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"Good. We're going someplace tonight where I can remind you what trust between a slave and his Master truly means. You're overdue for the lesson, and I think I've let you have a little too much slack. My mistake, and I'm going to fix it. " The sensual intent in his eyes and the emotional impact of it made Thomas unable to respond. They'd visited some clubs, but their play there had been soft, easy, with few exceptions. But the look in Marcus' expression suggested tonight would be anything but. Despite the apprehension that flitted through Thomas' mind, the warning of the emotional cost, his body reacted to the idea eagerly.
There was a smear of his blood on Marcus' lips. Thomas found himself reaching up to it. His arm was trembling, and Marcus put his hand against it, steadying him as he ran the pads of his fingers there. Marcus bit one finger and held it, sending a current of fire through Thomas' veins. Jesus, weak as a baby and still he had a hard-on.
"But until tonight," Marcus continued, "we're going to give your body a rest and have some fun. Something else I think you've forgotten about. Got it?"
Thomas pulled off another nod, his mind too scrambled to come up with anything more coherent.
Marcus saw Thomas mulling it over. He knew he'd planted the seeds, and it would rapidly grow into a multibranched tree of possibilities in Thomas' mind the closer they drew to the evening. But it was the kind of stirred-up he wanted Thomas to be experiencing. It would help crowd out the rest.
He helped Thomas to his feet, sent him on his way up the stairs, not giving him an opportunity to protest. They needed to get out of here, get some breathing space from the intensity of that argument, let it air out so it didn't soak in and poison them.
Once Thomas went in, Marcus got the hose and washed the breakfast Thomas had thrown up off into the more distant grasses. His hand tightened on the rubber tubing.
Thomas had only eaten eggs, no tomatoes, but there were insidious red veins running through the yellow, undigested mess.
There were places in the world that trafficked in human slavery, for despicable reasons. If he could have tel
eported them to such a place, where Thomas could have no freedom save what his Master permitted him, Marcus would have happily transplanted them there right now.
While he knew the thought was based on his frustration, Marcus did know that willing submission in a D/s relationship could bring the submissive a freedom he often lacked in his real life. Where slavery became the chance to stretch one's wings without being afraid of whom they would let down, what expectations would be failed.
The place he planned to take Thomas tonight might help them exorcise some of Thomas' demons. . . and provide a safe environment where Marcus could beat the living shit out of him to exorcise his own.
His lips twisted, but the wry amusement died as he remembered how he'd sensed it in Thomas the first time he'd met him. Strong, creative souls often had a submissive nature. It helped them balance the chaotic impulses barraging their minds at all times.
They felt things more deeply, saw nuances of things many didn't. Most people had mental insulation against the stark, painful realities of human nature. The best artists didn't, which was why most of the ones he'd encountered seemed beset with all sorts of neuroses and addictions.
A Master could take control, give them an oasis of quiet amid all that. The first time he'd told Thomas to get on his knees, making it a command, a deliberate requirement that his lover obey him consciously rather than a request or a physical shove that could be passed off as mere passion, Thomas' cock had leaped against Marcus' hand. Those dark eyes had flashed with a response, something Thomas didn't even know he wanted until the plate was offered.
A true submissive wasn't forced to submit. He was simply shown the right room in his soul. Sometimes when he stepped into it, he wrapped his way around his Master's heart and tugged him in right after him.
That not-so-long-ago night, Thomas had barely breathed, almost seeming in a trance as Marcus pressed on his shoulder, took him down to his knees. Fire had roared in Marcus' own blood, a contrast to the gentle touch. Marcus had plenty of experience in being a Dom, enjoyed it, was fond of the men he'd exercised it upon. But it was the first time in his life he couldn't look away or think beyond the moment as Thomas bent his head and brushed his lips over Marcus' knuckles, a non-choreographed compulsion, pure obeisance.
Marcus put away the hose and stood staring at the side of the house, struggling to find his own center for balance. Thomas' mother thought she was fighting for her son's soul. Thinking of the eggs, Marcus wondered if the real battle was for her son's life.
Chapter Six
The Cape Cod beach Marcus chose was one known by the locals to be primarily populated by men who preferred men. For once, Marcus appeared to be indulging his lover's self-consciousness about his sexual preference. Thomas wryly suspected his Master's intention was for him to be anxious only about the things Marcus wanted Thomas to be worked up about.
When they got there, it was easy enough to find a spot for their beach chairs, towels and umbrella, rented from a beach vendor.
As Thomas set up his chair, he watched Marcus shuck off jeans and shrug out of his buttoned shirt to reveal his swimwear. He was one of the only men Thomas had seen that could pull off the brief style bathing suit. Black and sleek, it molded his ass and groin area in a way sure to have every tongue on the beach unrolled and gathering sand. Including his.
Only what he was looking at, he was allowed to touch. Impulsively, he bent and rooted in their duffel, retrieving sunscreen. For some inexplicable reason, he wanted to make a proprietary move, make it clear who Marcus was with.
Marcus was obviously familiar with the area, this beach. There could even be men here he'd been with in the past. It was an ugly thought, coming from an ugly part inside of him. Thomas tried to push it away, close that door. They'd already fought once this morning. He didn't care to repeat it. Catching Marcus' attention, he gestured awkwardly with the sunscreen. "You haven't been in the sun for awhile. "
"I know you did not just imply I look like the underbelly of a fish. " He didn't, but Thomas tucked his tongue in his cheek and raised a brow. "If the shoe fits. . . "
Marcus gave him a narrow look, but turned his back, staying on his feet, weight shifted to one hip. His attitude was one of practiced indifference, whereas the view sent a hard shot of longing arrowing through Thomas' stomach and groin.
Marcus had queued back his shoulder-length hair, so it was easy for Thomas to grease up his hands and run them over the broad shoulders, down the smooth back. For all his urban polish, under his clothes Marcus had the body of a lean, hard-eyed street fighter. From the time when they were practically living together, Thomas knew he didn't go to a fitness club. He went to boxing clubs and martial arts centers, where he worked out with a fierceness that suggested he knew what it was to fight for his life.
Yet Marcus had no scars. Nothing, not even the lingering mark of a childhood stove burn, a cut from mishandling a cooking knife. It was as if there was no map on Marcus to show the direction to his past. Whenever Thomas asked Marcus about his family, or where he'd come from before he became a gallery owner in New York, Marcus kept his answers to brief, professional steps on the career ladder. He simply refused to answer questions about any time before then.
Why should he? Thomas was nothing special compared to anyone else, just the same as any other man. Right? But he'd said I love you. Thomas wasn't sure of anything anymore.
"A nuclear blast isn't going to get through that cover on my shoulders," Marcus commented. Thomas started out of his thoughts, moved down. When he reached the thin elastic waistband of the suit, Thomas couldn't help sliding the tips of his fingers beneath it to tease the bare rise of Marcus' ass, the indentation between the taut muscular cheeks.
