Rough Canvas (Nature of Desire 6)

He wanted to stand next to the rug where his Master had brought him to climax with just the sound of his voice, the touch of his hand, the imagining of it.

But here they were, in the same old argument. Over and over and over again. God, he was sick of it.

He'd left the shed unlocked so if the courier came when he was on an errand, Les or Rory could let them in to pick up the paintings. He found the door standing open.

His mother was inside, using a Number Three broadstroke brush and a heavy-duty latex to cover the enormous canvas, his tree of life.

It took him a moment to process it, to comprehend that his mother, in her pantsuit and crisp white blouse, her hair sprinkled with paint, was doing what she was doing.

Her countenance was rigid, almost manic as she slapped up and down, fast, so thick the paint was running like curdled milk and dripping in glops on the concrete floor. She'd been at her garden club meeting, he remembered vaguely.

"Son of a - "

Adrenaline surged through him at the sound of the fury in that voice. It woke him out of the paralysis of shock. Thomas was quick enough to grab hold of Marcus, but Marcus elbowed him with pinpoint accuracy in the gut and stormed into the shed, slamming the door back so it hit the wall.

His mother spun around at the sound of Marcus' voice. Shock coursed over her expression, as well as apprehension as he advanced on her. Her son she knew would never harm her. What she faced at the moment Thomas knew was entirely different.

Because of that, he managed to straighten, stumble after Marcus. Since he felt like he'd been stabbed, it was no easy feat. Marcus knocked the brush out of her hand and herded her by the sheer energy of his anger away from the painting, putting himself between it and her.

Thomas' attention was darting around the room. Some of the anxiety eased as he saw none of the others had been harmed. Just that one, the masterpiece of them all, the most explicit and raw work he'd ever done. A couple of the canvases close by had been flecked, but he could fix that.

"That wasn't artwork. " She clasped her hands in tight balls, and Thomas could see she was trying not to shake, even as she blurted out the words. She'd been crying while she was painting, her mascara blotching the shadows under her eyes that suggested she'd been having some sleepless nights of her own.

She was getting over her initial fright. Whatever great emotion had propelled her to this moment was now ready to engage in battle. Thomas could almost see her on a burro, drawing a stick as her weapon, while Marcus, fully armored, peered distastefully down at her from atop a warhorse. "It was. . . sodomy. Unnatural. Sinful, unclean. Like you. "

Because Thomas loved his mother, he managed to propel himself, despite the sharp pain in his gut, between her and Marcus. Marcus' face briefly flashed with that level of violence he'd seen in the parking lot of the diner. The room was heavy with heat, and more than one demon. He felt them swirling around Marcus, saw them in the way his hands tightened into fists that could easily break his mother's face and limbs. Marcus looked at his mother as if he was looking at someone else, someone he had wanted to hurt that way.

"What - What is he doing here?" Her voice was shrill.

"Claiming my property," Marcus snapped. Thomas had a moment to feel the shock of the double meaning before Marcus swept an arm in a gesture

around him. "I've contracted for this work that you just deliberately vandalized. Which, if you weren't related to the artist and dependent on him for your wasted, narrow-minded life, I would take out of your bank accounts, your house. Every fucking thing you own. "

"Don't you dare curse at - "

He stepped forward, his expression robbing her of the words. Thomas put up his hands to block him. Marcus didn't advance, just pressed against Thomas, his eyes leveled on his mother. Thomas felt the heat of Marcus' body as if he had emerged from hell in truth. "Don't you dare tell me what to do. "

"Marcus. " Thomas knew words wouldn't diffuse this, so he changed tactics. "Mom, you need to leave. "

"I won't - "

"Now," he ordered. He glanced over his shoulder. "Now, Mom. Just. . . You need to leave. "

A muscle twitched in her cheek, a spasm of nerves, her eyes suddenly bright with new tears of frustration. She was still shaking. Something hurt so badly in him he was afraid he was going to rupture. She looked frail, alone. And his paintings were arranged in the backdrop behind her, two choices of his life side by side, and the most important one pressed hard against him. In a way, he wished he could just close his eyes and make it all disappear, stop feeling at all.

She left. The door made a quiet thump, the wood hitting the latch and open padlock hung upon it. Thomas curled his fingers into Marcus' shirt, suddenly aware of how close together they were, Marcus' thigh pressed against him, his chest under Thomas' hands.

Closing his eyes, Thomas inhaled Marcus to try to make the moment into something different, knowing it was likely lost. But his body was aware of how temporary this moment could be, such that it could override almost any distraction to make the most of it.

Behind Marcus, the paint dripped off the canvas. Until now, Thomas had kept the door locked except when he was in here, to make this room about his art and everything inside him that drove it. But he hadn't barricaded it enough.

"Thomas. "

"Don't. Just. . . don't. " Thomas opened his eyes, turned his head so the brilliant green eyes were close, close enough to make him dizzy. "All the bullshit aside. Did you miss me?"

In answer, Marcus kissed him. Raw, angry, teeth scraping, his hands shoving Thomas' away to grab the front of his shirt and yank him harder against him. He pushed his thigh between Thomas' legs, backing him up to the counter, unleashing a brutal strength that didn't feel as if there was anything controlling it. Thomas knew he was a strong man, but he'd never gone full out hand to hand with Marcus.

Marcus hooked his hand in the back of Thomas' jeans, hauled him hard up against him, his thigh pressed in tight on his balls, making Thomas feel the steel length of him.