Capture & Surrender (Market Garden, #5)(12)

On his way around another set of bunkers, some bright orange caught his eye. On his second glance, he recognised both the jacket and the tense, crouched posture: Mike.

Frank grinned inside his mask. What better way to put a predator off his trail than to put an even easier prey in his path? The kinky paintball equivalent of tripping your friend so the grizzly would eat him instead of you. Decidedly more pleasant for the one left to the grizzly, too.

He ducked behind a bunker as paint flew past his head. Then, staying low, he jogged past Mike. Moved to a second, third, and finally fourth bunker.

He stopped and looked back.

There.

Stefan wasn’t on his belly this time. He slipped through the shadows, crouched and soundless. Even the leaves and sticks under his feet were silent, as if he were weightless. Or they, like Frank, were consciously avoiding drawing Stefan’s attention.

And as Frank had hoped, Stefan had someone in his sights.

Frank stayed behind cover and watched both of them, Mike being stalked and likely, on a subconscious level, picking up on the danger he was in. All it would have taken as Stefan moved in for the kill was to lift his own marker and shoot next to Mike, startle him and alert him to the direction the danger was coming from. Though that meant likely ruining the guy’s weekend even more than the client had managed.

Frank grinned inside his mask and watched the approach again, Stefan touching the man on the leg with a gloved hand. “You’re dead.”

Mike spun around and tumbled back against the bunker. “What the . . .”

“And mine.”

Frank was close enough to hear the hushed words.

“Shit. And I thought you were after the big guy.” Mike sounded nervous and excited.

Stefan indicated one of the bunkers right next to Frank’s. “Bet said a ref. You’re a ref. Move it.” Stefan assumed an air of command that had Mike instantly obedient, and guided him to one of the bunkers.

Once they were inside, Frank moved closer to make sure they weren’t getting shot at. With the game likely already winding down, Geoff would have his hands full but would be fine on his own.

Stefan pushed Mike down. “On your front, hands against your neck.”

Mike obeyed, and Stefan knelt over him. Ripping of Velcro straps again as he opened Mike’s trousers. Frank’s breath caught as Stefan made short work of the trousers and pulled them down just enough to bare Mike’s arse, then pulled off his own gloves and opened his own trousers. A few strokes had him fully hard, and Frank pressed his fist against his thigh. Good God. That could have been him down there, leaves and stones digging into his body, his arse bared to the enemy.

Stefan fished a condom from his pocket, ripped the pack, and rolled the condom down over his cock. Lube next, all efficient, proven movements while Mike kept the position Stefan had ordered, legs opened a bit.

He pushed lubed fingers between Mike’s cheeks, then wiped them on Mike’s trousers. He settled his weight on Mike, sliding his dick between his cheeks, pausing briefly to guide himself. Mike jerked when, Frank assumed, Stefan breached him, and groaned when Stefan pushed deeper and further. Frank pressed his lips together; the image was perfect. All still totally sane, and yet here were strangers playing out that capture-and-f*ck fantasy he craved. God damn Stefan, but he knew what he was doing, too. He bared nearly nothing, only his hands and the cock sticking out of his trousers, remaining otherwise totally anonymous.

Mike pushed up his arse further, allowing Stefan better access, more leverage, and they quickly found an agreement, a common rhythm as Stefan unleashed a f*ck that was altogether savage, bone-grinding need. It wasn’t meant to last, at all. The whistle would go off in a few minutes.

Hypnotised, Frank watched the end of the condom move, the slide and the rubbing of cloth, skin, Mike attempting to break position, maybe to steady himself or touch Stefan, but Stefan pinned his hands and his neck while delivering that wild f*cking, bodies slapping together.

Frank couldn’t help it, couldn’t keep himself under control, took his cock through his trousers and squeezed and rubbed in time with those thrusts, mindless and incoherent, breath too loud in his mask Just as he was getting close, Stefan rose up and glanced behind him, right at Frank, and then delivered a vicious snap of his hips, and another, that pushed Frank over the edge.

In my mind, I’m f*cking you.

The message couldn’t have been clearer.

Frank came helplessly into his trousers and fell back, breathless.

Thank God the whistle sounded.

A growl rose from inside the bunker, and then Mike moaned helplessly. He bucked against Stefan as much as he could in that pinned, surrendered position. Stefan grabbed Mike’s hips and thrust faster, shoulders hunching and head bowing like the tension of his own impending orgasm was bordering on unbearable.

Frank swore he could see—feel—the muscles tensing and quivering beneath Stefan’s camouflage jacket, and Stefan’s eyes screwing shut and lips pulling into a grimace behind that dark plastic lens.

Then Stefan gasped, threw his head back so hard he almost dislodged his mask, and forced himself all the way into Mike. His thrusts were sharp and irregular now, and Mike whimpered and clawed at the ground, but there was nothing at all for him to do except lie there and take it.

Stefan slumped over Mike. The front of his mask touched the back of Mike’s head, and Frank imagined Stefan wishing he could sink his teeth into Mike’s neck. One last sharp reminder of whose conquest this had been. No kissing. Nothing affectionate. Even if they’d both been naked and in a bed somewhere, nothing about that f*ck lent itself to gentle touches and tenderness.