Holding The Cards (5 page)

He bit his lip, shrugged out of the coat.

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"Slowly," Marcus barked, attracting the attention of two nearby tables. "You wish to please me, do you not? You have a beautiful body. Let them all enjoy watching it, but know it belongs only to me."

A subtle message of where the line was drawn, Lauren noted with approval. Thomas let the coat fall to the chair and undid the tie, careful this time not to rush, his eyes back on Marcus.

"It took me forever to tie this damn thing," he joked awkwardly.

"I will help you put it back on, dear heart. Or perhaps I'll run it beneath your chair and tie your wrists so you are helpless to me during your meal, and I will feed you, and stroke your cock at my leisure. Would you like that?"

Thomas stopped, his fingers hovering at the collar of his shirt, and met his Master's eyes. That silent moment, determining what he could bear and what he wanted. What he wanted was becoming rather plain, despite the generous cut of the elegant trousers.

"I thought as much," Marcus said, his gaze following Lauren's and discomfiting Thomas further. "Perhaps that is what I should do. But for now, the shirt, please."

Thomas darted a glance about, saw he definitely had the attention of the nearby tables. His fingers fumbled the first two buttons, but then he took a deep breath, met Marcus's gaze and held it, letting it encompass and steady him.

It was always absorbing to Lauren, the way a man undressed; particularly when he was wearing formal wear. The way the crisp white shirt pulled over broad shoulders, how the starched button side curved like water along the contours of firm pectorals. The surprising delicacy of the wrist bones contrasting, in his case, with broad palms and long, capable fingers. Total male, total art. The dip of the head, the unconscious tense hold of the jaw as he worked the buttons free, the exposed nape. She wished she was standing close enough to inhale him, the soaps or colognes he used. Gay men knew how to enhance their own male scent so well, garnishing it with musks that underscored their masculinity, the blatant sexuality of it. Regardless of sexual preference, men were inherently primitive beings, and Lauren enjoyed them all the more for it. And watching a beautiful male such as this was like watching a work of art be formed under a Master's hand. It was an accurate description of what she was watching.

He shrugged out of the shirt, so nervous he forgot about the cuffs. When he realized he was stuck, his arms trapped at his sides in the sleeves, he made to slide the shirt back onto his shoulders to remedy the situation.

"No," Marcus stopped him. "I'll do the rest."

He reached forward, slid the belt tongue from its loop and through the buckle. His elegant wrists brushed the top of Thomas's erection beneath the pants, and Thomas sucked in a breath. A smile played on Marcus's lips, acknowledging Thomas's torture, his internal war between embarrassment and desire.

He worked the belt free of the tooth and then unhooked the trousers, lowering the zipper no more than an inch or two, just so the fine summer wool would drop lower on the young man's slim hips. He appeared to be wearing black briefs, perhaps thong or Brazilian cut, and his abdomen was well defined.

"Put your hands at your sides," Marcus instructed, noticing how Thomas had his elbows bent, his hands reflexively clenched up near his waist. Marcus's gaze flicked over the neighboring tables, and up to Lauren.

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"Is he not beautiful?"

There was a heated murmur of assent, and the back of Thomas's neck, exposed by his closely cropped hair, flushed even redder under gazes of appreciative desire.

Marcus nodded, and sat back to take a sip from his wine glass. He studied his companion, allowing Lauren and the other diners a leisurely perusal. The waiter came back, refilled Marcus's glass, not looking at Thomas, though he stood between the two men for a moment. Thomas waited, suffering and aroused, while Marcus took another drink, sat the glass back down, touched a napkin to his lips. Then he lifted the gold chain from the table and leaned forward.

He ran it around Thomas's lean bare waist, adjusting the length so it indeed rode low on Thomas's hip bones, and left a fine double strand about two inches long hanging below the fastening, which appeared to be a flat engraved disk.

Thomas's head bent, nuzzling Marcus's fall of hair, his fingers clenching with the obvious desire to touch."There, now," Marcus slid the chain around, adjusting it so the dangling tips lay in that indentation where the spine ended and the vulnerable separation of buttocks began. "Once fastened as I have fastened it, it can only be unlocked by a key," he held it up for Thomas's inspection before placing it in his pocket. "But it is not unbreakable." Marcus's eyes were steady. "Should you ever desire to cast away your bindings, then you need only break the chain and leave it where I can find it. You understand? And there will be nothing messy between us. I will accept it as your farewell, and wish you nothing but joy and happiness. The engraving on the lock is simple," he palmed the disk, his fingers caressing Thomas's heated skin, and held the gold oval up for his inspection. "Mine."

Things had become very still at the surrounding tables during Marcus's speech. It was the point in the game they all knew, shared and sought. It was that moment when, even if there were a hundred others in the room, it was just the two of them. Thomas suddenly leaned forward, pressed his lips to Marcus's. It was a touch of lips only, as his arms were still bound by his shirt. Lauren saw the curve of spine, the slope of his buttocks in the loose ride of the pants. Thomas lifted his head, adoration shining from them.

"Yes, Master."

"Well, then." Marcus cleared his throat after a moment. He stood up and adjusted the shirt back on Thomas's shoulders, buttoning it down the lean chest, his fingers caressing, his face only an inch from his lover's. He was not touching him in any overtly sexual way, but the act of redressing him, not allowing him to tend himself, was expressive in its eroticism. Lauren felt damp all over, in and out. His hips brushed Thomas's aroused crotch with casual indifference, but not inattention.

Marcus refastened the trousers, belted them, and then began to work on the tie. Thomas raised his now free hand, closed it gently over Marcus's wrist.

"You promised to tie my hands and feed me, Master," he reminded him. "And I desire nothing more than to be yours in all ways." His eyes, his body, the light but insistent touch, all communicated his aching need to please his lover. An ache Jonathan had never had for her.

Lauren sat back, her heart breaking, and spilled her tears into her wine.

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"Did he ever break the chain?" she asked softly.

The answer was a long moment in coming.

"When it was time," Marcus said.

She reached up, touched his hand against her hair. She did not know him well, but she knew the flood of pain that could exist behind such casual words. When love was real, not puppy love, not lust, not a crush, it became an internal organ that grew behind the heart and buried its roots there. When it was torn out, even the act of taking one's life to end the pain required too much awareness. Numbness was the only way to survive it, and it took months, maybe even years to grow the courage to allow the anesthesia to wear off and see if the pain was still excruciating.

Her hand slipped away, and she plucked at her robe. Though she had sensed Marcus had a Dominant sexual personality, and he knew the same of her, if not by sense then by personal knowledge, was he picking up the same warning signals from her that she had detected in Josh? Careful folks, you may be getting into a damaged vehicle here. Don't press the "go" pedal faster than this one's guardian angel can fly and, by the way, her wings may be clipped. Or she may be at her therapy session and off the clock.

She was losing her grip; she tightened her fingers on the chair arm to get it back. In her soft silk robe, with a glass of wine at her elbow, and Marcus turning her hair into the same silk stuff as her robe, she could relax. She
would
relax.

"Are you a hairdresser?" she asked.

Josh chuckled. Marcus snorted behind her. "I have thought about training to be one. Something to fall back on. You know if my career as a New York art dealer earning over six figures a year in commissions ever falls through. There's always room for one more gay hairdresser, after all. I don't think you even have to have formal training - you can just show up in a beauty parlor and say, 'I'm gay!'" he ratcheted his voice up to make it effeminate. "They'll hire you instantly. Like being black and seven feet tall. Automatic NBA material."

Lauren tilted her head back. "I'm sorry. I offended you."

"You're not entirely sorry. You were asserting territory, darling, and I respect that." Marcus curled his hand in her hair so she was caught and held, looking up at him. "I didn't mean to pry," he said, more gently. "I apologize for being intrusive."

She nodded, a slight movement of her head, and he released her, but she continued to look up at him an extra moment, which was an apology in itself he acknowledged with a similar small movement of his head. He considered the brush. "I suppose you did have some context for asking the question. I have a sardonic wit I use liberally."

"Excessively," Josh put in.

"Only on Neanderthals with no sense of humor at all," Marcus rejoined. "Now, hold still another moment. Josh is ready to feed you and I haven't finished making you beautiful."

"She was already that," Josh pointed out.

Lauren smiled in his direction and was amused when he busied himself with the food again. Marcus
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leaned down to her ear.

"He is quite something, isn't he, our boy?"

He straightened and went back to general topics as he began to plait her hair into a loose braid on her shoulders. Lauren let his voice fade to pleasant background music that stirred the senses, like soft jazz, and watched Josh finishing the plates. There was something about watching a man involved in a task with his hands that could absorb a woman's attention. Perhaps it was the female subconscious connection to the earth, to creation and fertility. Those long fingers, taking things of the earth, carrots and snow peas, potatoes and onions, and transforming them with care into sustenance. His eyes, intent on his task as he sliced the potatoes into smaller pieces. A quick, careless brush of his arm against his forehead where a lock of hair caused an itch. The movement drew her eye to the ripple of muscle over his ribs, the soft hair beneath his arm. He shifted his hips, transferring his weight to his other foot, which was bare. He had removed his sneakers when they came in and tossed them carelessly by the door, like they were all home.

The two men seemed not the least bit uncomfortable to be cooking in Lisette's house, caring for her friend and entertaining one another with casual conversation.

"What does a caretaker of the homes of five famous artists and writers do, Josh?" she asked at last, taking a sip of her wine.

He glanced up, the corner of his mouth tugging in a half smile. "Just about everything. Repairs, home maintenance, water plants. They want the house to look lived in when they come. I also do things like this sometimes. If Mrs. Von Haugwitz doesn't want to cook herself dinner because she's at a crucial point in her latest sculpture, she can give me a ring. I'll let myself in and cook up dinner. I've given massages to Mr. Grimes because his back bothers him when he works with the scroll saw too long. That type of thing."

"So you cook, you're a masseuse, a tree climber, a carpenter and an HVAC man."

"And many, many other things. He has so many talents, our Josh."

Josh shot Marcus an obvious warning look. The undercurrent of tension felt flammable, so Lauren held her questions. For now. She took another swallow of wine and pretended not to notice their by-play.

Josh was certain the woman had no idea how she looked sitting there, her fingers toying with her wineglass. The pale pink silk of the robe outlined every feature of her body, from the point of her right breast to the long line of her thigh. The neckline parted to show him the graceful curve of the left breast as she stroked that glass stem with her slender fingers.

He turned away and took a bracing swallow of his own wine. Needles of sensation prickled along his back as Marcus passed him, sliding casual fingers along his spine, a little too close to his waist.

Josh shot him a narrow look that Marcus returned with a guileless expression. He snagged one of Lisette's imports from the refrigerator.

"She's about to drift off over there," Marcus murmured, giving Lauren a nod. Josh glanced over, saw the woman was in fact nodding a bit, her head turned toward the sliding glass doors, her body framed by the view of dark silhouetted tree tops and the ocean beyond, glittering with a rising moon.

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He didn't realize he was just staring at the picture she made, until Marcus chuckled.

"More candles would be appropriate, I think. And cards."

Josh snapped back. "Marcus—"

His friend was already headed toward the back bedrooms. Josh stifled a curse.

Lauren roused herself with a smile as Marcus passed behind her and patted her head. "When do we eat?" she wanted to know.

"Now." Josh brought in a tray and began to lay out the feast on the glass table.

"Do you live here all year?" she asked, rubbing her eyes and straightening in the chair.

"Yes. Here, stay there. I've got a tray to put over your lap so you can keep that foot elevated."

He put the plate of food on the tile tray and bent to set it over her lap. She raised her arms to keep them from getting in his way and drew his eye to her breasts again. Josh concentrated on arranging the tray and tried not to think how much he'd like to spread open the robe and watch her eat with the silk framing her bosom like the work of art it was. The combination of ice pale pink and lily skin reminded him of mother of pearl on the inside of a shell, and he expected she would be as silky to the touch.

Maybe she'd even let him feed her with his own hand. Some of the soy sauce might slide off the glistening carrot and splash onto one of those breasts, and he'd have to put his tongue there and lick it off…

She glanced down his body, and her soft lips curved. "I guess Lisette was definitely wrong," she murmured.

Her gaze rose, and Josh saw the sly humor there. It alleviated some of his embarrassment, as he was sure she intended it to do. She was a kind woman, he could see it in her eyes, but her kindness was not of interest to him right now.

Hunger uncoiled low in his belly, and he picked up a carrot, daring to lift it toward her mouth.

"Stop."

He froze in mid-motion, and her steady blue eyes held his. "Ask me."

The warmth in her eyes contrasted with the coolness in her voice. That feeling in his belly spread, kicking up the pulse of blood through his thighs, the ache in his testicles. The way her lips formed the words, with just a hint of teeth, made him want to put his mouth on her, anywhere she wanted.

"May I feed you this?"

She nodded. "Since you ask so nicely."

He was wrong. She could be cruel, too, and he found it just as arousing as her kindness. Perhaps more, though that thought made him vastly uncomfortable with himself.

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He brought the carrot to her lips. They parted, and his eyes sparked to flame when her eyes fell half shut. He stroked the vegetable over her bottom lip, making it glisten with sauce. He laid the carrot on her tongue when she opened her mouth, and the pad of his finger slid along the small bumps of her taste buds, traced the enamel of her underbite, and then withdrew.

"How do you all feel about French vanilla scent?"

Josh turned to find Marcus at the kitchen counter, lining up a charming mismatch of pillar candles. He was lighting them, and four already cast soft light into the room.

Lauren straightened and turned, bringing her foot to the floor. The confidence she had possessed only a moment before now seemed to evaporate. "I'm sorry," she told Josh, surprising him. "I didn't mean—I'm not—trying to play with you."

"Of course you are," Marcus blew out the match. "That's what we do. Except Joshua. He's afraid of games. He's Joshua the Monk, ensorcelled by the fair—"

"Shut the fuck up, Marcus," Josh exploded. Lauren jumped. He pressed his lips together, shaking his head as if reproaching himself for the outburst, but he shot Marcus another dangerous look, regardless.

Then he knelt before her with an apologetic expression, firmly pushed her back in the cushioned chair and replaced her foot on its pedestal of pillows on the ottoman.

"—Winona." Marcus finished calmly, taking a pull from his beer and bringing the candles in on a tray. He placed them around the room, dimming the overhead so the room was bathed in soft light. "Do you give good massages, Lauren?"

She raised a brow. "I—"

"Josh has a muscle that knots in his shoulder when he gets nervous. It's quite painful. Will you tell him to sit down and have you work it out for him?"

"I am not nervous, I'm pissed off," Josh seized his wine glass up, but Lauren saw him flinch as the movement jarred his shoulder. She shook her head. She was being silly. They were all being silly.

"Come here," she leaned forward, taking the wine glass and placing it on the coffee table. "Come. Sit."

She took his long fingered, unsteady hand in hers and tugged. "Sit down on the ottoman next to my foot.

I'll work it out and then we'll eat."

"You don't need to do that," he grumbled, but when she tugged harder, he sat, presenting her with his back.

Lauren felt over the line of his shoulder and found the knot without difficulty. She had taken a couple credits in alternative healing, and had enjoyed exploring the more tactile healing practices, such as massage. She began to work it with gentle pressure, imagining it loosening and easing out, and let the work of her fingers be guided by that image.

Marcus sat down on the carpet so he could stretch his legs out under the coffee table and prop his back against the sofa. He was shuffling a deck of cards, and, as Lauren watched, he spread them out on the glass-topped table in a circular fan around the candles grouped in the center, which were wafting light vanilla fragrance through the room. Celtic harpstrings played their magic on the CD player, the notes combining with the effect of the candles to create a magical atmosphere, capable through the ages of
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lowering a woman's defenses.

Josh's back had been tattooed as well, but at the moment her attention was drawn to the unmarked area, the skin brown and stretched smoothly over muscle and bone. He was lean, the sign of someone whose body had been sculpted by labor, not a gym. She could well imagine what it would be like to knead and stroke not just that shoulder, but the ridges of the spine, the curve of the lower back, and rest her palms on his waist.

His skin felt warm beneath her touch and she recalled the slight sweatiness of his palm. Nervous, Marcus had said. Did girls make Josh nervous? A smile curved her lips at the thought. He hadn't seemed nervous in the tree. Maybe he only got nervous when he wasn't holding the cards, so to speak.

Like Jonathan? The unexpected thought erased her smile. No, she decided. Not like Jonathan. In a way, though he had submitted to her, he had held the cards all along. She had wanted love, and he had used her belief in that to almost destroy her. It was only when she realized love was not what drove him, and, more importantly, that she could not change that, that she had been able to break free. Of him, at least.

The memories he had inflicted upon her were like a Bible imprinted on her soul that she kept searching to find an interpretation that would make sense to her. Well, at the moment, she wasn't in church.

"Do you like cards, Lauren?" Marcus asked. She felt Josh stiffen beneath her touch, but did not break her rhythm, soothing his shoulders down again.

"You should say no," Josh warned.

She had her own demons to fight, far larger and more wicked than any mischief Marcus could devise.

She gave Josh a reassuring squeeze and cocked a curious brow at Marcus.