Capture & Surrender (Market Garden, #5)(41)

Finally, he’d obeyed the order and rested his hands on his thighs.

Something rustled beside him. Fabric under tension, brushing, moving. Leather creaked softly, and Frank realised Stefan had lowered himself beside him. His hand rested on the back of Frank’s neck.

“You’re going to lean down and rest your weight on your forearms.” Stefan slid his hand under Frank’s wrists and guided him forwards.

He’d thought Stefan’s little game with his balance a moment ago was only to f*ck with him, but now that Stefan was ordering him to move blindly, to defy all his instincts and put himself in danger of face-planting on the hard floor, he got it. Stefan nudged him farther with the hand on his neck while the other under his wrists reassured him there’d be something solid underneath him until he was able to hold himself up. His hands brushed the carpet, and he exhaled as Stefan eased him down onto his forearms.

“Now.” The sadistic amusement in Stefan’s voice was back in full force. “You’re totally mine to play with.” He trailed his finger down the centre of Frank’s spine again, all the way to his loosened belt and upraised arse. “If I wanted to yank down your trousers and f*ck you, good and hard and for as long as I wanted to, I guess you’d have no choice but to sit there and take it. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes.” Most definitely a croak. He tried again. “Yes.”

Stefan chuckled. He hooked a finger under Frank’s trousers and underwear, and that first tug made Frank’s breath catch. As Stefan worked Frank’s clothes off until his arse was completely exposed, Frank’s heart pounded. He’d trusted few men in his life to put him in a position like this, and could think of only a handful who wouldn’t have made him feel vulnerable and humiliated, and not in the fun way that his submissive side enjoyed. He’d only ever tested that theory with three men.

Geoff. Mike. Andrew.

And now . . . Stefan. Brandon. Frank was, as Stefan had pointed out, helpless and at Stefan’s mercy, and that didn’t scare him at all. Which, ironically, scared him.

How far under my skin has this guy got already?

Tearing foil brought Frank out of his thoughts. There’d be time to think later. Here and now, there was only one place for his concentration, and that was on the man who was about to—he hoped—relentlessly and mercilessly f*ck him right here on his office floor.

He felt a strong, warm hand on his arse, fingers digging in a little as if to test the muscle, and he almost expected a slap and a tighter grip, and hell, but he could take bruises there, he could take just about anything.

“Only thing we’re missing is a spreader bar.” Stefan sounded matter-of-fact.

Frank heard the squelch of lube and then felt Stefan moving closer, felt the air shift and the friction of cloth against the insides of his legs, the backs of his legs, rubbing against hair there, and pressure against his hole. Brandon knew how much he could take, and that he could take his cock fine after a few moments’ getting used to it.

But woe betide any man who’d take that without either preparation or experience. Stefan pushed in, the movement as inevitable as conquest, and Frank moaned against his own hands, folded on the ground underneath him. The stretch. A burn he relished, being opened, taken, and damn, but being blind made that cock feel even larger than it was.

Anybody who says size doesn’t matter has no f*cking clue.

“You’re loving this,” Stefan said coldly, like he didn’t. Or at least not the same way Frank did. Like this wasn’t about sex at all, and only Frank got off on it. Maybe like Stefan was only scratching an itch, performing a necessary physical function.

“Yes.” Frank’s breath hitched when Stefan pushed all the way in.

Bloody hell, full and turned on and helpless like this—his head was spinning, and he opened his elbows for a little additional stability. He clenched his teeth when the pleasure hit on the next thrust, angle just right, but the thrusts were slow, deliberate, terribly controlled. Stefan could have been a f*cking machine, thrusting with unerring precision and seemingly endless stamina.

Franks hands formed fists, but God, it was perfect, every slow, deep thrust inside him. There was so much in those movements; like this, it felt impersonal, and Frank almost got lost in his pleasure, accepting, taking, relishing the stimulation in his own body. Even without the blindfold, the restraints made it impossible to look after his partner. Not partner, really. The man f*cking him and driving him slowly up the wall.

Frank was panting, his hard cock swinging freely without friction or relief as the thrusts got harder, deeper, rocking his whole body, a counterweight to the relentless force controlling him.

Tap, tap, tap.

The sound was familiar, but didn’t quite register, and Frank grimaced with frustration at the distraction.

Tap, tap, tap.

“Hey, boss?”

Raoul, you motherf*cker, I will—

Frank’s thoughts disintegrated back into oblivion as Stefan thrust harder. Not hard enough for their bodies to slap together and be heard from the other side of the door—thank God for the pounding music that always filled the hallway—but hard enough to keep Frank’s attention on this side of the door where it belonged.

He heard another voice. Distant, muffled. Then silence. Raoul and whoever was with him must have given up. Thank f*ck. Now he could focus on—