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Then Marcus stepped out on the deck, glass of wine in hand. He wore slacks and a pale yellow shirt, open and fluttering loose, showing the smooth pectorals, ripple of muscled abs, the hint of his waist, the intimate crease of armpit as the breeze tried to edge the shirt off one broad shoulder. One hand was in his pocket and his feet were bare, his hair loose on his shoulders.
His green eyes were brilliant, even from here, filled with an intensity that washed over Thomas, drawing him into the fantasy of a tranquil, emerald lagoon where everything else was sucked out to sea, to be churned in the surf where it couldn't touch him. Not for one week.
He got out of the car, looked up at the other man. "One week. " Thomas said it out loud first thing, because he knew it was the only restraint that would apply here. The limitation of time. From the look in Marcus' eyes, he knew he understood that quite well.
What was that question, so often posed in movies between lovers in whimsical moments? If you only had one week to have something you always wanted that you could never have again, would you take it?
It was a banal reality show question whose significance he hadn't appreciated before. Yes. He would. Even knowing that walking away from it at the end of the week was more than he could bear.
"Leave your things for now and come up here. " Marcus nodded to the outside stairwell that led up to the deck. "I've got a good Shiraz. " At Thomas' grimace, he grinned. "But I can probably scrounge up a beer. "
"Now you're talking. "
A nice, even conversation. Like everything was fine, like the air wasn't so charged with energy that a single spark could ignite the forest around them.
Thomas came up the stairs, found Marcus already returning from inside, sliding the glass door back with a knee, beer in one hand. His favorite label, Bud Light. Marcus rarely drank beer, and when he did, it was an import.
"You knew I'd come. "
"Yes. For your art, I knew you'd come, even if you wouldn't just for me. " There was no censure in his tone. Calm, civilized.
When Thomas reached out to take the beer from Marcus' hand, Marcus set it down on the rail before they made contact, absurdly disappointing Thomas. He needed to play it cool, easy and Marcus was helping him.
He didn't want Marcus to help him.
His stomach was taut with all the things Thomas did want, such that his hand shook as he took the bottle to his lips. He covered it by turning away, looking at the view, when all he wanted to do was look at Marcus. "Spectacular. This place is a new one. When'd you discover it?" With someone else?
"Friends of mine own it. They're in the Bahamas, at my place there. We swap. " Thomas nodded. Swallowed. He felt Marcus' eyes on him and made himself turn his head to look at him. Leaning his hips on the rail two feet away, Marcus drank his wine. The wind made the tail of his open shirt feather against Thomas' forearm, drawing his attention to the fact there was only a foot between their hands on the railing.
Marcus' long fingers, manicured, his knuckles perfectly proportioned. Thomas' hands, calloused from farm work, several knuckles enlarged from a lifetime of drawing, brushwork. The tip of the one finger gone.
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.
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.
