Capture & Surrender (Market Garden, #5)(4)
“Spoils of war.” Stefan beamed. “I like it.”
“Figured you might.”
“Sounds like fun. When?”
“Saturday afternoon. There’s the safety instruction and the guided tour, but we have the area for the whole day and into the night.”
“I’m in.”
“Sweet.” Frank did pat him on the shoulder now. No harm done, right? “It’ll be fun seeing you get your arse handed to you.”
“Well, if I win”—Stefan had the slyest grin imaginable—“I might be doing more to your ass than handing it to you.”
You won’t. Frank laughed, which kept him from choking on his own breath. “May the best man win, then.”
Stefan said nothing, just f*cking grinned at Frank.
Frank left him to the johns and went back into his office for a few minutes. To deal with paperwork, of course. Not collect his thoughts or catch his breath or anything. Which was why he didn’t get any further than leaning against the closed door, thinking about this weekend.
Stefan knew the rules. Frank didn’t get involved with employees. And besides, Frank had neglected to mention that he didn’t usually get out on the field himself. Or if he did, it was as a referee. Oh, he’d play a few rounds now and then, but most of the guys were younger than him, and he couldn’t sustain that kind of intense play for round after round like they did. He was in damned good shape for forty-one, but by the time these younger guys were breaking a sweat, he’d be ready to sit one out.
Sit one out and watch Stefan play. Frank shivered. Few things could make a cocky son of a bitch in camouflage hotter than a paintball marker and mask. And maybe some mud on his uniform. A few leaves from crawling through the underbrush. Sweat mixing with dirt on his skin. The odd smear of paint and occasionally a little blood. Even better? A captured player kneeling at his feet.
Frank shook his head. Paperwork. Definitely time to do some paperwork. Otherwise he was going to have to jerk off back here. That would inevitably happen some evening or another, but Frank wasn’t giving in yet.
Maybe after this weekend.
After he had actual memories of a sweaty, dirty, camouflaged—
Work. Focus on work.
The damage was done, though. He’d extended the invitation, and this weekend, his fantasy would become reality. Even if he couldn’t touch the man—and he wouldn’t—he’d still get to watch him. And with the crowd that came to the paintball field, he’d seen plenty of hot, hot things play out right there in front of him, so it didn’t take much to superimpose Stefan’s face and body into those memories.
Closing his eyes, he felt around blindly for the doorknob. When he found it, he turned the lock. The click echoed through the small room like a starter pistol, and in an instant, thoughts of camouflaged men flooded his mind.
They weren’t technically supposed to fool around on the field, especially not if it involved taking off their masks, but sometimes men got caught up in the moment, and it happened. And Frank had witnessed it a time or two.
Pressing his teeth into his lower lip, he fumbled with his zipper as his mind’s eye showed him that time last spring when one guy dragged another down into a ravine. They were far enough from most of the action to be safe from enemy fire, but kept their masks on anyway, one pinning the other. Frank shivered at the memory of a paintball gun falling forgotten to the ground as a gloved, armoured hand restrained a camouflage-sleeved arm. Tactical vests brushed against each other, scratching and hissing like tearing Velcro, and a mask muffled a groan.
Leaning against his office door, Frank stroked himself, eyes screwed shut, recalling the way the pinned man had squirmed and groaned as the victor stroked him, shielding his exposed cock with his body in case enemy fire came their way. It was fast, furious, almost violent, two soldiers stealing a moment before they ran back out into the war zone.
Frank had only moved closer to keep an eye on things, ready to disqualify or give warnings, and instead watched those frantic moments. He hadn’t known at the time if one had captured the other or if they were lovers, but they were hot together. Though against the rule, he’d kept watch, hard in his own camo trousers, imagining the rasp of the gloved hand on his own dick, imagining struggling against the other man’s weight, breath caught loudly in the mask.
In his office in the present, Frank imagined it was Stefan pinning him down, stroking him forcefully on a hillside in the woods until he had no choice but to come, and he bit back on the groan as he came into his hand.
Frank wiped his face with his dry hand and cleaned up with a towel he kept with his sweaty clothes from the gym. Fuck. And the man he’d fantasised about was downstairs, pulling in clients that liked the exact same thing, making money for him.
Thank God the weekend was only another two nights away. He confirmed the invite for himself and a “friend,” and Geoff wrote back asking whether he’d be judging and whether his “friend” was playing. Frank confirmed both.
A night of fun and games, even if Frank merely tended to watch, making sure that rough post-competition play didn’t get rougher than people were okay with. Always keeping his eyes open, always making sure nobody got hurt more than they wanted to. Seemed he couldn’t switch that off, not even in his downtime.
He caught his breath, did some paperwork, and hoped Stefan would be gone when he headed back downstairs.