by L. C. Chase
Trevor’s hand paused its hypnotic flow, breaking his trance, and he glanced up. Marc’s lungs froze mid-inhale, afraid to give any sign that he’d awoken and disturb an artist in his element. By Trevor’s intense stare aimed at the foot of the bed, Marc didn’t have anything to worry about. Except a sudden urge to wiggle his exposed toes.
Trevor returned his attention to the sketchbook, a lock of thick hair falling over his forehead. How had their paths never crossed before now? With Trevor living in Nederland, there were less than twenty miles between them. But then, with work such a heavy demand on his time, Marc rarely spent any time in Boulder simply enjoying what it had to offer. He was always either in the office or at home.
Besides, Trevor undoubtedly traveled the art circles that Marc had avoided most of his life. Not because he didn’t appreciate art but because pursing it wouldn’t make his mother proud. He’d never fully let go of that lost dream though. The house he’d purchased had spoken to the buried part of himself that refused to die, even after being starved for decades. He’d gone so far as to dedicate a room as an art studio where he could revisit his first passion . . . and then never stepped inside it again.
“I wanted to be an artist,” Marc blurted, catching himself off guard. Heat infused his cheeks at having spoken at all, let alone given voice to his forgotten dream.
Trevor startled, his hand jerking on the page, and a trickle of guilt snaked into Marc’s chest. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Or say anything at all. Especially that.
Trevor shook his head, the near-silhouette of his smile soft. He closed the sketchbook and stood, placing it and a pencil kit back in his travel bag before returning to the bed and stretching out beside Marc.
“Yeah?” Trevor rose up to lean on his elbow, one hand caressing Marc’s chest and abs in lazy figure eights.
Marc glanced up at him, that stare gently prompting him to continue, telling him that Trevor somehow understood and that Marc would be safe revealing his deepest secrets, if he chose to, to a stranger he’d never see again. Did that make it easier or harder? Did spilling secrets in the dark count? He tore his gaze away with effort and looked out the window, not really seeing anything beyond it.
Marc shrugged. “Just idealistic dreams of youth.”
“I doubt that.”
Marc met Trevor’s gaze again, those bright-blue eyes offering encouragement. It was the first time he’d given voice to a lost dream, and now he wasn’t so sure where to go from there. The things he did, like setting up the room he never ventured inside, didn’t require more than a disconnected, peripheral-type of thinking. Art was always in the back of his mind but never truly brought into the light. Like the shadow of movement out of the corner of an eye, but no matter how fast you turn your head to catch it, nothing’s there.
“I used to love painting.” He paused, swallowing back a sudden tightness in his throat. “I was actually pretty good at it, according to my teachers. My mother would say, ‘That’s nice, honey,’ and occasionally stick one of my projects on the fridge. But it wasn’t long before I noticed my two brothers were receiving more enthusiastic praise and support for their sports and academic achievements. She never outright discouraged me, but more and more I came to realize she wasn’t quite as proud of me.”
Marc huffed a halfhearted laugh. “She didn’t even make it to my first art exhibit because one of my brothers had soccer practice that day. Not even a game, just a regular, everyday practice.”
“How old were you?” Trevor’s voice was soft and held a note of empathy, but thankfully not pity.
“Fourteen. That was my one and only art show. I loved art. It was like . . . breathing.” He searched Trevor’s eyes, which looked steel gray in the dim light, and in that moment felt like he’d found a kindred spirit. Would his life have been different if he’d met someone like Trevor twenty years ago? Maybe, maybe not, but one thing he did know: there was no point in wasting time on what-ifs.
“But the need to make my mother proud of me was stronger, so I gave my paints and canvases away and focused on academics. I think I saw her first genuinely smile at me when I told her I’d decided to be a lawyer. It seemed like I’d finally won her approval.” He took a deep breath. All these years and the memory still hadn’t lost its painful bite. “And then my youngest brother outed me when I was sixteen.”
Marc fell silent, his mind traveling back in time to that day, and his stomach did a nauseating flop. They’d been eating dinner—Marc, his mother, and his brothers, Rick and Andy. Marc hadn’t known at the time, but Andy had seen him kissing his first boyfriend. As soon as the words had left Andy’s lips, the temperature had dropped in the room, and a chill had crawled up his spine. His mother had just stared at him, her expression completely blank.
“Is that true?” she’d asked in a flat voice. All Marc could do was nod at her, barely making eye contact, and then he glared at his brother, who’d smirked back. The moment had stretched on in uncomfortable silence until finally his mother said, “I see.” And that was it.
Trevor stopped trailing his fingers along Marc’s skin when he didn’t continue. “Please don’t tell me your parents kicked you out.”
Marc shook his head. “No. Though I sometimes think that would have been better. My mother just shut me out, instead. She didn’t talk to me unless she had to. Nothing I ever did after that night was good enough. It was like I was a ghost—invisible in plain sight. And the day I turned eighteen she said I was an adult now and it was time to move out.”
“What about your dad?”
“Absentee. They divorced when I was twelve, and he was too busy working and traveling to be a full-time father.”
“I’m sorry.”
Marc shrugged. “It was what it was. Could have been a whole lot worse.”
Silence fell between them as that same desperate, crushing feeling sucked him back into its depths, trying to swallow him whole like they had all those years ago.
“How are things now?” Trevor’s touch coasted down his arm, finding Marc’s hand and twining their fingers together. The gesture pulled him back to the present. “She must be proud of how successful you’ve become?”
Marc shook his head slowly, giving the hand holding his a thankful squeeze. “I haven’t talked to her in almost ten years. Not even a birthday or Christmas card.”
Trevor was quiet for a second, and the broken hum of the room’s heater seemed too loud for the otherwise-still night. “What about your brothers? How many do you have?”
“Two. Both younger. Rick, the middle son, accepted me. He was my best friend, tried to encourage me to paint again. But then he went and joined the Army.” A lump swelled in his throat, preventing him from speaking for a moment. “He . . . he never made it back home.”
“I’m so sorry, Marc,” Trevor said, his voice soft as it mirrored the sense of loss that rose with a vengeance in Marc’s chest. It had been years since Rick had been killed, but the pain never lessened.
“And then there’s Andy . . .” Marc slid his hand out of Trevor’s, the gesture suddenly too intimate now, and looked over Trevor’s shoulder at the still-falling snow beyond the window. “The last thing he wanted was a faggot brother. I have no idea where he is now or what he’s done with his life. I’m sure whatever it is, our mother is proud of him.” Marc snapped his mouth shut, taken aback by the venom in his own words, and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see anything in Trevor’s gaze that might add to his failure to measure up.
And why was he telling all of this to a man he’d just met? He’d never spoken aloud about his past or dreams to anyone, but then, he hadn’t really thought about what he’d been doing in a long time. Making his mother proud of him had become his sole driving force for so long that there really wasn’t room in his life for anything else.
“And you never went back to your art?”
“I’m . . . not ready yet.”
“Art never really leaves your soul,” Tr
evor said. “What’s stopping you from picking up the brushes again?”
Marc sighed and rolled onto his back, lacing his fingers over his stomach as he stared at the dark ceiling. He was done with this conversation. Didn’t know why he’d even brought it up in the first place. All it did was bring his mood down. “I don’t have time for anything but work right now.”
Trevor was silent for a long moment, and the air around them grew heavy, as if the pressure in the room was dropping. The heater fan kicked in again, a low and steady hum underscoring the tone of the atmosphere.
“Take it from me,” Trevor said, his voice sounding distant and flat, something close to regret riding the underside of it. He mimicked Marc and rolled to his back, folding his hands over his stomach. “All we have is right now, so live it, as my mom says. You have to make the time for the things that matter most.”
“Right now that’s making partner at the firm,” Marc said.
Trevor angled his head toward Marc, but he couldn’t make out Trevor’s expression. Trevor sucked in a shallow breath, and opened his mouth as if to speak but then nodded instead.
Marc got the distinct and uncomfortable feeling that he’d somehow disappointed Trevor too. Which was ridiculous. He’d just met the guy mere hours ago. Granted, he couldn’t deny a crazy-strong connection, but that could be due to being stranded in the blizzard with a gorgeous and willing man. None of it mattered, anyway. He’d never see Trevor again after tonight, so why the hell should he care what the man thought?
“I’m curious,” he said, hoping to shift the topic back to Trevor, when really, he should just roll over and go back to sleep. Tomorrow was going to be another long day digging himself out of the snow. “What were you drawing? If you don’t mind my asking?”
Trevor turned onto his side, back to Marc, and pulled the covers to his chin. “Time.”
The sun was shining through the hotel room window when Marc awoke a few hours later, his mind, body, and soul fully sated. He smiled at the man wrapped around him and wondered how a handful of hours could feel so significant. Trevor was a stranger, and yet he wasn’t.
He glanced at the clock and the smile slowly slipped from his lips—twenty to nine. By now, the roads would probably be cleared enough to get traffic moving again, and this incredible night would soon be a mere memory. He found himself wishing they could be stranded just a bit longer. He caught himself. No. That was foolish, wishful thinking, and not like him at all. What he needed to do was get up and get moving, get his head back on work where it belonged.
“I hear you thinking again.” Trevor’s voice was rough from sleep, and the raw tenor sent a flush of arousal to Marc’s groin. He gazed into the blue pair of sleepy yet still-mesmerizing eyes and decided real life could wait just a little bit longer.
“What do you say we make the most of this fine morning before hitting the road?” He slipped a hand between them, taking a firm but gentle hold of Trevor’s semierect penis and coaxing it awake.
“I was going to say you wore me out last night, but . . .” A half chuckle, half moan escaped Trevor’s throat, as if he were taken off guard by his arousal. “Seems you have the magic touch.”
Marc smiled and shimmied closer so he could align their cocks and stroke them together. The slide of hot velvet skin in his palm, the moans of pleasure rumbling from Trevor’s chest, sent a thrill through his nervous system. Trevor’s hand joined his, both of them holding each other as one, pumping, squeezing, twisting. Marc’s hips rocked into the heavenly grip of their own accord as he leaned forward and kissed Trevor. Mindless of lingering morning breath, he explored and tasted and savored the raw flavor of a man who could easily become an addiction. The thought should have been frightening, but instead only increased Marc’s desire.
Trevor used his body and free hand to push Marc to his back, then broke their kiss and, with a sly twinkle in his eyes and a seductive grin stretching his lips, slunk down Marc’s body, kissing as he went. A hand slid over the flat plane of his abdomen, into the crease of his thigh and groin, then under to cup and caress his balls. Marc spread his legs wider and lifted his hips to give Trevor more room to play. A finger teased behind his sac, to his hole, circling but not breaching, and the moan that rolled up his throat grated over his vocal chords like sandpaper. Trevor met his gaze, grin broadening, and then he dropped down and swallowed Marc’s cock in one swift but sexy motion.
Marc’s grating moan morphed into a growl loud enough to echo off the walls. All thought escaped as the wet heat engulfed his sensitive flesh, the teasing of a strong tongue, the glorious, glorious suction, the hint of teeth . . . Every blowjob before this paled in comparison, and a new bar was set for all those in the future. A thought flitted through the back of his mind, but he couldn’t quite grasp hold of it. It seemed important that he work the thought out, but his balls began to tighten and the world focused sharply to that incredible point of connection where Trevor held him on the brink with his hands and mouth. As if Trevor knew exactly what he was doing to him and how far to push, he popped his mouth off Marc’s dick and sucked one of his balls into his mouth while rolling the other in his hand. Every nerve ending sizzled and sparked.
“Ah, hell . . . Trev. Stop.”
Trevor obeyed, but the glint in his eyes suggested he was only humoring him. Marc pushed him away before he could dive back down to finish what he’d started. The confusion and disappointment that cut across his features quickly morphed back into playful pleasure when Marc shifted around so they were lying feet to head.
His gaze tracked slowly up Trevor’s body until their eyes met, and he waggled his eyebrows. “Now the boys can both party.”
“Brilliant idea,” Trevor teased, grabbing his own cock and tapping it gently against Marc’s cheek. “No wonder you’re such a successful lawyer.”
Marc covered Trevor’s hand with his, stilling his movements. “I do have a proven track record.”
“Well, then.” Trevor removed his hand and ran it through Marc’s hair, cradling the back of his head. “Show me how—”
Trevor’s words turned to senseless garble when Marc wasted no time wrapping his lips around the head of Trevor’s cock, wanting to show him everything he could do. Trevor mirrored his actions, the slick heat of his mouth consuming Marc once again. He offered no mercy as he swiftly brought Marc back to the edge with his mouth and tongue, and this time, he gently pressed two long, agile fingers inside him. And that was it.
If Trevor hadn’t already had him skirting on the brink, Marc would’ve been embarrassed by how quickly he came. A powerful, body-shaking orgasm blasted through him, seemingly with no intention of ending. His body jerked, and he heard the sound of his voice but any words were muffled beyond recognition by the stiff column of flesh filling his mouth. Trevor held him in that hot cavern until he was fully spent, then gently released him, while using his tongue to caress his now-extrasensitive skin.
“And the high-powered attorney is bested by an artis—”
Oh no, you don’t. Marc slid a finger into his mouth, alongside Trevor’s cock, slicked it up, and then pressed it into Trevor’s beautiful hole. All before the man could finish his sentence. He sucked harder while he pushed deeper, searching out Trevor’s prostate. Trevor gasped and thrust into Marc’s mouth when he’d hit the spot, and then bittersweet liquid rolled down his tongue and the back of his throat. He took it all, every last drop Trevor gave him, savoring it, committing the flavor to memory.
Marc flopped over onto his back and Trevor did the same. Marc reached for Trevor’s hand and laced their fingers together. Trevor squeezed once and tightened their hold.
Marc’s lips curled into a smile, and then he chuckled. “You were saying something about besting?”
Trevor looked over at him, his eyes dopey in a just-got-sexed-brilliantly kind of way that made Marc’s chest swell. I did that.
“We may need a retrial.” Trevor’s voice was hoarse, but the promise sent a cold spike through Marc’s po
storgasmic bliss. This was a random one-nighter, and he was a grown man, a logical man, who didn’t fall in love at first sight. He certainly was not doing that now, but he couldn’t deny there was something strong and tangible going on between them. Something he wanted a whole lot more of.
The soft smile fell from Trevor’s lips, and a faint crease appeared in his forehead, as if an unpleasant thought had crossed his mind, and he jumped from the bed. “Come on,” he said, the tone of his voice a lighthearted contrast to his expression. He held out his hand, beckoning Marc to join him. “Let’s clean up.”
“I really don’t think I can get it up again that fast.” Marc chuckled but let Trevor haul him from the bed anyway. He’d certainly give it his best effort.
Trevor raised an eyebrow. “Did I say anything about sex?”
“Leading me to the shower where we’ll be all naked and wet, and not having steamy sex?” Marc teased. “That’s just wrong.”
“Hmm . . .” Trevor led him across the room and into the bathroom, still holding his hand. “Didn’t someone just say something about not being able to get it up so soon?”
“Details.” Marc watched the play of muscle on Trevor’s back as he leaned in to turn the shower on—flexing, stretching, contracting—and Marc couldn’t stop from reaching out to feel the muscle move under his palm.
“Yes, details,” Trevor said. He turned to Marc and kissed him with playful promise while they waited for the water to warm up. “If I’m going to paint you, I’ll need to study your form.”
Heat exploded into Marc’s groin. “Jesus Christ. That is the sexiest thing anyone has ever said to me.”