Rough Canvas (Nature of Desire 6)

Marcus groaned, his hands clutching his hips, shoving up into him so Thomas' body rocked forward, chest to the glass. "Fuck. . . " That guttural curse and the spasmodic vibrations of Marcus' body gave Thomas what he needed. He let go, crying out against the phallus deep in his mouth. The man before him ejaculated, no doubt spurred by his reaction. It was like a video screen though, for everything living and real to Thomas was all Marcus. His semen filling him, the press of his thighs and open slacks against the back of his legs and ass. That hard, undeniable cock impaling him.

He was pumped relentlessly. He kept up, his hands slick on the handles, his body rocking even past the point when his release was done, like a dog humping air because it felt too damn good to stop. Only Marcus' hands sliding down to grip his ass and bring him to a stop returned Thomas somewhat to himself.

He rested his forehead against the glass, mouth still full of the dildo even though his chest was expanding fast to get air around the gag. Marcus' hands moved over his back. Reaching forward, he removed the now full condom, a cosseting that moved something in Thomas, creating a lump in his throat. Marcus had been demanding, even a little mean, but at the end, there was this reminder of tenderness, of care.

If his intention was to keep Thomas off balance, it was succeeding.

Marcus took several of the wipes that were provided in a discreet and decorative wooden box mounted on the column and cleaned Thomas, keeping pressure with one hand on his back to tell him he wanted him to stay in that position. Thomas watched, amazed as the man who'd been fucking the redhead got up and turned over his chair to another.

The redhead gave him a weary wink and winced as he was immediately rutted upon by a new occupant of the chair who'd donned a condom before plunging into his ass with an enthusiasm bordering on violence. Apparently their show had stirred things up.

"He was auctioned to submit to whoever his Master deemed appropriate," Marcus observed. "Either because it pleasures and excites his Master and his slave to be shared, or because he's b

eing punished and he consents to allow his Master to punish him this way. " His hands wiped at Thomas' genitals and Thomas noticed the man was watching the tenderness. No, devouring it with his gaze. Was it watching a man's hands on another man's cock? Or like Thomas was he enthralled with the contrast of punishing demand with gentle care?

"Straighten up and turn toward me. Keep hands and eyes down. " Thomas obeyed, turning to find Marcus had apparently cleaned himself and rearranged his trousers so everything was in place. Marcus' long-fingered, beautiful hands rose with another wet paper cloth to clean Thomas' face where saliva had escaped his mouth.

"What are you thinking?" His voice was low, velvet.

That I can't tell if you hate or love me in this place, or if it even matters. Thomas couldn't say that, though. Despite the fact they seemed to have reached a higher plane of intensity, a bond that seemed to make other words unnecessary, some essential component of the intimacy that could exist between them so easily was missing. He just couldn't put his finger on what was off.

"What's going to happen next?" he asked instead.

"Whatever I want to happen," Marcus said mildly, tossing the wad of tissues in another discreetly placed steel can.

"How. . . " Thomas swept his downward glance toward the other slave, whose eyes were now closed. "How do they stay safe?"

"His Master is standing about ten feet away, watching it all. Making sure every man he's given the privilege of fucking his slave is appropriately protected. "

"Will you. . . "

"Share you? Let another man fuck you, for pleasure or punishment?" Marcus touched his face. Whereas before he'd wanted to raise his gaze, now Thomas resisted. But Marcus slid his fingers in the strap of the collar, knuckles pressing on Thomas' windpipe to force his head back to meet his cold green eyes.

"Is that what would turn you on, pet? To have your Master whore you out? There's some women here. I could let one barter for some cunt-eating time with my slave. You could practice for that doe-eyed fiancee of yours. " The reassurance that Marcus' tenderness had evoked vanished. "Don't. " One word, spoken through stiff lips, was all Thomas could manage. Don't do this.

"Why? Is she that precious to you?"

"She's a friend. And you're just doing this to get me to take a swing at you. Which I will if you don't shut up about her. It's not about her. It's about you and me. "

"Really? That's news to me. My understanding is it's never been about you and me, to the point I often wonder if there is a you and me in your mind. "

* * * * *

Marcus told himself he didn't know where the anger had come from. But that was bullshit. He'd been overwhelmed by Thomas' response to him, not just here, but since they'd stepped into the club. He'd expected Thomas' resistance. Instead, his shy lover had surrendered to things that far exceeded what he'd been asked to give Marcus before. Going down on him in this setting, letting himself be spread out and fucked the way he just had. He submitted to Marcus, belonged to him fully, in so many ways. And at the end of the week it wouldn't mean a damn thing.

Coming to a club like this, where emotions could be brought rocketing to the surface so easily, was a mistake. As he'd just demonstrated with the below-the-belt shot that roused the side of Thomas he so rarely saw. When the dark eyes became sharp and direct, the body shifting into a Southern boy kick-your-ass forwardness posture, nothing would back him down.

A muscle flexed in Thomas' jaw. "Would whoring me out turn you on? It's not okay for me to let someone else fuck me, but it's okay if it's you doing the letting? Is that what my Master wants?"

Marcus couldn't bring himself to be dishonest about what he wanted from Thomas.

Never. He'd made that oath to himself when he went to North Carolina to find him.

"No," Marcus said it fiercely. Then, more softly, his hand gentling on Thomas' neck, thumb stroking over the pulse, a quick pass over the flushed jaw. When Thomas tried to push him away, Marcus turned his hand, gripped his wrist, kept it pinned to his shoulder. "I don't want any other man to fuck you. Ever. The idea of it makes me physically sick, and so furious I can't. . . " He stopped, shook his head. "No. "

"It's not what I want, either. " Thomas swallowed and suddenly there wasn't a club, pounding noise and flashing lights. There was just his face, close, his eyes meeting Marcus'. His sensual mouth was held in a line taut with the power of his emotions, spun up and to the surface, so Marcus knew his words were brutally honest. "No matter what happens, Marcus. With Daralyn, with any of it, you're the only man I want.

Now or forever. The only man I'll ever let inside me again. " Words of devotion could cut like rusty saw blades. Marcus wanted to quip, wanted to make some dig at how young Thomas was to be making such a rash statement. He was only twenty-seven, for Chrissakes, but Marcus knew Thomas had the soul-deep understanding of himself to make the utterance with the certainty of an oath.