A Fortunate Blizzard

by L. C. Chase

  “No, I want you to fuck me.” Trevor smiled and tugged at Marc’s lower lip with a finger. Marc caught it with his teeth, teasing the tip with his tongue. “And then I’m going to paint you.”

  Marc didn’t see how that was going to happen since they wouldn’t be seeing each other again after tonight. Something pinched deep in his chest at that, but he ignored it. He pushed all thoughts of gorgeous artists and painting and dead dreams aside, and he leaned down to lose himself in the man underneath him. The kiss was slow and consuming and not at all timid. There was a determined force to it, a sense that they were skimming the fringes of control, and it was exactly what Marc needed.

  He slipped his tongue inside to tango with Trevor’s, reveling in the intensity and desire that rolled off their bodies in thick waves, coating his skin to the point where he could probably orgasm from that alone. He was so absorbed in the kiss he hadn’t noticed when Trevor had pushed his hand between their bodies, forcing Marc to lift his hips, until a firm, warm grip closed around his length. A thrill skittered up his spine, and he moaned into Trevor’s mouth.

  Marc rocked leisurely into his hand at first, keeping pace with the slow dance of their mouths and tongues. And then urgency replaced the languid discovery of this man he’d chosen to spend his night with, share his body with. He had to touch everywhere at once. He couldn’t not. His hand mussed Trevor’s soft, shoulder-length hair, caressed his face and his neck, followed the length of his torso to his hip and flank, and tucked underneath to cup a solid, flexing butt cheek in his palm. He never once broke the kiss that had morphed from dancing foreplay into a seductive duel.

  Trevor released Marc’s cock, much to his dismay, and pushed against his shoulders, forcing him up, ending the kiss that Marc didn’t think he’d ever get enough of. Trevor’s breath gusted over Marc’s chin in rapid bursts as his own ruffled strands of hair hung in Trevor’s eyes. Air caught in Marc’s lungs at the heated look in those blue oceans as they gazed up at him.

  He reached for the packets he’d dropped on the bed beside them, and Trevor grinned before rolling onto his stomach. He lifted his hips and rubbed his ass against Marc’s groin, sending sparks shooting off in every direction and causing a rough laugh to bubble up from his chest. “Tease.”

  He could honestly say he’d never made a sound like that in all his life, but at that moment, he was too far gone for embarrassment to make any kind of headway. Especially when Trevor went and spread his legs wider.

  “Only if I don’t follow through,” Trevor countered, glancing over his shoulder with a sly glint in his eyes.

  Marc settled between those long, toned limbs, his gaze falling on a perfectly round, muscular bottom. Each cheek fit perfectly in his open palms as he squeezed and caressed, spread and kneaded, his thumbs dipping into the crease between and following it down to the only place he wanted to be just then. Trevor pushed and rocked into his touch, silently pleading for more. A plea Marc was definitely not going to let go unanswered.

  The sound of tearing foil ratcheted up Trevor’s anticipation, and a second later, he flinched as cold liquid dripped onto his overheated skin.

  “You have a beautiful ass,” Marc said softly, the praise in his voice causing a pleasant flutter in Trevor’s chest. He couldn’t manage more than a rumbling “Mmm” in response. His focus was fully on Marc as he worked the lube into all the right places—warming, massaging, teasing, opening.

  He’d had no reservations about going up to Marc’s room, knowing full well where it would lead, but he’d not intended on bottoming. Not after so many years of nearly nonexistent sexual interest. Especially not with someone he’d never see again. But by the time they’d made their way to the room, his every nerve had been on fire. He’d wanted Marc, for sure. When he’d stepped out of the bathroom after his shower and seen the raw look of desire in Marc’s eyes—the way he had asked permission to touch him, and then done so with such reverence—everything had changed. If this was going to be his last winter, and this man was his last chance to fully experience the human connection at its most primal, then he was damned well going to make the most of it.

  So he gave himself up to Marc’s sure hands, letting this handsome, switch-flipping stranger work him into a boneless state of euphoria. He dropped his head into the crook of his right elbow, bowing his back, opening himself further for Marc to do to him as he pleased. And so far, it was well more than pleasing.

  “Ready for me?” Clear arousal gave a rough, shiver-inducing sharpness to Marc’s voice.

  “Yes. So much yes.”

  Another tear of foil, the sound amplified by the desire strumming through his veins, pressure at his hole. Excitement trembled over his skin as Marc slowly entered him. His entire world narrowed to that beautiful crash of their meeting bodies. The glorious burning stretch as he teetered on the cliff of pleasure-pain. The reverent push-pull as Marc inched deeper and deeper, asking Trevor’s body to accept him. And he did.

  Hot and hard, Marc filled him. His cock dragged over Trevor’s prostate, forcing a moan up Trevor’s throat and Marc’s body to tremble. He pushed steadily until he was fully seated inside, somehow reaching beyond what Trevor ever could have thought possible.

  Trevor squeezed around the man buried inside him, drawing a growling gasp from Marc. One hand gripped and kneaded his butt cheeks while the other fisted his balls, rolling them, caressing them.

  “Now,” he ground out, his voice muffled in the cocoon of his arm. He turned his head, and their eyes locked. “Come on, Marc. Fuck me like you own me.”

  Trevor’s breath caught on the flare of desire that lit Marc’s deep-green irises.

  Holy . . . yeah. Marc was a vision of awe-inspiring virility.

  “Jesus . . .” Marc said, frozen still, as if his entire body was holding its breath. In that suspended pause, bodies joined, pulses pounding as one, Trevor didn’t think it was possible they could ever separate again. At least not until hot breath gusted over his sensitive back, and Marc did as Trevor had bid, easing almost all the way out until just the head of his cock teased the ring of Trevor’s hole. He held there for a second, as if they were both taking that last gulp of oxygen before jumping off the cliff into a waiting lake below, and slammed back in. Deep. Mind-blowingly deep.

  “Yes!” Trevor shouted, dropping his head down and digging his elbows into the mattress to brace himself.

  Marc began pumping a hard rhythm, thrusts angled just right to hit Trevor’s prostate on every stroke. His senses acutely tuned in to the wordless yet articulate language of their bodies. With each perfect drive of his cock, Marc freed Trevor from the stresses and burdens of his life. Out, in. Gone was the worry of his failing kidneys. Out, in. Gone was the bleak outlook of never finding a transplant. Out, in. Gone was the loss of dreams and hope. Out, in. Only this moment, this man. Out, in. Living breathing loving . . .

  This was what he’d so desperately needed without even realizing it. To be taken, owned, desired, reminded that he was still alive—fully and completely. But then Marc pulled out all the way, leaving him empty and scrabbling to get that escape back. He growled, the vibration grating over his vocal chords.

  “Roll over,” Marc rasped, hands on his hips gently guiding him. “I want to see your face when you lose it.”

  Trevor rolled to the right, flipping over, and Marc leaned down to kiss him, mouth sliding over his, tongues twining with desperate need. Marc lowered his body, pressing their cocks between their bellies, the two of them rocking together.

  “Fuck, you’re so hot,” Trevor gasped between kisses. “But I need . . .”

  . . . you to take me away. Make me forget. Show me I’m whole and healthy and vibrant like you.

  “. . . Fuck me.” He dug his fingers into Marc’s shoulders, his back, his ass. “Fuck me.”

  “Shit.” Marc plundered his mouth, sucking on his tongue, kissing him deep and with complete abandon. “I have never met anyone like you.”

  “Marc.”


  “Yes.”

  One more brain-stalling kiss, and then Marc leaned back, lifting Trevor’s legs and settling them over his shoulders. Trevor’s eyelids fluttered, and a moaning growl tore from his raw throat as Marc gripped his thighs and pushed back inside, forcing worry and depression and fatigue to surrender. His every nerve sang in relief.

  “Look at me,” Marc demanded.

  He obeyed. Marc’s gaze, completely unguarded by passion, locked on his as he stared at Trevor like he was the only thing in the world that mattered. A tiny pang of regret dared to threaten the moment, but he aggressively shoved it away. Only right now mattered. The play of the muscles of Marc’s face as he pumped in and out mattered. The deep flush that spread over his chest, up his neck, into his cheeks with the effort of their lovemaking mattered. Dark hair, damp with sweat, and the sheen on olive skin mattered.

  “Damn, you’re a beautiful man,” Marc said, with something like awe in his voice. Or maybe Trevor just imagined that.

  Marc held one of Trevor’s thighs to his chest and caressed Trevor’s chest and stomach with his other hand, sliding lower and lower until he clasped Trevor’s cock.

  “Yesss.” Trevor moaned and placed his hand over Marc’s, and together they brought him closer and closer to the edge. Their mingled breaths came faster, louder, rougher.

  “Come.” Marc’s voice was ragged and strained. “Come for me.”

  “Oh . . . Fuck . . . Marc . . .” Trevor threw his head back, squeezed his eyes shut, and thick cum splattered his abdomen in fierce pulses, the rush of his orgasm powerful enough to gray his vision and rack his whole body with delightful tremors. He tightened his inner muscles, squeezing around the hard cock lodged deep inside him, urging Marc to join his release.

  Marc dropped forward, arms braced on either side of Trevor, and pounded into him, hard and fast. Sweat dripped off his nose, and harsh pants blew against Trevor’s face before Marc’s body tensed. His rhythm jerked, and then he held still. He was so rooted that Trevor could feel Marc’s cock throbbing inside him, and for a second, he wondered how it would feel if there were nothing between them.

  Marc collapsed on top of him, the weight a welcome blanket rather than an uncomfortable crush. Trevor snaked a hand around the back of Marc’s neck and claimed his mouth in a heated kiss. Not breaking their kiss, Marc eased himself out of Trevor’s body while covering it at the same time. And Trevor found himself thinking, as spent and exhausted as he was, he didn’t want this night to end.

  Marc slowed the kiss; it became addicting, languid, and somehow more powerful than all the ones previous. Somehow it seemed to mean more, as though Marc was saying something Trevor should be able to understand. Or most likely, he was simply lost in an incredible postorgasmic haze, and his mind really had been blown.

  Because that’s what this was. One random night of mind-blowing sex. A brief escape from his inevitable end.

  Marc pulled his lips away gently and stared down at Trevor, eyes unreadable.

  “I feel you thinking, counselor,” Trevor teased, because that look made him feel exposed and vulnerable in a way he couldn’t allow. Not now. Not ever.

  Marc smiled, and whatever Trevor thought he’d seen in the man’s gaze was gone. Thankfully. He rolled them to their sides, pulled the blankets over them, and wrapped Marc in his arms, their faces barely an inch apart.

  “I’m thinking this was some sort of fortunate blizzard,” Marc said.

  Trevor smiled against the nervous twinge in his chest. “That’s kind of philosophical for a lawyer.”

  Marc nudged him with his knee, the side of his mouth crooked up. “Your artsy-fartsy ways must be contagious.”

  Trevor cracked an eye open and focused on the neon-green glow from the clock radio on the bedside table. It was not quite 5 a.m. He’d slept all of four hours before his internal alarm nudged him out of the much-needed slumber. Or maybe that was his bladder insisting he get up right now. The added pressure of an arm draped over his waist only forced the issue.

  He gently crawled out from under Marc, careful not to wake him, and stumbled blindly toward the bathroom. After relieving himself, he unwrapped the gauze bandage on his biceps and checked the fistula grafted to a vein in his arm. If there’d been any serious damage to it he’d have known immediately, but in the throes of passion, a minor impact could still damage it. Which would cause a problem for his dialysis treatments and might even mean surgery for a new one. Satisfied it was okay, he loosely rewrapped his arm. He didn’t need the gauze for anything other than his own vanity, hiding the fistula so he didn’t have to explain to Marc what it was.

  He glanced at himself in the mirror. How could he look so . . . normal, yet be so sick that he was literally knocking on death’s door? Scowling, he slapped the light switch off.

  Back in the room, he crept to the window and pulled the curtains back a few inches. Snow was still falling in thick lazy flakes, burying the world in blue-cast white. If it didn’t stop soon, there’d be no getting a flight out today, either.

  He turned, and the sigh that had begun a slow exhale up his throat caught midway. A spear of light from the parking lot lights fell over Marc’s bare torso, giving him an ethereal radiance. He’d turned over after Trevor had left the bed and was now facing the window. The sheets were pushed down to his hip, one hand tucked under his head, the other open flat on the now-empty space where Trevor had been.

  Trevor pushed the curtains back a little farther, letting more light spill over Marc’s body, careful to keep it from hitting his eyes and waking him. Trevor’s fingers twitched at his side, and that familiar urge to capture the image before him welled up inside. He tiptoed to his bag and quietly pulled out a sketch pad and a set of graphite pencils. Then he dragged one of the table chairs in front of the window. He sat down and opened his book to a fresh page.

  The light wasn’t great for drawing, but it was enough. He studied Marc, following the line of his shoulder to the dip between his rib cage and hip bone, along the dark shadows playing across his relaxed muscles and the folds of the sheet where it lay over his body, hiding what Trevor remembered was a beautiful, thick cock. The dull ache in his body reminded him how good it had been too. And surprised him. He hadn’t experienced arousal like this in years, an unfortunate side effect of his treatments. But the man sleeping soundly five feet away from him had managed to reignite his system with a single glance.

  A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Every second had been worth it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so alive, so unburdened from facing and fighting his inevitable death. It was as if Marc somehow knew and had made sure that what they’d done last night wasn’t just two strangers having sex. It was Marc making love to him.

  A shiver slid up his spine and over his shoulders, and he shook the thoughts away. Fantasizing wasn’t going to change anything. But Marc was gorgeous, and had given him a reprieve from his constant battle. He could paint the man. He needed to.

  Settling comfortably into the chair, he resumed his study of Marc.

  Muscular legs and an incredible ass from all the stair-climbing the man did remained hidden underneath the off-white sheet. One of Marc’s knees was bent forward, his other leg stretched behind. His foot twitched. Trevor rose and walked over to the bed, carefully rearranging the blankets to expose Marc’s foot and leg to midthigh. He stood back for a moment, tilted his head to the side, and then stepped forward to once more arrange the sheets to his liking—smoothing a fold here, puffing up a fold there, revealing a little more skin. Just a touch more light on the end of the bed . . . He opened the left curtain another inch, then one more, and there . . . Perfect.

  Trevor sat back down and started the first strokes of his sketch. He’d always found drawing someone, painting them, to be an extremely intimate experience. Through that experience he discovered the hearts and souls of the people he brought to life on paper or canvas—or whatever surface happened to be handy when the urge struck—without touching
or even speaking to them. It was his personal study of humanity through expression of the physical form, and it had become his signature in the art world. His ability to pull raw emotion out of a two-dimensional image was what had broken him out onto the main stage and kept him there.

  But his current muse . . . There was more to him than met the eye, something hidden in his depths that Trevor had to coax out. It was behind a shadow that drifted over deep-green eyes, the note of longing in his sonorous voice when he’d asked about Trevor’s art, a twitch and tilt of his head followed by a shy hint of a smile on soft lips that belied his outward confidence, and the flush of pink that sometimes colored his sharp cheekbones. The man was successful, affluent, gorgeous. On the surface he seemed to have it all. But a sense of loss or solitude lurked behind the strong, self-assured front. Trevor got the sense that even in sleep Marc had a story to tell, something he was afraid of. Whatever his story was, it bubbled so close to the surface that it seemed Marc was still guarding it as he dreamed.

  Awareness tiptoed around the edges of Marc’s consciousness, and a strange sense of being watched tagged along with it. Without moving or opening his eyes, he tried to take stock of his surroundings. The bed didn’t feel like his, and the sheets smelled of industrial detergent and sex. There was a low hum, and a faint scratching against the peaceful stillness in the air. He wasn’t at home. He was in a hotel room . . . with a handsome man. They’d had fantastic sex.

  And now he was in that bed alone, although he wasn’t the only one in the room.

  He lifted an eyelid just enough to see an out-of-focus Trevor sitting in front of the window, low light from outside casting a soft glow around his shoulders. Outside, snow continued to dot the dark-gray skies behind him. Trevor’s head was down, the ankle of one leg resting across the knee of the other, and his attention focused on the sketchbook that leaned against the easel his leg created. His hand moved across the page in deliberate strokes, almost affectionate in the way it danced over its surface. Marc watched, unable to look away or move, and that secreted part of his soul cried.