Capture & Surrender

by L. A. Witt

  “Hope you’re not laughing at me.”

  He kissed Stefan again, his lips, his cheeks, his forehead, pulled him close and felt himself and Stefan breathe together, like nothing else mattered.

  And nothing else did.

  “You were laughing at me.”

  Which made Frank laugh again. He kissed him, and it all felt so tender and caring it hurt in his chest. “No. Just . . . I needed this so badly. You’d think for one who makes a living that way . . .” I’d be more jaded. But I’m not. This feels entirely different.

  “Know what? More for me.” Stefan pulled back enough to slip out, then traced a line through a drop of Frank’s cum, and their gazes met because Frank was sure he’d shuddered.

  “Maybe . . .” Frank inhaled deeply, but that mellow post-orgasm haze helped him gather his courage. “Will likely kill the mood, but just saying . . .”

  Stefan shook his head. “Nothing I haven’t heard before.”

  “Right. My, uh. Virus load is very low. I mean, very low. I’ve been taking my pills and keeping on top of things, and my doctor is very happy with me. Tells me I’m quite likely to get a beer paunch and die of something cardiovascular like normal people. I’ve had it for a while. It’s . . . I’m coping with it. My body is. These days it’s more like diabetes or so I guess, unless of course it does decide to fuck you up.”

  “One problem.” Stefan’s voice was firm.

  The pulse jumped up in Frank’s throat. Don’t tell me you’re positive too or something. Can’t deal with it. Hard enough as is.

  Stefan cracked a smile. “Paunch? Not happening.”

  Oh you fucking bastard.

  Despite the joke, the expression in Stefan’s eyes said, I understand, and that helped. He did believe in disclosure. Maybe you had to hit your mid-thirties at least before you could actually admit a weakness like that, things that you were scared of.

  “Confession time, then.” Stefan lifted an eyebrow.

  “Yeah.”

  “My name isn’t Stefan.” Stefan looked intently at him. “Figured I should have told you earlier, but I liked how it sounded when you said it.” He grinned. “Name’s Brandon.”

  “That’s nice, too.” Frank thought he sounded somewhat lame—he had liked the name, but it made sense to use a nom de cock, as it were. “Brandon. Will have to tell the others . . .”

  “No.” Brandon grinned. “Right now, that’s only for you.”

  “Convenient. Since all of this is only for you right now.”

  Brandon laughed. “I do so love the spoils of war.”

  Frank chuckled. They both got up and managed to share a shower that was for the purpose of getting clean and nothing else. Aside from some kissing, anyway. Maybe a lot of kissing. A hell of a lot of kissing, but at least they washed first.

  And there was something clean, Frank realised, about the way they were kissing under the hot water. There was plenty of desire still simmering under the surface, plenty of sex waiting to be had, but for the moment, they were content to let this linger. Arms wrapped around each other, kissing like they had all night and then some. It was passionate and still somehow almost . . . chaste. Intimacy for its own sake, not as a prelude to something more.

  That quiet nagging voice in the back of his mind tried to tell Frank not to read too much into this. Any of it. Not the way they kissed, not the fact that Stefan had transformed into Brandon right there in Frank’s bed, not the fact that sex with Brandon was so distinctly different from Stefan’s savage conquests on the field. Frank was older. And positive. And Brandon—Stefan—was a prostitute. This wasn’t a good match for anything other than a roll between the sheets.

  He knew that, but ignored it, and let himself get caught up in another kiss that lingered until Brandon suggested they go back into the bedroom. Then the two of them got out of the shower, towelled off, and climbed into Frank’s bed.

  And it was awfully difficult to pretend they weren’t lovers when Brandon put his head on Frank’s chest and draped his arm across his stomach, or when Frank put his hand on Brandon’s arm and tenderly ran his fingers back and forth along the thin, soft hair.

  “So.” Brandon pulled back and looked up at him. “That’s a hundred for the blowjob, two hundred for—”

  Frank laughed. Brandon chuckled, resting his head on Frank’s shoulder again.

  “Okay, fine. Free of charge. Just this one time.”

  “Except if I do pay you, I’ll have to take my cut. So it’s kind of like getting a discount.”

  “Damn it.”

  Laughing softly, Frank kissed the top of Brandon’s head.

  “All joking aside. Now what?”

  Frank stared up at the ceiling and released a breath. “Well, you’ve been calling the shots.”

  “Yeah. But to be honest, I wasn’t completely sure I’d get this far.”

  “Didn’t you?” Frank grinned. “You seemed pretty sure of yourself.”

  “Maybe.” Brandon turned onto his stomach and pushed himself up onto his forearms. “But what’s the point if you don’t want me too?”

  “Oh, I did.” Frank stroked Brandon’s hair. “From day one.”

  Brandon’s smile was, for the first time, shy. “Then you’re damned good at playing hard to get, because I wasn’t sure.” He moistened his lips. “That was part of what spooked me in your office the other night.”

  Frank cocked his head. “What do you mean?”

  Brandon lowered his gaze and played with the edge of the pillowcase. “I mean, everything you told me, it hit hard. Knowing what you’d been through. And it hit close to home, too.” He looked at Frank through his lashes. “But before you told me that part, you said you were attracted to me. And I guess it kind of threw me because I had sort of given up on that.”

  “You were driving me mad. Felt like I couldn’t . . . like there was no place to run to anymore. I’m not a coward, I’m careful. For everybody’s sake.”

  “No, you’re not a coward. Just couldn’t work out what was really going on. You were eye-fucking me all the time, and that was a . . . Jesus Christ, that was a rush. Fucking that guy, knowing I was really fucking you somewhere in your head? Big rush.”

  “Well, the proxy got off, too.” Frank grinned wryly. “Yeah, mindfuck. I’m . . . I went into hiding when Andrew died. Took a while to even peer out again, and then you . . . hitting all my buttons, and hard, rattling my cage with everything you did, and then I couldn’t throw you off the scent, and that too screwed my mind. I’m doing all right for my age and the overall situation, but you . . . I didn’t believe . . . didn’t trust . . .” My instincts. Still not sure I can.

  “The hunt feels a lot less sure from the hunter’s viewpoint.” Brandon rubbed his face against Frank’s chest. “Certainly didn’t think it was trust issues.”

  “What else?”

  “Monogamous partner hidden in the attic somewhere? Bulletproof business sense? I don’t know. Thought it had to be serious. Or maybe you didn’t like me the way you do Mike and Geoff.”

  “They’re old friends. That’s totally different. We— No. They have an open relationship, but I’m not really a part of that. They’ve stood by me over the years.”

  “But you guys do . . .” Brandon lifted his eyebrow.

  Frank ran his fingers through Brandon’s short, still-damp hair. “How do you figure?”

  Brandon shrugged. “Hooker’s sixth sense?”

  Frank laughed. “Is that what you all call it these days?”

  “Something like that.” Brandon chuckled. “I don’t know, I just got that vibe from you guys. You’re all part of that pervy paintball group, and you seem pretty chummy with them.”

  “Very intuitive. Yes, we’ve been . . . intimate at times.”

  “Intimate at times?” That trademark smirk, the Stefan look, came to life on his lips. “Is that a polite way of saying you guys get together for threesomes?”

  “How do you know I don’t fuck one of them at a time?”r />
  “If you did, I’d say all three of you are idiots.”

  “Would you, now?”

  “Fuck yeah.” Brandon wriggled a little, then turned onto his side and propped his head up with one arm. “They’re both hot. You’re hot. And I know at least two of the three of you are damn good fucks. I would hope you guys could, well, put two and two together and figure out a threesome would be even better.”

  “You a fan of three-ways, then?”

  “With the right pair of guys, sure.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “But I do tend to prefer to focus on one victim at a time.”

  “A victim?” Frank laughed. “Christ. No wonder you’re so popular at the Garden. You and that attitude.”

  Brandon grinned. “The dick and the attitude. I’m the complete package. So to speak.”

  “Certainly nearly more than I can handle.” Frank kissed Brandon’s shoulder. “I need something to drink. Water. You want something?”

  Brandon shook his head and spread out more, relaxing, claiming space, which Frank figured was a good sign.

  “I’ll be back in five. Don’t go anywhere.”

  Brandon gave him an ironic look and flopped a bit more.

  Frank slid out of bed, deliciously sore, found his boxers and put them on, then headed downstairs into the kitchen. Pills. He couldn’t forget the pills, wouldn’t upset the carefully balanced routine that kept him healthy.

  Vitamins. Minerals. All washed down with a large glass of water, then he started setting up his pills for tomorrow morning, made small piles of the different colours and shapes. It was routine now, he even had a tray for them, which in the beginning had reminded him of suddenly turning eighty years old, held together only by pills. He’d made his peace with it, though. Didn’t mean he wanted Brandon to see any of it.

  Between getting water for both of them and dealing with medication, five minutes turned into fifteen. He kept expecting Brandon to come strolling into the kitchen, imagined his expression at the massive amounts of pills. Maybe a smirk and a comment about “don’t forget an aspirin a day for your heart” or “any of those make you see crazy shit?” Or maybe, given the kid’s prior history, a silent and more sombre reaction. A look, followed by a refusal to look again.

  Fortunately, Brandon didn’t come down. When Frank made it back to the bedroom, Brandon hadn’t moved. In fact, he’d fallen asleep. Lying like that, on his stomach with one arm under the pillow and the other tucked against his side, he looked half Brandon, half Stefan. Boyish, peaceful, almost innocent, but the tattoo and the scrape on his elbow reminded Frank of the camouflaged hunter on the field.

  On one hand, here was the sleeping form of a tough guy, a former soldier, someone who could carry out a calculated attack on a field and, likely, a battlefield. On the other, he was so young. A kid. Seemed like a crime that someone like him had experienced the things he had. And then carry Frank’s shit, too? Didn’t seem fair.

  Frank’s throat tightened. If only he could protect Brandon from carrying all that crap, from having to face the same heartache again.

  Ask me over breakfast.

  Damn, he did care way too much about him after only one night.

  And two weeks where you’ve beaten yourself up over it.

  That, too.

  That wasn’t to say there was anything more to this than some incredibly hot sex and maybe some much-needed empathy from someone who knew about certain things. They weren’t running off to pick out curtains or anything. Nothing was set in stone.

  Frank set the water glasses on the bedside table, then eased himself into bed beside Brandon, trying not to wake him up. He’d barely settled onto the mattress, though, when Brandon’s eyes fluttered open.

  Brandon jumped, lifting his head off the pillow. “Shit. Did I fall asleep?”

  “It’s okay.” Frank pulled the sheet up over both of them. “I mean, it isn’t like you’ve done anything physical today. Can’t imagine why you might be tired.”

  Brandon laughed, letting his head drop onto the pillow again. “I’m always doing physical things.”

  That comment slid under Frank’s skin. Always doing physical things? Yes, yes he was, and Frank was profiting off a good number of them. Hadn’t Frank sworn up and down he’d never date his rentboys? He wasn’t a stickler for monogamy or anything, but that seemed like a recipe for disaster.

  In fact, everything about this seemed like a recipe for disaster.

  But even if he was headed for the mother of all car crashes, he couldn’t bring himself to hit the brake with everything he had, not for his sake, not for Brandon’s sake, or Market Garden’s, or sanity, or morality, or because it wasn’t fair or even very balanced.

  Seemed all he could do was grip the steering wheel and keep going until something stopped him.

  Raoul gave him strange looks when Frank kept hanging around the bar throughout the next week. Yes, okay, he was spending more time at the Garden than he had in months, but he thought people were getting used to him again. Fact was, he did enjoy the bustle and the company. And getting Raoul to wait hand and foot on him was amusing too. The barkeep still likely expected the other boot to drop, and that was amusing in its own way.

  He also enjoyed watching the guys work. There was flirting going on, groping, smiles, and flashed cash.

  After barely landing on his own two feet more than once, he’d started Market Garden partly as a safe haven for rentboys, and he hadn’t really taken that much of an interest in actually being here after it was clear the place almost ran itself. Good staff saw to that. However, now that he was around more, he enjoyed it, started getting ideas maybe to move to a larger building, have more booths with more privacy, that sort of thing.

  What he hadn’t quite worked out was how he felt about Brandon’s job. He enjoyed watching him hunt, watching him show off in front of businessmen who usually turned into clients within minutes. Then they’d leave, and Frank would push down the urge to imagine what Brandon was doing, how he was doing it, because it turned him on and he wanted to be there and then he didn’t—the emotions were too complex to parse.

  Business was slow today. Right when he was about to get up and invite Stefan for a bite somewhere, though, a client did show up. It was one of Nick’s former clients, clearly at sea now that Nick was gone, and he naturally drifted towards Stefan, almost courting him with drinks and fleeting, probing touches. Frank studied the display. The guy was attractive, typical City type, looking stressed and in desperate need of pain.

  The deal was sealed when Stefan took the guy’s hand off his chest and twisted his arm on his back, pressing in.

  Frank shivered and rolled his shoulder. The negotiation that followed was quick and easy. Stefan whispered something into the john’s ear, the john nodded. Deal done. They were leaving.

  Frank took a sip from his tea as he explored that ambivalent sense of protectiveness, a bite of jealousy, arousal in part, and the feeling that it wasn’t morally right to watch the guy he was sleeping with take on clients and not say a word. On one hand, Frank wanted to shield Brandon from the men who wanted to pay to use his body. On the other, that was the whole reason Stefan was here. Willingly, knowing full well what he was doing, and for Frank’s financial gain. Of course, it was Brandon’s decision whether and how much to work, and the last thing Frank wanted was to turn into a controlling sugar daddy.

  Well isn’t this a fucked-up situation?

  Frank got up from the bar and went back into his office. There was paperwork to do, bills to pay, but he mostly wanted to get out of the lounge that was now devoid of Brandon’s gorgeous, predatory presence.

  He’d barely dropped into his desk chair and started scrolling through his inbox when someone knocked on the door. Any distraction was more than welcome. “Come in.”

  The door opened. Raoul leaned one shoulder on the frame and tilted his head slightly. “Mind if I sit for a minute?”

  “Don’t you have drinks to pour?”

  The barten
der shrugged. “It’s under control.”

  Frank gestured at the chair in front of his desk. Raoul took a seat, lounging in the chair and resting one ankle on top of the other knee.

  “So how’s Stefan working out?” Raoul tapped his fingers on the scuffed leather of his biker boots.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Raoul gestured towards the lounge. “Seems like he fits in here pretty well, eh?”

  “Oh. Yes. Yes, he does. Quite well.” Frank eyed his bartender and long-time friend. “Where’d you find this kid, anyway?”

  “Same strip club where I found Tristan.”

  Oh, lord. Frank could only imagine the kind of spectacle Brandon could put on. That club specifically sought strippers with attitude. That was why Tristan had done so well there. That fucker stopped just short of plucking a patron’s wallet out of his hand, helping himself to as much cash as he thought he was worth, and then making the guy beg for his lap dance anyway. Brandon probably wasn’t quite so in-your-face—few rivalled Tristan for that quality—but he would hardly have any patrons walking away from the stage with money left in their wallets.

  Frank cleared his throat. “So he was a stripper?”

  Raoul shook his head. “Bartender.”

  “Oh.” Frank was partially relieved, but also admittedly disappointed that his fantasy wasn’t real.

  Raoul draped an arm over the armrest of the chair. “He was bored, not making a hell of a lot of money, and hated that dickhead who owns the place.”

  “Can’t blame him.”

  “He seems to like his current employer, though.” Raoul gave a knowing eyebrow lift.