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Lucifer would have looked like that, Thomas was sure. Temptation, a hundred percent Grade A, tightly packaged in a hard-muscled six-foot frame. He knew what that frame looked like without a stitch on it. Marcus had a faint birthmark on the inside left thigh, but no tattoos or piercings. His lip had curled with disdain when Thomas teased him about it.
"Art is fixed on a canvas for a reason. If well preserved, it doesn't distort or fade. I don't believe time will be as kind to this canvas. " He wasn't wrong about much, but Marcus was wrong about that. Thomas knew the man he was looking at would be riveting until the day he died, even with the sculpted lines of old age. But he didn't need tattoos or piercings. It would be like trying to touch up and improve Michelangelo's David.
He wore his black hair loose on his shoulders. It was silk, the different lengths that fell over his brow and swept back from his aristocratic cheekbones only emphasizing his bone structure. He was the prince of every fairy tale that had ever been written. Not the prince who led the king's armies, but the one who handled his negotiations for peace with a rapier intelligence that was twice as deadly a weapon as any general could imagine. A king might gain capitulation through force of arms. Marcus could acquire surrender through nothing more than a look.
Not only had Thomas touched those sensual, firm lips with his own, they had touched every part of his body. He remembered his arms and legs spread and bound as Marcus' mouth moved over his belly, his chest, nuzzling his throat briefly before he straddled Thomas' face and fed his thick, long cock between his eagerly waiting lips.
His jaw had rubbed against the rough texture of Marcus' leg and the smoother skin of his inner thigh as he'd sucked and licked and done everything to drive Marcus mad.
When Marcus' grip on his hair fisted and the thighs hardened to drive himself deeper into his slave's throat, Thomas had felt triumph.
How many lips had touched that impressive cock since Thomas'? Probably more than he could count. Thomas hadn't been anything special. Lots of people knew how to give good head.
He told himself cruel things like that and tried to paste them as words in Marcus' mouth to wean himself from the images that haunted him. He'd been successful enough that they plagued him mostly at night now, or when he'd worked a sixteen-hour day at the store and everyone else had gone home. Then it was just him and the silence of the old building, the sky dark outside and winking with stars that certainly couldn't be seen in the night sky over New York City.
That long cock was contained in dark slacks probably custom-tailored by some impressive name like Armani. A blue T-shirt was tucked into it and Marcus wore a dark suit jacket over that. The Swiss timepiece on his wrist probably cost as much as their John Deere tractor inventory. Thomas knew Marcus would be wearing snug cotton boxer briefs in his preferred black. Glancing down, he saw Marcus wore Italian loafers.
New York Upper East Side casual, which would be the equivalent of church clothes around here.
"Tommy, this man had some questions I didn't know how to answer. " Les held up a small handful of clips. "How much weight can these hold if you're using grade-two nylon line? I told him he might prefer the twine stock, but - "
"Too rough," Marcus said, his green eyes focused on Thomas' face. "I want something that won't scratch. "
"Oh, like to protect a boat's gell coat. " She nodded. "How much weight did you say it needed to handle?"
Marcus' gaze dropped, passed down Thomas' torso and back up again. It only took a moment, just long enough that Celeste turned to him as he reached Thomas' flushed face again.
"About one sixty-two. Not that much, after all. " Son of a bitch. Thomas had been one-ninety before he'd come back here. How did Marcus do that?
"Oh my God, Thomas. What's happened to your hand?" He'd been holding the rag over his fingers, but sometime during Marcus' perusal he'd put his palm on the repair check-in counter top and gripped the edge, hard. A fine stream of blood had dripped past the rag and down the side of the paneling.
Celeste was two steps closer than Marcus, but somehow Marcus got there before her, grabbing hold of his wrist and tugging off the rag to see the bloody finger.
He wanted to snatch back, snap at him, but the feel of those long fingers manacling his wrist, the fact he was now close enough he could smell him. . . Dry-cleaned clothing mixed with the scent of travel, that expensive aftershave and cologne he wore, just a light touch so it became part of the air around him. . . Thomas could identify him even with his eyes closed.
The first time he'd followed that scent it had been their initial night together.
Marcus had taken him home. The sex had been. . . Thomas could say it was the most amazing sex of his life, but it had been more than a great fuck. He hadn't even known he wanted to do some of the things he'd done that night until he found his cock responding to nothing more than Marcus' commands.
Afterward, Marcus had given him the courtesy of his own room, but Thomas had been stirred up with all the new feelings, aching inside in a way that went beyond the physical. In the early hours of the morning, he'd found himself following the lingering scent of Marcus to his room. The door had been open and he'd gone in like a guilty thief.
He'd hesitated at the foot of the bed, knowing he hadn't been invited. So instead Thomas knelt on the carpet and laid his head on the mattress, his hand slipping ever-so lightly onto Marcus' calf where it extended out of the folds of covers.
About five minutes later, Marcus sat up, propping himself on his elbows. He'd reached out and touched his hair. Thomas knew then he hadn't been asleep. He'd been watching him, waiting to see what he'd do.
Marcus had opened the covers, drawn him in and spooned around him, his hand giving Thomas' ass a proprietary squeeze that was a demand. Thomas had adjusted his leg and Marcus slid his now-hard cock into his still well-greased ass. As Thomas groaned at the feel of it, Marcus had pressed his lips to his ear and whispered that he would sleep that way. Thomas would just have to suffer with no release until the morning.
The hard yearning ache he hadn't wanted to end that first night surged up in him now at Marcus' touch, so alarmingly intense he tried to pull away. Marcus, anticipating him, planted his feet. They eyed one another like gladiators.
"Stop struggling. You splatter my shirt and I'll kick your ass. "
"You could try," Thomas retorted. Under normal circumstances, Marcus' eyes would have glinted with humor and lust stirred by the challenge, but as he looked at Thomas' hand there was nothing amused in his expression. And these were definitely not normal circumstances.
"You still have the shop bells," Marcus observed. A casual comment as Celeste came back with the first aid kit, but Thomas knew there was nothing casual about it.
Thomas had given them to his father one Christmas. His dad had looked a little perplexed, but once the customers started appreciating them, his traditionalist of a father found he liked that alert system more than the fancy but banal electronic buzzer most stores used.
The memory of when he got the bells swamped him like another blow to the gut, propelled by Marcus' intent, knowing expression.
