Rough Canvas (7 page)

As if following his thoughts, Marcus reached out and brushed the scarred tip with his forefinger, held it there, head cocked. “Does it hurt?”

Thomas shook his head, tried to relax his beer hand. It allowed him to press the point of his wrist into his stomach. He rested his forearm on his hip bone as he shifted to lean his side against the rail.

“You should have used the plane ticket.” Marcus’ gaze took in the amount of bug matter on the hood and windshield of Thomas’ vehicle. “You probably only stopped for a vat of those boiled peanuts you think are food.”

“They stopped making them at the state line.”

“Thank God for the limits of the Mason Dixon. I have some Chinese takeout, plenty for two, and you’re going to eat all of it.” Marcus straightened abruptly, moved toward the glass doors.

“I want…” Thomas stopped. His hand gripped the beer bottle in a tight fist, as if squeezing could call back the words.

Marcus stopped and looked back at him. Thomas wished he knew what Marcus

was thinking, feeling. He knew what he needed, didn’t know if it was fair, was afraid to ask.

“What, pet? What do you want?” It was the gentle tone that did him in, made him blurt it out.

“I’d like…while I’m here. I’d like permission to call you Master… For one week.”

He had to add that, had to be honest, even as he flinched at the flash of derision that crossed Marcus’ expression.

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But then it was gone, and there were just the shades of green in Marcus’ eyes. All the mysteries of life were there, all the answers. Marcus inclined his head.

“Then you will.”

Thomas let out his breath. He couldn’t explain why that gave him a sudden sense of grounding, much of the awkwardness melting away, though it did nothing to alleviate the sexual tension. That was still hot enough to make him think he was feeling the heat of a southern sunset, instead of a New England one.

“Come here.”

Putting down the beer, Thomas walked across the deck, not conscious of any

sounds his shoes were making. All he could see was the outstretched hand against the fluttering pale yellow of Marcus’ shirt, the silhouette of Marcus’ body revealed fully and then cloaked by it, like an unconscious strip tease.

Marcus slid the door open, tugged Thomas so he stepped into the room in front of him, into a quiet and cool living area that was a warm, masculine comparison of wood tones, highlights of deep reds, the scent of wood reaching his nostrils. Dim light. A lantern and some candles. A fireplace.

Marcus had been reading, for there was a newspaper open on the sofa, Neal

Boortz’s fair tax book facedown on the arm. Cell phone and organizer next to a

scattering of notes. His watchband was stretched out next to them. All familiar things, set out in a familiar way. Marcus had a method of arranging his personal belongings like carefully monitored chess pieces, whether he was at work or leisure.

It gave Thomas what he knew was a false illusion. The sense that he was home.

The door slid closed behind them and Marcus pressed against his back, sliding his arm under Thomas’. His hand moved to the front of the jeans Thomas was wearing and palmed him through them. Already semi-erect just from Marcus’ proximity, Thomas hardened immediately, his cock pressing against the restraint of denim to get to that touch.

He was fueled by the energy of having thought about Marcus from the moment

he’d gotten behind the wheel. Or since he’d come into the store, or after Thomas had walked out of his life. Oh hell, even before that, from the moment they’d met.

It seemed everything inside him had been about Marcus always. Since Thomas

knew that kind of thinking made sense only to people ridiculously, passionately in love, it made it all the worse to be unable to deny it.

Marcus’ lips whispered along the back of his neck, his jaw brushing Thomas’. “I want you naked. All the way. Now.”

He helped, his fingers slipping the button of Thomas’ jeans with strong, sure

fingers, tugging at the zipper and taking it to half-mast before he withdrew his hand and stepped back. Waiting.

Thomas took off the shirt first, pulling it free and tossing it to the arm of a nearby chair. He had to bend to untie the shoes, bring one up off the floor to tug at the heel.

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When he did, Marcus’ hands gripped his hips, steadying him even as the touch seared through him, sending his emotions rocketing off balance.

After he got the shoes off, Marcus withdrew again. Thomas removed his jeans, still feeling Marcus’ watchful presence behind him like fire coursing over every inch of skin he was revealing. His cock was leaking, no surprise there, so erect it brushed his belly.

“Turn around.”

He did, feeling inexplicably nervous. Marcus was physically perfect, and Thomas knew he’d dropped a lot of weight, even though he’d kept his leaner muscles hard from all the manual labor at the store. He hadn’t even gotten a haircut before he came up, had decided to go without a shave for the last twenty-four hours in finalizing things at the store, dealing with his mother’s final last-ditch effort to stop him, Rory’s biting insults.

Hell, he’d basically fled like a fugitive with a small duffel of balled-up clothing he’d barely looked at. All that had mattered were the sketchpads and pencils. And Marcus.

As Thomas completed the turn, Marcus’ voice was a quiet command. “Keep your

eyes down.”

His hands clenched, then opened as Thomas nodded, let out a breath. It had been like this the first time Marcus had taken control, dominated him as his Master.

He hadn’t wanted to call it that then. Marcus hadn’t been his first sex with a man.

Thomas had a couple of tangles with men in New York who’d validated with pleasant skill what he’d always known about himself, that it was a man’s touch he craved.

Marcus had revealed a whole other level to him that took him by surprise. The click of the cuffs locking had been an answer to a question in his soul he’d never been brave enough to hear, let alone ask. It was as if the need had always been there, just waiting for him to look toward it.

Thomas didn’t even know if it was a level he would crave with anyone else. He

didn’t look at men and think of being restrained by them, marked by them. He might be attracted to them, but it became clear that was about sex. Apparently, there was only one man he wanted as a Master. Whether that was something about Marcus or

something about himself, or about their chemistry together, he didn’t know. Any other sex was just sex. He didn’t know if that was a blessing or a curse.

What he did know was that Marcus’ way of taking him over fed his soul the same

way his painting did. It fulfilled a yearning inside him that had no names. No form, only a dense substance that could choke him with feeling, like now. Which was yet another reason why it was fucking crazy to be here.

But that was the type of thing Marcus was so good at. Showing up after just the right amount of time had passed, when he’d had a shitty enough week to be tempted.

Tempted beyond refusal. So he told himself.

Marcus closed his hand around Thomas’ cock. Thomas shut his eyes, his balls

drawing up dangerously.

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“Don’t you dare close your eyes.”

“I’m afraid I’ll come. Master.”

“Turn back around and get on your knees. Elbows on the floor. Spread your thighs out so I can see you.”

Thomas swallowed, that universal sign of nervousness, but complied. He heard

Marcus walk away. Though he kept his head down, Thomas managed to sneak a look

at him moving across the room and down the hallway, leaving him there waiting in a position to be fucked at his Master’s pleasure.

Marcus looked so good it hurt to see him. The curve of his bare heels, the way the slacks fit his ass and thighs. Not tight. Marcus was
GQ
all the way. To get a good view of his ass, Thomas had to wait for him to wear jeans or be naked, and holy Christ, even if it took until Judgment Day, it was worth the wait.

The view coming back was as good or better, because it was easier to see the line of his cock, the weight of testicles. Particularly when the former was aroused as Marcus’

cock was at this point, straining the fabric, making Thomas swallow the excess saliva pooled in his mouth.

Marcus had chest hair, the finest layer of down over the pecs and a narrow point arrowing down to his navel. Thomas wanted to reach out and touch, rub his face

against it. Lick Marcus’ nipples to hard points, close his palm strong and sure over the prominent arousal, feel the steel of it, grip the length and be awed at the privilege of touching it.

Marcus would snort at that, of course. Call him a fucking idiot even as he’d let Thomas do it, the green eyes disappearing as his head dropped back to his shoulders and he let Thomas work him.

Marcus straddled his back now, his calves and feet on either side of Thomas’ thighs.

Reaching under him, he took hold of his cock without fumbling. Thomas bit down on the inside of his cheek, trying to hold onto his control at the touch of bare hand to bare skin. He felt straps and the metal of a chain a moment before they bit into his flesh, the cock harness cinching tight at the base of his cock and the second loop binding his balls.

Marcus had never used a cock harness on him. It gave a different edge to this moment than they’d shared before. It made Thomas remember that he’d left Marcus and had stated practically from the moment he got out of the car he intended to do it again.

So Marcus was going to make him suffer, and God help him, all Thomas felt was an overwhelming flood of response in his loins, his chest, in the tightening of every muscle of his body in reaction, in the desire to be with him. His arousal ratcheted up exponentially.

Marcus ran his hand over his ass. Taking hold of the left buttock, he squeezed hard, his fingers deep between the cleft, brushing the rim. Thomas shuddered and was

thankful for the cruel pinch of the harness on him.
God, please fuck me.
It would hurt, because it had been awhile, and Marcus was well endowed. Not to mention Thomas

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knew he was a tight fit, but he welcomed the pain. Wanted it with a savagery he couldn’t explain.
Punish me. Hurt me.

It made him think of places Marcus had taken him, just to watch. Club dungeons

they had visited where Marcus fondled him under the table or in plain sight while others performed. Slaves stripped and flogged, muscles tightening against pain even as the slave groaned with the pleasure of it, begged for more. For the release that pain brought, to be just who they wanted to be. The slave of their Master, the beginning and end of who they were, because everything they wanted was within that boundary, and the pain reminded them of it.

“You want me to beat you. Stripe your ass raw. I can feel you trembling for it.”

Marcus’ voice, husky, capable of pulling Thomas over the edge with just the intonation, a simple uttered command. “But I won’t let it be that easy, Thomas.”

Thomas heard the unfastening of the belt, the tongue coming loose. The unzipping of the slacks was a sound that skittered down his spine, the soft rush of clothes falling to the ground, being kicked to the side. The yellow shirt was abruptly before him and Marcus folded it over his eyes, tying it behind Thomas’ head, as if immersing him in a sun-drenched room. A room that smelled like Marcus’ heat.

Thomas wanted to weep. He wanted to roar. He wanted to turn and take hold of

Marcus with both hands, tear at his flesh with teeth and sheer ferocity until he could get inside of him.

Marcus would have made a good horseman. He anticipated everything. Like the

knotting of Thomas’ shoulders as he tried to thrust himself up from the floor and turn on him. Before he could do it, Marcus had a hand firmly on the back of his neck, gripping as he knelt, pushed his weight against Thomas’ ass so he hissed through his teeth, trying to push up, but Marcus had all the leverage.

Before he could think to roll, Marcus parted his buttocks and thrust home. Rough, non-lubricated, raw and painful possession that burned like the fire in Thomas’ chest and stomach.

“Stay still and take it, or I’ll make it much rougher, farm boy.”

Jesus, Marcus was big. And Thomas wanted more. Despite the command, Thomas

pushed back, tilting up, telling Marcus he wanted it, telling the bastard he could take anything he could dish out. Even with his dick tied in a knot in that harness, unable to release. Thomas already felt like he was in the throes of an orgasm, he was quivering so intensely.

“There you are. Rock that ass, fuck my cock. Tell me how much you missed me and I might let you come.”

Thomas sobbed in his throat, snarled and shoved back against him, hurting.

Marcus’ hand curled in his short hair, held him with brutal efficiency as he slapped himself against Thomas’ ass, hard. Again. And again. Fast, then slowing it down, making Thomas feel every inch of that cock deep inside of him, burning down his shields, leaving raw exposed flesh inside and out.

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“Marcus…Master.” He said them both, breathed them both, and he had Marcus’

answer in an unintelligible noise that meant nothing in words, but spoke directly to something inside him. A harsh breath, and Marcus kicked his knees out wider,

dropping Thomas down almost on his face as Marcus held his hips with both hands now.

Thomas cried out at the pain, a pain matched only by the agony in his balls, drawn up so tight and wanting to spew come everywhere, mark all of Marcus’ scattered

things. The book his hands had touched, the wineglass where his lips had been, the pillow he’d put his head on. He wanted to give it all to him. But Marcus wasn’t going to allow it. Not yet.

His Master came in a sudden explosion of brutal force, jetting into Thomas. The heat flooded him, stroked that gland inside so sensitive to such stimulation. He wondered if Marcus had intentionally not used a condom, and why he didn’t care, even though he knew they were both being stupid bastards.