Capture & Surrender (Market Garden, #5)(56)
Frank would have grinned if he could’ve. He slid along the curve of Brandon’s arse, between his cheeks, and rubbed a couple fingers over his opening. Brandon groaned, opened his legs wider, which was all the permission Frank needed. Brandon’s skin was wet enough to allow him to work a finger into him, the tip first, and when no protest came, he withdrew and pushed a little more, doing his best to do two things at the same time: sucking on Brandon’s tip and gently finger-f*cking him, rubbing across his prostate with every movement, slowly wrestling control from Brandon as he moved forwards, deeper into Frank’s mouth and then into his throat, and right then it was perfect, f*cking and being f*cked at the same time, claiming and taking, control just about evenly split.
Frank pushed a second finger in, worked harder and faster against Brandon’s groaning, shuddering body, resentful that he couldn’t—wouldn’t—f*ck him, but he could imagine it, could imagine their limbs tangled and feeling him this tight, this turned on, against and around him. Imagined these sounds, their hands entwined as part of the f*ck would always be struggle, strain, power against power. He pushed harder, took every inch he could get, and was nearly dizzy with the lack of air when Brandon came in his throat. He pulled back because he had to, swallowed, managed to catch a couple short, hectic breaths through his nose as he freed his fingers and finished himself off while Brandon, still shaking and panting, steadied himself against the tiles.
Frank rose, his own legs not completely steady, and before he was even fully upright, Brandon pulled him into his arms. They were more eager now than earlier, but still gentle, enjoying another kiss for its own sake.
When their mouths finally separated, Frank expected Brandon to say something, or make eye contact, or suggest they finish getting cleaned up. The last thing in the world he expected, though, was for Brandon to wrap his arms around him, tuck his head under Frank’s chin, and just hold on. Frank closed his eyes and returned the embrace, stroking Brandon’s wet hair.
He kissed the top of Brandon’s head.
Remember what it felt like to love someone so much it hurt?
Yeah. That.
Brandon had brought a change of clothes with him, and now leaned against the counter in Frank’s kitchen wearing nothing but a pair of black track pants and socks, completely relaxed, no sign of the rage that had had him ready to beat Chris to a pulp earlier.
Frank, dressed equally casual but with the addition of a faded T-shirt, pulled some of Emily’s leftovers out of the fridge. “Are you feeling better? About earlier, I mean?”
Brandon shrugged. “I’ll live. Might have a few words for Chris next time I see him, but nothing that’ll result in a felony.”
Frank chuckled. “That’s promising.” He began to unwrap a plastic box. “Sorry your paintball day ended up ruined, though.”
“It happens.” Brandon smiled. “The day wasn’t a total loss, though. I can’t complain.”
That sentiment reverberated through Frank. Anyone else would have been dragging and depressed for the rest of the night after the altercation on the field coupled with the difficult conversation in the car. Maybe Brandon would chew on it later and deal with whatever emotional fallout came along, or maybe he really had moved on already. Water off a duck’s back.
Brandon rested his arms on the kitchen island. “What about you?”
“Me?” Frank glanced up from putting the olive and sausage creation onto some of the ciabatta bread Emily had left. “I was worried about you. You had a lot thrown at you today.” And I probably salted that wound nicely on the way home.
Brandon fixed his gaze on the food Frank was preparing. “It wasn’t just me Chris was flipping out about.”
“No. I suppose it wasn’t.” He spread some more of the olive mixture on some bread, then pushed the half-empty bowl away. “Are you, I guess, okay with that?”
“I’m not okay with him being a dick about it, but it’s part of us dating. It’s reality.” Brandon shrugged with one shoulder. “I take crap for being gay, being a prostitute, being kinky.” Another half shrug. “Hell, people who can overlook your status will get pissy because you’re older than me, and I’m sure you’ve got some friends who won’t think highly about you dating a young prostitute.” He smirked. “Or an American, for that matter.”
Frank couldn’t help a small laugh. “We’ll have to work on your accent. You know, to cover that up.” In a stage whisper, he added, “So people don’t get suspicious.”
Brandon sniggered. “Dude, you don’t even want to hear my English accent. Trust me.”
Frank laughed more enthusiastically this time and spoke in a very poor imitation of a southern American accent. “Well, don’t expect me to sound like a f*ckin’ Yankee either.”
“Oh God.” Brandon burst out laughing. “You and I could go on one of those TV talent shows as the Bad Accent Duo. That would be epic.”
“Fairly certain Simon Cowell would chase us out of the building with a torch and a pitchfork.” Frank held out a plate of food.
Brandon took it. “Would be good for ratings. And to see the look on that f*cker’s face. He deserves it for those god-awful shows he’s created.”
Frank chuckled. “And I thought there was no guy under thirty who didn’t like that crap.”