"Mind if I cut in?"
He'd tried to take his mind off Marcus for about two minutes, but here he was, larger than life, the pulsing heat of the club as intimate a cocoon as being wrapped together in a much smaller space.
Ellen looked between the two of them. "Why no," she said, smiling uncertainly.
Julie stepped neatly in front of Marcus and took the hand Thomas had released, pulling Ellen over to her. She winked. "Sweetie, in a place like this, when someone asks to cut in, you need to realize he could be cutting in for either partner. "
"Oh. Oh. " Ellen flushed. Thomas reassured her with an easy grin and a quick stroke of her hair as Julie tugged her into female arms. "This song's too good to waste. Let's you and me dance. You can close your eyes and I'll whisper to you in Gaelic. You can pretend I'm a really short Liam Neeson. "
As Julie maneuvered her away, Thomas shifted his gaze to meet Marcus'. His smile faltered at the edges. They'd danced in clubs before, but usually to something fast. He'd actually never slow danced with a male lover before and wasn't exactly certain how to go about it.
Marcus moved closer, his arm sliding around Thomas' waist, fingers hooking into the belt loop of his jeans as he took Thomas' other hand and brought it to a reverse position on himself. Thomas felt the shift of Marcus' hip and the muscles above it as Marcus moved them into a slow, easy rocking step, allowing a gentle bump and shift on the downbeat. He rested his other hand on the side of Thomas' neck, his palm curving around so his fingers played beneath the collar of Thomas' T-shirt, caressing the skin damp from the heat of the dancing.
It left Thomas with his other hand resting naturally on Marcus' biceps, moving with him. Since he'd mainly done this type of intertwined dancing with women, adjusting or working out leads should have been difficult. However, Marcus simply took the lead and Thomas just as easily followed it. As they made the slow turn, Marcus' thigh shifted so it pressed between them. His hand drifted lower, sliding into the back pocket of Thomas' jeans, pressing him more firmly against him. Thomas' left leg brushed Marcus' hardening groin.
"If you try a dip, I'm punching you out. " Thomas attempted to dilute the intensity of the moment.
Marcus didn't respond. Not in words. He held Thomas closer, until they were moving as one creation, managing it so easily Thomas noted some admiring glances, but it was a vague awareness. Marcus stretched his other arm high around Thomas' back, holding him with a grip on his opposite shoulder so his head found a natural resting place alongside Marcus' jaw and temple, his lips close to that tempting throat.
Eventually Marcus brought his other hand out of the jeans' pocket to cover Thomas' on his hip, while Thomas slid his free arm around his lower back, holding him, moving in the same rhythm, feeling him against him, heart to heart as they turned, stopped, turned again. Marcus' body guided him, arms holding him, making Thomas achingly aware of his touch.
Here in front of everyone, where sex wasn't an option, Marcus had gone for the more devastating tactic of intimacy, the slow possession of Thomas' senses. He turned his face, mouth brushing Thomas' cheek, and Thomas' fingers reflexively convulsed on his hip.
It was sexual, but it wasn't about sex. Not with Aretha pleading for her lover to just let her love him, so she could give him all he needed. She begged for him not to tie her hands. When Marcus' hand tightened on his shoulder, Thomas knew he was listening to the words as well.
"Everything you hold in your arms is yours, pet," Marcus murmured.
"Everything. "
Thomas pulled his head back, intending to kiss Marcus senseless, anything to shut him up, but Marcus wasn't letting him get away with that. And Aretha wasn't going to shut up, either, building to a wailing crescendo capable of wrenching his guts out.
Marcus caught Thomas' head, cradling the side of his throat with one hand, holding him with a thumb placed on his lips, a light but unshakable collar. It put them eye to eye, turning and moving to the soulful song, unable to hide from what was in each other's gaze.
One more day. They had one more day together like this.
In four days, Thomas had gotten inspired enough to sketch out a solid dozen ideas.
He could say it was caused by the removal of the dam he'd built inside himself, but he knew that was bullshit.
He'd been a talented artist. But Marcus had opened the well inside Thomas to connect to a muse whose inspiration was pure magic, drawn from what the heart of love and life was all about. What Marcus was to him. Whenever Thomas was immersed in a creating session, it was as if he was somehow guarded by the explosive yearning that being part of Marcus' existence kept switched onto high volume.
Even before Marcus, his muse had been inspired by the belief that there was something like what he felt for Marcus out there. So while his art hadn't needed Marcus before he met him, Marcus had taken him to higher levels, capable because of the way Marcus made Thomas feel. Not just about Marcus, but about himself. About anything, everything. There was no settling or going back from that.
If he left Marcus, his muse would die again. Thomas finally realized it. The muse was a two-way street. She drew from his heart as much as he drew from hers. Instead of an expression of his life, his art would again become the self-destructive drug he would inject into himself to get through the rest.
With an oath, Thomas broke free. Aretha blessedly faded away and was trounced by a vacuous techno-pop dance beat that would allow him to go through the empty, mindless motions of turning and dancing.
Much the way his life would be after this week was over.
Chapter Thirteen
Chaining him up in his "secret dungeon" naked was sounding pretty damn appealing. Marcus took Ellen to a table for a drink while Thomas cut up the floor with Julie. Good luck doing some of those moves with a hard-on, he thought with dark satisfaction, even as Marcus pushed down the bleak truth that he could keep Thomas in a permanent state of arousal and he'd still choose to leave again.
"I've never watched men together. "
He arched a brow in Ellen's direction, expecting to see her gazing with avid fascination around her. Instead, she tossed back the whiskey sour like water, her fifth of the night, and studied him, blinking, a little glassy-eyed. "Watching the two of you. . . it doesn't really matter. When you know the real thing, you recognize it. " Desperation gripped her features. "You're so pretty. You're the prettiest man I've ever seen. " Ellen reached out, touched Marcus' face. "Why don't I want to sleep with you? Why does it hurt to look at your face and feel nothing?" Marcus' brow drew down in puzzlement as he caught her clumsy fingers, but she pulled away and laid her cheek down on the table, narrowly missing the drink.