Silent Knight: A Fog City Novel

by Layla Reyne

  Maybe it was the stupidest idea he’d ever had, but fuck if Brax didn’t want this too. A night out with Holt to dance and have fun without the threat of death or court martial hanging over their heads. And maybe tonight was exactly what Brax needed to slam the door on reckless impossibilities once and for all. Holt was going to move on, meet someone, have sex, and fall in love, and the odds of that person being Brax were slim to none. Better to rip the Band-Aid off now than spend a lifetime wondering. Better for Brax to be his friend and keep his promise. Protect him. Make sure Holt got the life and happiness he deserved.

  Brax pushed off the wall. “Okay, then, let’s see what we can do about finding you that spark with someone.”

  The bottle slipped from Holt’s hand, but, as Brax had come to expect, Holt moved fast enough to catch it with his foot before it shattered on the floor. “What?”

  “As your best friend, it’s my duty to be your wingman.” He bent over, picked up Holt’s bottle, and held it in one hand with his own empty. He held out his other hand to Holt. “Do you trust me?”

  “More than anyone.” Holt’s bear paw closed around his. “Just don’t call me boy again.”

  Brax laughed his id back into its cell. “Roger that, Private.”

  The night’s turn of events had played out in Brax’s favor. Holt Madigan unwound was something else, and Brax was grateful beyond words that he’d gotten the chance to see it, gotten this night out with him in case they never got the opportunity again. That thought had continued to play in the back of Brax’s mind as they’d danced and jumped to the music, had continued to drive his need to take a mental picture of every moment. Arms slung over each other’s shoulders, bodies grinding, spinning from partner to partner, then back to each other again. Brax looked his fill at the beautiful man whose freckled skin was red with exertion and glistening with sweat, whose ginger temples dripped beads of moisture, whose eyes were wiped clean of fear and were feverish with life instead, more life and freedom than Brax had ever seen in their warm brown depths. He could be content with the fact he’d given Holt this night out. Had been there with him to experience it. That had to be enough.

  Holt spun away from the bartender who’d taken a break to join them and crowded close behind Brax, hands on his hips, drawing him back from the bespectacled bear Brax had been dancing with. “Let’s get out of here,” Holt said, loud enough to be heard over the music, close enough that his lips brushed the curve of Brax’s ear.

  There was no way Holt didn’t feel the shiver that snaked through Brax. “You’re supposed to say that to the bartender,” Brax covered. “Or to Mini-Ricky.”

  Holt laughed. “Definitely not to him.” The rumble from deep in his chest pressed against Brax’s back and rolled through Brax like fine whisky, warming him from the inside out.

  Brax shifted, aiming to get a little distance, to see Holt’s face and understand what he was truly asking. “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.” There was no trace of sadness on his face. Only bright, beguiling eyes and a big goofy grin. “I just wanna spend the night with my best friend.”

  Brax’s dick responded to his words, even as his brain said to take them at face value. And to appreciate that Holt had had a good time and was no longer hung up on turning in his V-card. Brax had kept his promise. And while he’d had a blast tonight, dancing and letting go, he would happily spend the rest of it with Holt in a less crowded, quieter space. Someplace they could talk, Brax could beat him at cards, and they could enjoy what little time they had left in each other’s company. “Lead the way.”

  They retrieved Holt’s flannel and their coats, and once bundled up against the brisk autumn night, jogged down the block to the hotel where Holt was staying. As they crossed the opulent lobby, then rode the marble and mirrored elevator up, up and up, Brax caught Holt up on Marsh, Bailey, and the others at camp, while Holt filled him in on his six months on base.

  When they disembarked on the top floor, which only had four rooms, Brax whistled low. “Fuck, Private, a penthouse suite?”

  “Not my idea.” He swiped his keycard in front of the electronic lock and pushed open the door.

  Brax hesitated over the threshold, afraid to sully the suite, the spacious room lit in soft yellow light from two lamps. He’d never stayed somewhere so nice. Possibly never stepped foot in a place so grand. “What did you say your family does?”

  Hand to his back, Holt shoved him forward with a laugh. “Cold storage.” The door clicked shut behind them. “It’s profitable in San Francisco. Lots of shipping, fisheries, and restaurants. Research labs too.”

  “This profitable?” Brax stumbled into the living area of the suite and spun in a circle, taking it all in. Vaulted ceilings, a crystal chandelier, elegant furnishings, and windows on three sides, providing grand views of the Potomac and multiple national monuments, glowing in their halos of light in the otherwise dark night. To the right, up a small set of stairs, there was an ornamental bookcase, tastefully decorated with leather-bound books, vases, and other expensive trinkets. Through the open cubbyholes, Brax glimpsed the king-sized bed in another room full of windows and a door off to the side, likely to an en-suite bathroom. “This is—”

  “Wasted on me.” Holt toed off his shoes and crossed the room to a beverage cart positioned between two windows. “All I need is a fucking cot or bunk. But Hawes and Helena wanted to do something nice since I got delayed and all.” He lifted a tall bottle of amber liquid with a distinctive blue label. “Had this waiting for me too. Belated twenty-first birthday gift.”

  Speaking of fine whisky. “Two and a half years belated but trust me, JWB more than makes up for it.” Brax had only had a glass once—in Ayers’s office when Brax had been promoted to major—but he’d never forget that bottle or the smooth blended scotch inside.

  Holt smiled. “Have a glass with me?”

  “Not gonna say no to that.” Brax ditched his shoes next to Holt’s and settled on one of the two sofas in the middle of the room. They faced each other, a coffee table between them with a vase of fresh-cut flowers in the center. Fuck, what did a night in a place like this cost? Cold storage really paid this well?

  Holt appeared at his side with two full-to-the-brim glasses of scotch. Brax bit back a laugh. Apparently, no one had ever taught Holt that two fingers’ worth was a generous pour. Brax sure as fuck wasn’t going to be the one to do so now, not when offered four Holt-sized fingers’ worth of top-shelf scotch. He took the glass, and surprising him, Holt sank onto the sofa next to him.

  “Cheers.” Brax tapped the rim of his glass against Holt’s, a slosh spilling over the lip of both their glasses. He took a sip before any more was wasted, enjoying the smooth, subtle flavors—oak and vanilla, caramel and spice, a touch of peat—as they burned across his tongue and down his throat. Not a scorcher like some bourbon and whisky, and not smoky and peaty like other scotch. Just a pleasant warmth. He licked his lips, making sure not to waste a drop, then looked up in time to see Holt quickly divert his gaze.

  Warmth of a different sort prickled the base of Brax’s spine, but he ignored it, keeping his desire locked away. It had been a good night, one they would both remember fondly. He wouldn’t ruin it with impossibilities. “Sorry I was a shitty wingman tonight.”

  “Not your fault.” Holt gulped half his scotch, then gasped, apparently not having had the sipping lesson either and not expecting the whisky’s heat. Or maybe it had been intentional, his face falling. “I’m gonna go home a virgin still.”

  Brax had thought, had hoped, Holt was past that. He took another sip of his scotch and shifted on the couch to face Holt, folding a leg under him, then putting it back down after thinking better of it. Feet on the furniture was probably frowned upon in a hotel like this. “From what you’ve told me, it doesn’t sound like your family would be the type to judge.”

  Holt grabbed Brax’s leg by the knee and hauled it back up to where Brax had intended to put it. “Be comfortable, and you’re right
, they’re not. At all.” He took another healthy gulp of scotch. “But I thought maybe…”

  “No spark with anyone at the club tonight?”

  “There was one.”

  Brax drowned his aching heart in scotch before offering to go back there. “The club is open for another few hours.” He didn’t really want to go, but if this was important to Holt, if this was what he needed, Brax would make it happen.

  “We don’t need to do that.” Holt threw back the rest of his drink, set his glass on the table, and when he returned his gaze to Brax’s, his eyes were a storm of fire and fear. And his face had caught fire too, a bright scarlet red clashing with his hair and orange flannel shirt. “The person I felt a spark with is right here.”

  Whisky sloshed over the rim of Brax’s glass again, coating his trembling fingers. Had he heard that right? Translated it right? Holt wasn’t saying what Brax thought he was saying… was he? “Private…”

  Holt pried the whisky from Brax’s hand, gulped down the rest of that glass too, then set it on the table next to his. “Don’t get me wrong, the bartender was hot, the maid of honor in that bachelorette group was gorgeous, the Georgetown grad in the bowtie was fly as hell, but I wasn’t attracted to any of them. I didn’t want any of them.” He shifted closer to Brax. “But you… You were amazing tonight, sexy and uninhibited, and I trust you. I know you. I feel connected to you. Safe. And for some reason, that turns me the fuck on. Not anyone else tonight. No one in the past either. Just you. I want you.”

  Brax stared across the room, certain he was about to burst into flames. From the heat of Holt’s leg next to his, from his too tempting breath on the side of his face, from the promise of his words. All of it more scorching than any whisky he’d ever tasted, top-shelf or not.

  “But if you don’t want to…”

  Brax whipped his gaze back to the brown one beside him. “I didn’t say that.”

  One corner of Holt’s mouth twitched, fighting a smile as if he could smell the victory. Or, more likely, see the bulge in Brax’s jeans. “All my good memories the past three years involve you, Cap. This last one should too.”

  “Captain. That’s why—”

  Holt laid a hand on his thigh, and Brax’s words died. “But you’re not anymore, are you? You’re a major.” He slid his hand higher and spread his fingers, grasping the inside of Brax’s thigh. “And I’m not a soldier anymore—”

  “Technically—”

  “Fuck technically.”

  If Brax hadn’t been erect already, Holt’s sharp, tortured growl together with the press of his fingers would have done the trick. As it were, a lightning bolt of desire ripped through Brax’s veins, tripping circuits and standing all his hairs on end.

  Making his dick ache with need.

  “I’m sixteen years older than you.” One last-ditch effort.

  Which Holt easily batted down. “Good. You’ll be better at this than me.” He leaned closer, bringing them cheek to cheek, and slid his hand into the crease of Brax’s groin. “I don’t give a fuck about your rank or age. I want you. I want this. Please, Brax.”

  The last time Holt had used his name he had been desperate for Brax to live. Tonight’s desperation was nothing like that. It sounded an awful lot like the desperate id Brax had kept locked away the past three years. Holt was prying open the lock—his knuckles brushing Brax’s dick, his heavy breaths in his ear, the heat of his words and skin all around.

  The desire that smacked against and recognized Brax’s own.

  “Please, Brax.”

  Desire Brax was powerless to resist now that the door had been flung wide open. “Fuck.” He angled his face toward Holt’s, and that was all the invitation Holt needed, chasing after Brax’s lips and sealing their mouths in the kiss Brax had craved for years.

  It wasn’t smooth, or sweet, or seductive. It was sloppy, needy, all teeth and lips as Holt’s inexperience collided with Brax’s hunger.

  It was perfect, and Brax was undone, groaning, opening his mouth under Holt’s assault and sucking in his tongue when it pushed between his lips. Tasting beer, whisky, and the hint of something he couldn’t define. He wanted more, more, more. Taking the cue, Holt kissed him deeper, pulled him under, drowning him in lust and his big body. He climbed onto Brax’s lap, surrounding him, knees on either side of his hips, arms draped over his shoulders, torso blanketing his. Rocking an impressive erection against Brax’s abs. It was long and thick, and Brax’s ass clenched with eager anticipation. God, he wanted that inside him, wanted Holt inside him. He’d never let himself think that far before, never imagined—

  Holt cupped Brax through his jeans.

  Fuck.

  Brax couldn’t think anymore at all. He tore his mouth away and dropped his head back on top of the cushions, panting. Then groaned louder as Holt’s lips and tongue burned a path down his throat. He nipped and sucked on a tendon, too hard, no doubt raising a bruise, and fuck if that didn’t make Brax harder, make him want Holt to mark him all over. “More.” He held Holt’s head in place, fingertips crushing the soft bristles, as Holt’s fingers around his cock tightened and slid down the growing length.

  “Fuck yeah.” Holt nipped the underside of his chin. “You’re as hard as I am. You about to blow too?” As if to prove his point, Holt withdrew his hand and thrust his erection against Brax’s abs again. “Fuck, it hurts, but it’s good. So good.”

  Brax grabbed a handful of firm round ass cheek and held Holt tight against him. He rocked forward, making Holt feel even better, savoring his tortured gasp.

  “Fuck,” Holt keened. “I didn’t know it could feel like this. I didn’t know.” Brax kneaded his ass cheek, rolled his own hips, rutting, and Holt’s chants continued. “I didn’t know.”

  So much he didn’t know, and Brax only had one night to show him.

  “Fuck, you keep doing that and I’m gonna come.”

  And with a twenty-three-year-old virgin’s hair trigger climax too. Brax had to pull back if he was going to make this good for Holt. Good for both of them. He flattened his palm and rubbed it gently over Holt’s ass. With his other hand, he grasped the back of Holt’s head and guided his face out of the crook of his neck. “Ease up, baby. Breathe.”

  Holt panted against the side of Brax’s face as he struggled not to thrust. He ran a hand up Brax’s torso, over his T-shirt. Cotton was no match for the trail of heat in the wake of Holt’s touch, for the explosion a pinch of his nipple set off. Brax gritted his teeth. “That’s not easing up.”

  Holt circled his nipple with his thumb and licked at Brax’s tense jaw. “I want to feel all of it. I didn’t think I could… Wanna keep this feeling. Want to feel you.”

  Brax lightly slapped the redwood trunk of a thigh on his right side, intending to get Holt to move, intending to get them off the couch and to the bed where two six-foot-plus men could more fully enjoy each other, but Holt froze, a slab of granite braced above him. Brax panicked, afraid Holt had misread him, afraid he’d unintentionally gone too far. But then Holt moaned, low and needy, and Brax’s toes curled.

  Spanking turned Holt Madigan on. Not a fact he needed to know.

  Before his imagination ran wild and he came in his jeans, Brax pushed off the back of the couch, scooting to the edge, his momentum forcing Holt to his feet. And putting his rigid cock right in front of Brax’s face. Brax wanted to lean forward. Wanted to mouth it through the denim. Wanted to peel open the zipper and do the same through cotton until Holt was leaking and desperate, out of his mind with need like Brax.

  A gentle, shaking hand skirted over his head. “I’m gonna come if you keep staring at it like that.”

  Brax wrapped his hands around the backs of Holt’s thighs and looked up, not bothering to hide his need. “I want this too. As much as you do.”

  Maybe more.

  Holt wanted an experience, one Brax was uniquely able to give him. Brax wanted to make love to him. No denying that now. The heavy feeling in his heart and his dick wa
sn’t only about lust. Wasn’t only about getting off. Could they meet in the middle somewhere? Could he give Holt what he needed and not ruin himself forever? Probably not, but not knowing if he’d ever get this chance again, Brax couldn’t pass it up. And he couldn’t leave Holt like this, vulnerable and aching. He hadn’t had this before, and just getting this far was obviously big for him. What would it do to Holt to deny him the rest? Brax was as terrified to stop as he was to keep going.

  I’ll protect you.

  He couldn’t be the one that hurt Holt. Wouldn’t be. If Brax had to suffer from here to eternity to avoid that, then fine, so be it. And no matter what, he’d have this night. One impossible night to look back on and cherish. One night with the man he loved.

  As if sensing the mental gymnastics tearing Brax apart, Holt lowered his hand to Brax’s cheek, gently stroking it. “Tell me this won’t fuck things up between us.”

  “It won’t.” Brax wouldn’t let it. “But if you want to stop, we stop.”

  “That’s the last thing I want.” He smirked and thrust his hips forward, presenting evidence. Too close. Brax slid his hands up the backs of Holt’s thighs, cupping his ass, and Holt pressed back into them, giving Brax an inch more space. And a whole other set of mental images. Images that vanished when the corner of Holt’s mouth dipped. “Well, second to last.”

  “The last?”

  “To lose my best friend.”

  Brax nudged him back enough to stand, skimming the front of Holt’s hard body as he rose. Holt was no less aroused, just cautious. Mind set, Brax aimed to wipe his worry away. He lifted both hands and cupped Holt’s face. “You won’t lose me. I promise.” He leaned in and kissed him softly to seal it. Then began trailing his lips over Holt’s jaw, sucking and nipping at the tendon of his neck, leaving a bruise to match his, as he dragged the flannel down Holt’s arms and shuffled them back toward the bedroom.

  “I don’t want to hurt you either,” Holt mumbled, even as he pushed Brax’s T-shirt up, big hands gliding over his torso, sending ripples of pleasure through Brax. Was this going to hurt tomorrow? Like hell. Was he going to stop it tonight? Hell no. Because Holt’s hands on his skin, tweaking his nipples, his lips sliding over Brax’s, his breath mingled with his own, the shivers racing down Brax’s spine were the furthest thing from pain.