his palm, skirting the edge of pain, and Brandon cursed softly but didn’t protest. Frank remembered too well that Brandon liked a little pain, and he was going to make it good, give him everything he had, even that little edge.
Brandon’s fingers dug into his hair at that, the man trembling with the strain of staying still, legs braced, but that was exactly what Frank had counted on. He used his other hand to rub along Brandon’s dam, pressed just right, exactly where he liked it, and felt Brandon dig his fingers in harder.
Frank would have grinned if he could’ve. He slid along the curve of Brandon’s arse, between his cheeks, and rubbed a couple fingers over his opening. Brandon groaned, opened his legs wider, which was all the permission Frank needed. Brandon’s skin was wet enough to allow him to work a finger into him, the tip first, and when no protest came, he withdrew and pushed a little more, doing his best to do two things at the same time: sucking on Brandon’s tip and gently finger-fucking him, rubbing across his prostate with every movement, slowly wrestling control from Brandon as he moved forwards, deeper into Frank’s mouth and then into his throat, and right t
hen it was perfect, fucking and being fucked at the same time, claiming and taking, control just about evenly split.
Frank pushed a second finger in, worked harder and faster against Brandon’s groaning, shuddering body, resentful that he couldn’t—wouldn’t—fuck him, but he could imagine it, could imagine their limbs tangled and feeling him this tight, this turned on, against and around him. Imagined these sounds, their hands entwined as part of the fuck would always be struggle, strain, power against power. He pushed harder, took every inch he could get, and was nearly dizzy with the lack of air when Brandon came in his throat. He pulled back because he had to, swallowed, managed to catch a couple short, hectic breaths through his nose as he freed his fingers and finished himself off while Brandon, still shaking and panting, steadied himself against the tiles.
Frank rose, his own legs not completely steady, and before he was even fully upright, Brandon pulled him into his arms. They were more eager now than earlier, but still gentle, enjoying another kiss for its own sake.
When their mouths finally separated, Frank expected Brandon to say something, or make eye contact, or suggest they finish getting cleaned up. The last thing in the world he expected, though, was for Brandon to wrap his arms around him, tuck his head under Frank’s chin, and just hold on. Frank closed his eyes and returned the embrace, stroking Brandon’s wet hair.
He kissed the top of Brandon’s head.
Remember what it felt like to love someone so much it hurt?
Yeah. That.
Brandon had brought a change of clothes with him, and now leaned against the counter in Frank’s kitchen wearing nothing but a pair of black track pants and socks, completely relaxed, no sign of the rage that had had him ready to beat Chris to a pulp earlier.
Frank, dressed equally casual but with the addition of a faded T-shirt, pulled some of Emily’s leftovers out of the fridge. “Are you feeling better? About earlier, I mean?”
Brandon shrugged. “I’ll live. Might have a few words for Chris next time I see him, but nothing that’ll result in a felony.”
Frank chuckled. “That’s promising.” He began to unwrap a plastic box. “Sorry your paintball day ended up ruined, though.”
“It happens.” Brandon smiled. “The day wasn’t a total loss, though. I can’t complain.”
That sentiment reverberated through Frank. Anyone else would have been dragging and depressed for the rest of the night after the altercation on the field coupled with the difficult conversation in the car. Maybe Brandon would chew on it later and deal with whatever emotional fallout came along, or maybe he really had moved on already. Water off a duck’s back.
Brandon rested his arms on the kitchen island. “What about you?”
“Me?” Frank glanced up from putting the olive and sausage creation onto some of the ciabatta bread Emily had left. “I was worried about you. You had a lot thrown at you today.” And I probably salted that wound nicely on the way home.
Brandon fixed his gaze on the food Frank was preparing. “It wasn’t just me Chris was flipping out about.”
“No. I suppose it wasn’t.” He spread some more of the olive mixture on some bread, then pushed the half-empty bowl away. “Are you, I guess, okay with that?”
“I’m not okay with him being a dick about it, but it’s part of us dating. It’s reality.” Brandon shrugged with one shoulder. “I take crap for being gay, being a prostitute, being kinky.” Another half shrug. “Hell, people who can overlook your status will get pissy because you’re older than me, and I’m sure you’ve got some friends who won’t think highly about you dating a young prostitute.” He smirked. “Or an American, for that matter.”
Frank couldn’t help a small laugh. “We’ll have to work on your accent. You know, to cover that up.” In a stage whisper, he added, “So people don’t get suspicious.”
Brandon sniggered. “Dude, you don’t even want to hear my English accent. Trust me.”
Frank laughed more enthusiastically this time and spoke in a very poor imitation of a southern American accent. “Well, don’t expect me to sound like a fuckin’ Yankee either.”
“Oh God.” Brandon burst out laughing. “You and I could go on one of those TV talent shows as the Bad Accent Duo. That would be epic.”
“Fairly certain Simon Cowell would chase us out of the building with a torch and a pitchfork.” Frank held out a plate of food.
Brandon took it. “Would be good for ratings. And to see the look on that fucker’s face. He deserves it for those god-awful shows he’s created.”
Frank chuckled. “And I thought there was no guy under thirty who didn’t like that crap.”
“I’d rather put a nail gun to my head than watch that shit. No, correction. Put a nail gun to Simon’s head.”
“No dead celebrities. Living as the gay Bonnie and Clyde would mean I can’t run the Garden.”
“Spoilsport.” Brandon grinned at him, and every time he did that, something shifted inside Frank, some weight, or maybe his heart, or his whole damn collection of organs swapped places.
“Let’s see, you’re dating a guy in his forties, an ex-con with a gangland history and no education to speak of, a dirty old man who’s also working as a pimp, forcing hot young things to sell their cocks and arses.” He used an exaggerated tone there, because he had made peace with it all, though he didn’t add to the list the one thing that stuck inside him like something exceedingly pointy and cold. “At least you have youth and beauty on your side.”
“You’re not forcing anybody.” Brandon lifted an eyebrow. “Nobody at the Garden has one bad word about you, apart from Raoul, and I think he’s playing.”
“He’s working hard to pick up my slack most days. He should be assistant manager or something. What do they call these guys in retail? The ones who actually do all the work? That’s him.”
“It’s clever. You’re doing the strategy; he’s responsible for the tactics on the ground.”
Frank chuckled. “Well, I do have some big ideas.”
“Like?”
“Either a complete revamp of the club or moving somewhere outside. I was looking at a few places, but haven’t found anywhere yet. I’ll have to do some numbers, too. Can I afford the kind of place, should I borrow, or get some partners in . . .” Though he was pretty certain he could afford it. After all, he’d inherited part of the corporate communications firm Andrew had founded, and the other partners had bought him out. Add to that Andrew’s investment portfolio, and then life insurance and private pension payments, and Frank didn’t have to work another day in his life, never mind worry about what he ultimately did with Market Garden.
Brandon seemed keenly interested. “What’s it look like in your head?”
“There are some mansions out in the countryside that would have some more privacy. I think several of the usual clients would be willing to come outside of London for, you know, erotic adventures. Fantasies. Hell, even orgies. Probably more like a real brothel, so more problematic, potentially, but we can always still run it as a gentlemen’s club.”
Brandon nodded. “Bigger budget.”
“Much bigger. I do have the quality of staff, just the surroundings aren’t quite there. Or we keep the location for the moment as a club and open another one, outside, that offers . . . more.”
Stroking his chin, Brandon nodded again. “Could be a safer place for us guys, too.”
“How so?”
“Get a bigger location with some private rooms, and we don’t necessarily have to leave for hotels and houses. Service the guys right there in the club.”
“Good thinking.” Keeping his rentboys safe had always been a priority, and keeping them on-site where the bouncers and security could handle problems that arose would be helpful. Situations like the one the other night with Tristan and Jared, where a john got belligerent and refused to pay, were much more easily defused with a bunch of burly bouncers as backup rather than with the guys calling on a mobile and saying “Hey, we�
�ve got a problem.” Not every Garden employee had a mouth like Tristan’s and could threaten his way out of such a situation.
“I can hold my own with most guys.” Brandon picked at his food. “But I’ll admit, I’d be more comfortable if things were kept in one building.”
Frank’s gut twisted again. Keeping all the guys safe was a priority, but Brandon? He wasn’t even sure he wanted Brandon fucking other men on-site, never mind taking them someplace else. That fierce need to protect him was too strong for Frank to be comfortable with that. He’d have to live with it, of course, and he’d never forbid Brandon from working as a rentboy, but he might develop an ulcer in the process.
He coughed into his fist. “Well, it’s definitely something to look into. Top priority is making sure you guys are all safe.” Especially you.
Brandon smiled. “I know. I’ve never questioned that.” He paused. “How did you end up running a whorehouse, anyway? I’m assuming you didn’t win it off a reality show or something.”
Frank laughed. “No, I’m afraid not. Honestly, I didn’t want someone else ending up like me.”
“Like . . . like you?”
He nodded. “There’s always been prostitutes in this city, and there always will be. And with all the shit out there that can infect these guys, and all the people who might try to hurt someone because he’s a prostitute, I wanted to start a place where the safety of the rentboys was first and foremost. So I made a deal with the owner of the other lounge, the one in front of the club, and took over the back half of the ground floor.”
“Really?” Brandon furrowed his brow. “I thought the whole thing was yours.”
