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.
But Stefan was still there an hour later, picking up a drink (water?) at the bar when their eyes met. Frank got a little flustered. He’d just jerked off to the man’s image. But Stefan didn’t know that, right? It wasn’t like Frank had been taking something he should have been paying for, either.
He composed himself and approached the bar. “Got the confirmation about the paintball game. It’s a go.”
“Where do they meet?”
“Do you drive?”
“In London? Hell no.”
Frank smiled. “Come by my place and I’ll take you along. It’s in the countryside. No buses, and we’ve lost a cab driver or two in the area.”
Stefan whistled. “What did you do to them?”
“Ah. That would be telling.” Frank patted him on the arm. “See you Saturday at noon. Raoul has my address.”
Saturday came. Frank spent the early morning in the gym, then recharged with a full English—and a side of pills—at one of the greasy spoons near his house. He spent half an hour or so checking and packing his gear for the game, then got dressed.
Geoff part-owned the paintball field, and the usual crowd was into it enough that they all owned their kit. Five of them were entering competitions, even, and winning, though they claimed all the trophies in the world didn’t make up for the things they could win on this battlefield. Frank had never got quite that involved; he only reffed, stepping in to play every now and then when the prize didn’t include carnal knowledge.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to fool around out there. He’d have sold his soul for a night with any one of the guys on either team. But sex wasn’t as simple as it used to be. Other people could do the whole casual thing. Not him.
When the doorbell rang, he walked down the stairs, wearing his camos and armoured vest.
Stefan stood outside in jeans and a normal jacket with a large green bag over his shoulder. “Hey. Think I can change? Didn’t want to freak out the bus driver.”
“Sure.” Frank waved him inside.
Stefan looked around. “Nice house.”
“Outside London, you can buy something larger than a shoebox and have it done up properly.” Frank closed the door.
Especially when your partner makes three or four times what you do.
He’d been lucky in that way at least. Financially, he was comfortable, thanks to Andrew’s more-than-generous benefits package that had kicked in when he’d been diagnosed. Then, upon his death, the mortgage-related life insurance had paid out too, leaving Frank with a too-large, debt-free house and the capital to open Market Garden.
Stefan dropped his bag and opened it, then pulled off his jacket, displaying that broad chest in the tight tee again. The thin silver chain around his neck looked like the real deal, too, and Frank’s gaze followed its outline under Stefan’s shirt to the distinctive shape of a pair of dog tags pressed against his chest.