No Place That Far

by L. A. Witt

  “I think I’ll check if the hotel has a free room.” He turned away a bit. “Shower might be good to clear my head.”

  “You could use my shower.”

  There was no way to misread that, was there? Marcus looked into Timur’s eyes, but the color distracted him from the expression. Marcus drew closer, close enough to whisper in Timur’s ear, “You inviting me to your room?” Just making sure Timur knew what he was asking.

  Again, Timur didn’t pull back, didn’t insist on any distance between their bodies, and Marcus placed a hand on Timur’s shoulder to test the theory. Solid muscle, but not so much as a shrug. Nobody paid them any mind. And getting laid would get Marcus away from the wedding for a little while and away from his dark and bitter thoughts. Doing the best man at a wedding—well, it was a first, but it seemed like a really good idea just then.

  Timur half turned and placed a hand between Marcus’s shoulder blades. “My room is that way.”

  Chapter Two

  Timur may have been the quiet teddy bear type, but apparently there wasn’t a passive bone in his body. Or a shy one, for that matter.

  In the elevator, he pushed the button for the fifth floor and didn’t even wait for the doors to close.

  No prelude, no long, lingering look. He grabbed a fistful of Marcus’s jacket, shoved him back against the wall and kissed him. Shock and a few gallons of booze kept Marcus from responding immediately, but, damn, he still caught on quick. He wrapped his arms around Timur’s narrow waist, as much for balance as to pull their bodies closer.

  Timur tasted like whiskey, and he smelled of… Hell, Marcus couldn’t put his finger on it. Pure masculinity, he decided, and took in another long, deep breath through his nose. Yes. Masculinity. And it was hot. Jesus.

  He curved a hand around the back of Timur’s head, letting his fingers hiss across the recently shaved hair—almost to the skin, but not quite—as he opened to Timur’s assertive tongue.

  And, goddammit, that was the moment the elevator lurched to a halt, and the quiet ding startled them both. They separated, and Marcus was already thanking God they’d reached their floor when two things happened at once.

  First, he realized they were only on the third floor.

  Second, the door opened, and a family poured in through the door, Mom and kids dressed for the swimming pool. Which he remembered was also on the fifth floor. Fuck.

  He and Timur stood against the back wall, both using their jackets for a little modesty, and they stared straight ahead while the doors closed and the elevator carried the two men and the cluster of chatty children and their mother upward. Six elevators in this hotel, and they had to pick this one, didn’t they?

  The journey from the first to the third floor hadn’t been nearly long enough—Marcus could have made out with Timur against that wall until they reached the five-hundredth floor, for all he cared. Getting from the third to the fifth? Ages. By the time they finally reached Timur’s floor, Julien and Chris would probably be celebrating their tenth anniversary downstairs.

  Finally, though, it stopped. The doors opened, and the kids and their mother were gone. Marcus exhaled. He reached for Timur, fully intending to pick up where they’d left off, but Timur held up a card key with the hotel’s logo on it.

  “This way. Isn’t far.”

  Not far. Thank God.

  Though as they stepped out of the elevator, walking fast and staying a few inches apart, it dawned on him that he thought he’d watched a documentary on the French Foreign Legion a few years ago, and he could have sworn they’d said something about hundred-mile forced marches. It was entirely possible that he and Timur had very different ideas about “not far”.

  But not this time.

  Three doors down from the elevator, Timur slid the key into a reader with hands that were way, way too steady for someone in this state. The door clicked, and he pushed it open, gesturing for Marcus to go in ahead of him.

  Marcus’s legs obeyed in spite of his excitement and inebriation, and he stepped into the room. Behind him, the door shut, and he had time for a few holy shit heartbeats and a gulp before strong hands materialized on his waist.

  “Shouldn’t stay away long,” Timur murmured beneath his ear. “People will notice.”

  “I’d fuck you on the wedding cake if that was the only option.” Marcus turned before those strong hands pushed him toward the bed—nothing teasing about it, though his heart was racing from the anticipation all the same.

  He did manage to get his jacket off before they reached the bed. Within moments, he was lying flat on the mattress, Timur on top, both of them with shoes still on and neither of them caring even a bit.

  Normally, Marcus would challenge Timur for the top spot, but he was too drunk and mellow to do that this time. Timur kissed him again and lowered himself some more, just enough to cover Marcus’s body and rub their groins together.

  Marcus pulled at Timur’s shirt and got to the skin underneath just as Timur was pushing against him. The man was solid, rippling muscle, hot and smooth to the touch, but while Marcus was usually happy to get them both fully undressed, right now, all he wanted was to get off, so he pulled at Timur’s belt and opened it, then button, zip, and he pushed the trousers down along with the underwear. Timur’s cock sprang free, and Marcus’s mouth watered. He was long, thick and ready, and with all those muscles around, Timur likely fucked like a machine. Perfect.

  He stroked the length, which sped up Timur’s movements. The man was so eager to get Marcus out of his clothes, he damn near ripped the seams of the tux. They didn’t bother with niceties or even getting fully undressed. Marcus barely managed to get the tux jacket off Timur, but things were moving so fast he didn’t care whether they ended up fucking mostly dressed. Maybe that was the way to do it in the Legion too, just bare cock and ass and get fucking before anybody caught them.

  “Want to fuck you.” Timur’s voice was low and breathy against Marcus’s ear.

  Marcus mostly regarded himself as a top with some flexibility, but he didn’t want Timur to get the wrong idea. “That means I get to fuck you too.”

  Timur didn’t hesitate. “Only fair.”

  Nice. A switch. A switch with a fucking enormous dick and a muscular ass the likes of which were rarely found outside a Tom of Finland drawing.

  With his free hand, Marcus dragged Timur down into a kiss, and he kept stroking him, which was getting progressively more difficult as Timur ground against him. Marcus could barely move his hand at all. But since Timur’s movements were rubbing Marcus’s hand against both their dicks, well, he wasn’t going to bitch. And the way Timur’s hips thrust, oh hell, he was going to be an awesome, awesome fuck.

  All they needed now was—

  Oh crap.

  Marcus broke the kiss—sort of—and murmured, “Condoms.”

  Timur didn’t miss a beat. “None.” He ground harder against Marcus, fucking into his fist and pushing Marcus’s fingers against his own cock.

  “We can’t…” Breathe? Think? Talk? Fuck. That’s it. We can’t fuck. “We need…we need condoms.”

  Timur’s lips left his, and Marcus expected a defeated sigh and a few curses in whatever language Timur spoke. Instead, Timur dipped his head and bit the top of Marcus’s shoulder. Not just a little nip—he fucking bit him right through his shirt—and Marcus damn near came right then and there.

  “Oh my God!” Marcus arched against him. He squeezed Timur’s dick harder, and the low groan that vibrated against his throat made his head spin.

  “No condoms doesn’t mean…”

  Marcus grimaced. Please don’t tell me you want to go bareback…

  “Can still…” Timur shuddered, still grinding against Marcus, “…come.”

  “Mmhmm.” Marcus stroked as best he could with his hand pinned between them, and Timur sank his teeth in again, sending another
shiver right through Marcus. “Fuck…”

  “You like?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  A breath of warm laughter, and then teeth again, this time above his collar, right into bare skin.

  “Do you…” Marcus grabbed on to Timur’s shoulder with his free hand, “…do you do that when you fuck?”

  “Do what?”

  “Bite?”

  The low growl gave Marcus goose bumps. “You like teeth?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Good.” Timur’s teeth grazed flesh again, and suddenly he was moving a lot faster, thrusting now as if he really were fucking Marcus, and he murmured something in Marcus’s ear, something that sounded somewhat Russian and very profane.

  More swearing. Teeth. And Marcus lost it. He came against Timur’s belly, slickness reducing the friction of the thrusting, and just then Timur moved harder and faster, changed the angle just a bit and fucked against Marcus’s skin, groans sounding more labored now, and Marcus held him tight, kissed him again deeply, fucking his mouth with his tongue.

  Timur pulled back only a few moments before his own orgasm hit him, and that was also when he buried his teeth again in Marcus’s shoulder. Shit, that was going to bruise, but Marcus didn’t care, just caught up in the feeling that was part pleasure and part pain and this strong guy coming apart, spurting across his belly, where semen and sweat mixed.

  They stared at each other for a few moments, then Timur kissed him again, lips closed now, strangely polite, almost reserved or shy, and then Timur pulled back and got up. He did sway a bit for a moment but collected himself on the way to the bathroom and returned a moment later with a damp towel. Just as he was making moves to clean up Marcus, Marcus took the towel out of his hands and wiped himself down, then handed it back.

  While Timur cleaned himself up, Marcus pulled up his trousers and went to the bathroom to check the damage. He looked flushed and rumpled, but it was all still within the realm of deniability. The shirt had ridden up high enough that the semen hadn’t actually made it onto the fabric. He wiped at it a bit more with a fresh wet towel and washed his face and neck. He’d be okay.

  Just then, Timur came in and looked at him in the mirror. He seemed a bit softer around the edges, a bit drowsy, but that sated expression made Marcus want to draw him out of that and fire him up again. “I’ll leave first. You follow in five minutes?”

  Timur stepped closer. “Can we fuck again?”

  Marcus grinned. “Already?”

  Timur paused, then grinned too, a playful, boyish look that might mean he hadn’t quite caught the meaning. “Now?”

  “They’ll miss us. After the party? I need to get a room first.”

  “Sleep here. We can fuck all night.”

  That sounded like an amazing way to get over that whole wedding-sadness thing. “All right. I’ll get lube and condoms.”

  Timur said something Marcus didn’t quite understand—more Russian, maybe—but before Marcus could ask, Timur wrapped an arm around his waist and kissed him. “Go first.”

  Marcus nodded. He couldn’t resist one more kiss, and that was almost a mistake—the alcohol was probably the only thing that kept him from getting turned on all over again. Timur’s hungry, demanding kisses in the elevator and in bed were hot, but this lazy, borderline-affectionate kissing? Hell, he didn’t care if they fucked all night as long as Timur kissed him like this for at least half of it.

  He made himself break the kiss and finished straightening his clothes. Then they exchanged one more look, grins full of sinful promise, and Marcus slipped out of the room.

  Chapter Three

  On the way down the hall, his head was spinning like crazy, and he caught himself thinking he really needed another drink. Not for the booze, just to cool himself down. He didn’t even feel all that drunk anymore, though his gait was a little uneven. No worse than it would be tomorrow morning.

  He shivered as he pressed the elevator button. Work was probably going to suck tomorrow. Sunday nights weren’t usually too busy, but standing behind the bar would be challenging. Walking would be too.

  The elevator doors opened, and Marcus stepped inside and pressed the button for the lobby. He wondered if anyone had even noticed he was gone. He had no doubt his coworkers would catch on tomorrow that he’d gotten laid—Kieran could pick out an I-just-got-some grin or an I-got-fucked-within-an-inch-of-my-life stagger from a hundred paces—but everyone at the wedding was probably having too much fun and booze to notice a couple of wallflowers disappearing for a few minutes.

  They’d notice if the grooms disappeared, of course. Marcus certainly knew that one firsthand.

  He winced at his own thought, his blissed-out mood souring at the memory of stealing away to the limo and paying the chauffeur to walk away for a few minutes. When they’d gone back to the reception, everyone had noticed their five-minute disappearance, very slightly ruffled hair and Ray’s subtly crooked bow tie. Oops.

  The elevator reached the bottom, and Marcus’s stomach kept right on sinking. He followed the familiar hallway and the sound of some 1980s ballad back to the ballroom, marveling at how fast his failed marriage could still fuck up his mood. As he hunted down that waiter with his perpetually full tray of booze, he debated telling Timur he couldn’t do it. That he’d had a good time but just needed to bow out, grab a cab and go home for the night. All the way through his drink, from the first sip to the melting ice cubes, he pondered how to say it gently without sounding like a dick, while still making sure Timur grasped through the language barrier that it’s not you, it’s me.

  But then the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

  He turned his head.

  Perfectly combed and styled and without a scrap of evidence that he’d recently been sinking his teeth into one of the wedding guests, Timur stepped into the room.

  And Marcus forgot why he’d even thought spending the night together would be a bad idea. Timur was making his way toward the buffet, and just then Julien came from the other side and joined him there. They exchanged smiles and nods, and Julien easily rested a hand on Timur’s shoulder as he was leaning in closer. Over the music, it was very hard to tell what they were saying, but Timur seemed to form longer sentences now. Hell, he seemed positively chatty, so they were probably not speaking English. Their body language betrayed an ease with each other that probably meant they must have been sleeping together at some point. Though wasn’t it a bit strange to choose your ex-lover as a best man as you got married to your childhood sweetheart?

  “Having a good time?” Chris pulled the chair out next to Marcus and sat down, offering him a kamikaze. Marcus took it and tore his eyes away from Timur.

  “It’s a great party.” Marcus lifted the glass and took a sip. “Congrats again, by the way.”

  “Thanks.” Chris glanced at Julien and immediately got that goofy expression of a man so hopelessly in love he probably didn’t even hear the cynicism in Marcus’s words. Not that he was trying to kick Chris out of that bliss. If it happened, it would happen without his help, and he really didn’t want to ruin the “best day in their lives”, as the cliché went.

  He turned back toward Marcus. “I think the worst’s behind us. At the risk of jinxing us, it’s hard to imagine what else could go wrong.”

  There’s that. Few partners came back from the dead after a stint in the Legion, after all.

  “Who’s this Timur guy?”

  “Julien’s friend. They were close during his time in the Legion.” Chris paused and nodded. “Yeah, that close.”

  “You all right with that?”

  “Well, he is a nice guy. Julien says he’s been the best friend he’s ever had, apart from me.” Chris didn’t look dubious or worried at all. He clearly trusted Julien, and Julien was the type of man who could be trusted. And then, their personal arrangement might be to open up
the relationship eventually like many guys did, so jealousy wasn’t even an option. He kind of didn’t expect two ex-Mormons to take in a third, but it wasn’t any of his business either. They’d work it out.

  “So, what are the plans?”

  “Well, there’s the honeymoon to Réunion and about seven hundred other places in Europe and Asia that Julien insists we have to see. After that we’ll find a new place to live together. Julien inherited quite a bit of money from his father, so we…can afford to take things slow.”

  Marcus managed to bite his tongue regarding prenups or legal agreements about who owned what. He didn’t want to be the negative asshole at the party, but he’d definitely ask Chris once the first bliss was gone. “How long will you be gone?”

  “Four weeks. You’ll be fine at your station.”

  “Well, I’ll be happy to take the shifts. I need them.”

  He studied Marcus for a moment. “Are you doing okay? Settling in and all?”

  Marcus shrugged. “Still letting the dust settle. It’s par for the course.” He paused, shifting in his chair. “We’re talking again.”

  “Are you?” Chris’s eyebrows jumped. “Is that good or bad?”

  “It’s…it’s interesting.” Marcus drummed his fingers on the white tablecloth. “I think now that we’re both moving on, a lot of the tension isn’t there anymore, so we can have a civil conversation.”

  “But you don’t think you’ll—”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Good.” Chris smiled. “Sounds like everything is working out the way it should.”

  Part of Marcus wanted to be snide and cynical. Nothing quite so poetic as the happy groom bestowing his blessing upon a long-overdue divorce on this, the day of his own wedding. But he was right. Chris and Marcus had met during the latter days of the relationship, when there’d been nothing left to do but put out the fires and do damage control. It was hard to argue with the guy when he declared this the best possible outcome.