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"Jesus," Thomas murmured. Marcus slanted a glance at him, and his green eyes were hard, brittle.
"Don't think about it, pet. I don't. No one who lives it dwells on this fucking stuff.
You just thank God or your own balls for getting yourself through it, pulling yourself up into something better. The day I see pity in your face, I want your fucking ass out of my life. "
"That's not what I'm thinking. And that's bullshit, by the way. " Thomas kept his voice mild as he leaned over the rail and laced his fingers, bracing his forearms. It brushed his side against Marcus', clad only in the terry cloth. Marcus flinched, but he didn't move away. "You know, the very first time I looked at you, I thought, what the hell could he possibly want from me except maybe the thrill of a one night fuck with some halfway decent-looking piece of ass from down south?" Marcus' eyes narrowed. "What kind of horseshit - "
"It's actually not easy to love you," Thomas interrupted. "You're arrogant as hell, moody, and a lot of times just a mean son of a bitch. Even when I didn't know about your past, I knew you had some pretty dark places. It is killing me, thinking about what you went through, how I couldn't be there to help or protect you. But when you've reached for me in the night, demanded I submit, I was helping heal those wounds, wasn't I?"
He met Marcus' gaze. "I understood it somewhere deep down. You don't feel lonely when you're with me. All those things about me you make fun of, just like me with your cologne and fancy ways - that's everything and way more of what we need from each other, isn't it? Everything down to the soul of what we are. That's why we fit. "
When Marcus didn't immediately respond, Thomas shifted his gaze down to the street, to where a doorman was walking an elegant Great Dane. "You're what my art's all about, Marcus. We see something and think we know it, understand it, but really we're lucky if we ever understand any more than a small piece about anything. The infinite of the universe is in each one of us. You're grace, faith. Hopelessness, despair.
Violence and anger. Beauty. "
His attention flicked briefly up, lingered on Marcus' mouth, the column of throat, sweep of shoulders, expanse of chest, down to the snug hold of the towel. "Pain. You overwhelm me," he said quietly. "And every time I see you or think of you, I can't grab a brush fast enough. I thought I couldn't paint you, but it turns out I've been painting you all along, from the beginning, before I even knew you. " Thomas reached out then, no longer worried about the reaction. From the stillness between them, like the stillness he felt when immersed in his work, he knew he stood inside Marcus and Marcus stood inside him in this moment. Laying his hand on Marcus' face, Thomas cupped the jaw, fingers over the ear, touching the still damp strands of his hair. He increased the pressure on the side of Marcus' neck, moving forward himself until their mouths met, tasted. Savored.
Marcus' lips parted and their tongues caressed, wet, straining heat. It was easy then to bring him closer, take his hand to his waist, the small of Marcus' back. Thomas' thumb caressed just inside the hold of the towel, his other fingers resting on the fine curve of his buttock. Marcus remained nearly motionless. Not resisting, not passive, but like he held an explosive energy too compressed to dare movement.
It was as if he knew Thomas was experiencing this so deeply that reaction wasn't needed. This utter stillness was the reaction.
Thomas drew back, studied his face. "All that time on the street. There's not a scar on you, Marcus. "
Marcus lifted a shoulder. "I don't scar. I never have. Mike. . . " He gave a half-derisive chuckle that was too full of pain for Thomas to summon a smile. "Mike used to say I must be an angel, though he didn't know if I was from Heaven or Hell. I can get sick, my bones can break, but my skin always heals. Never shows anything. "
"No. That's your eyes. They show everything. It's all there. " The scars, the wounds that didn't heal, the story of who he was. It was all there. And even more. Something bigger than the experiences. Something more than mortal. It made Thomas wonder if Mike had been right.
The artist in him could imagine a woman with Marcus' jaw and fair forehead being lovers with an angel who had those amazing green eyes and to-die-for body. A one night fantasy the woman would think was a dream, as if visited by a succubus.
Nephilim. Child of an angel. That's what he'd call the painting.
Marcus was looking at him, a half smile on his lips, an unexpected expression after the dark memories he'd been visiting. But Thomas understood it now. When immersed in his feeling for Thomas, none of the past existed for Marcus. It was all just swept away.
"You're painting, aren't you? I can tell. You have that dazed look. Go. " Marcus gave his shoulder a light shove. "Go up to the roof and do your thing. "
"You're just trying to stop talking about this. "
"Yeah. It's enough for one night. " Marcus brushed his shoulder more casually with his knuckles. "I promise to tell you more. But not tonight, okay?" Thomas captured the long fingers, took a step forward. Then another, moving Marcus back in counterpoint into the shadowed dark corner of the balcony.
"What are you up to, pet?" But Marcus' voice had gotten throaty. That look was still in his eyes, heat and vulnerability, a raw, primal openness that Thomas wanted to guard jealously forever, the gift he now believed only he'd been given.
When he got Marcus to the corner, he put his hand down, took the edge of the towel and tugged it free, leaving his Master standing full and strong, naked and pale, touched by the gold and red lights of the city, limning the hair resting on his shoulders and the light thatch across his chest.
Kneeling slowly, Thomas slid his hand down Marcus' taut abs, the slope of his thighs, nuzzled his Master's cock with his lips, teasing as his breath drew in harshly.
"Jesus. . . "
Thomas opened and took him in deep, feeling with fierce joy as he grew harder, thicker. Marcus' testicles shifted convulsively under the caress of Thomas' thumb, the taste of his
come already leaking from him. Putting his hands on his thighs, Thomas dug in, holding onto Marcus to take him deeper, sliding down every marvelous inch.
Marcus put one hand high on the stucco wall, the other going to Thomas' shoulder, gripping hard in the collar of his shirt, hard enough to tear except Thomas was moving with the rhythm of the flexing hand, anticipating Marcus' rock forward on the balls of his feet, the press of his ass back against the wall and forward again.
When Thomas glanced up, the look in Marcus' eyes almost overwhelmed him. A desire so strong it was indescribable, as if something had been unleashed in him that was unquenchable. His expression said he could fuck Thomas to death and still need more, because what he wanted was so much more than his ass.
Thomas had never seen this naked expression that revealed the unshielded heat of Marcus' need to control, his need for Thomas' utter surrender to give himself some type of peace. A level soft meadow in which Marcus' soul could fully rest and know what he most wanted belonged to him in every way.
"Thomas. . . " A breath, a guttural groan and Thomas sucked hard, hollowing his cheeks, flicking the sensitive underside with his tongue, finding the perineum with his finger and pressing just enough, teasing.
