by L. C. Chase
Trevor fumbled but somehow managed to catch the clothes to his chest. “Evil . . . No wonder lawyers have such a bad rap.”
After clearing the drive with the ATV, they shoveled the snow bank at the end so Marc could get his car off the road. Trevor rode the ATV back to the house while Marc drove the car. As he pulled into the garage and killed the engine, something Kate had said the day before danced into his mind.
“Have you ever built a snowman?” Marc asked as he exited the car.
Trevor looked at him over the roof of the car and smiled. “Every year.”
“Still?” He retrieved the snow shovels from the back of the ATV.
“Still.” Trevor took one of the shovels and followed him, returning them to their designated place in the garage. “Between my brothers and sisters, and now nieces and nephews, we divide into two teams and then try to outdo each other with the best snowman. Mom and Dad do the judging, but somehow it always ends up being a tie.” He winked.
An odd ache drifted into Marc’s chest. Was it jealousy? Grief for the loss of something he’d never had?
“Sounds like a lot of fun,” he said, making an effort to keep his voice even.
He must not have succeeded, however, because Trevor studied him for a second before he spoke. “Have you never built a snowman?”
Marc shook his head. “I grew up in Arizona, near Phoenix. We don’t get a lot of snow there.”
“Too bad the snow is too dry here to stick. Unless we add water and make an iceman . . .?” Trevor raised an eyebrow.
“No, no.” Marc laughed. “I don’t need to make one that bad.”
Trevor didn’t say anything, just stood there looking at him as though he was trying to puzzle him out. The blue of his eyes was as crisp and endless as the winter skies outside, yet only warmth drifted from them, folding around Marc’s body, weaving into his bones, filling all the empty corners. It was a chance encounter that would only survive a brief moment in time, but what this man was doing to him . . .
“Actually,” Marc said, stepping close enough to breathe in Trevor’s arousing scent—fresh and invigorating, as if he’d somehow bottled the sun and the mountains, and a raw undernote that had warmth spreading into Marc’s groin. “I have a better idea that doesn’t involve ice and snow and freezing our butts off.”
They’d sweat enough from clearing the driveway to warrant getting naked together in the shower for a second time that day, as far as he was concerned. He reached for Trevor’s hand, and hesitation flickered in his eyes.
Trevor continued to study him, and for a second, Marc thought he wouldn’t accept his offer, but then he slipped his hand into Marc’s. The skin was cool, even though he’d worn thick gloves while shoveling.
“You’re going to wear me out,” Trevor warned, but there was a note of anticipation in his voice.
“Only in the best way.” Marc exhaled a breath he couldn’t remember holding and led Trevor inside, not stopping until they reached the large shower in his master bath. He leaned in, kissing and nibbling on full lips he was already becoming addicted to, and when he opened his mouth, Trevor didn’t hesitate to accept the invitation. The rush of the other man’s taste flooded him with desire and dreams. Things he’d put aside, things he didn’t have time for.
Trevor pulled back, snaked his hands under Marc’s T-shirt, and slid it up his torso, nudging his arms up to remove the piece of clothing, but those now hot, branding hands remained on his skin.
“I can’t believe how easily you get me hard,” Trevor said in a husky voice that sent a shiver of longing up and down Marc’s spine. “This never happens.”
“The feeling is mutual,” he whispered, making quick work of helping Trevor out of his clothes while Trevor pushed Marc’s sweatpants to the floor. Then Trevor’s mouth was back on his. Kissing, nipping with a touch of teeth, tongue sliding inside—hot and passionate and demanding—and without breaking apart, Marc led Trevor into the shower.
Leaning down to turn on the water, he kissed Trevor’s chin, the column of his neck, his collarbone, over a solid pectoral. They both jumped at the cold blast of water from the showerhead above them, and laughing, Marc pulled Trevor out of the spray until it warmed up.
He slid his hands over Trevor’s shoulders and along his toned arms, but two lumps under the skin of his left biceps—where the gauze had been wrapped previously—drew Marc’s attention. Raised flesh surrounded what looked like puncture marks. “What happened here?”
Trevor tensed, pulling his arm back, but Marc held on, letting his hands slide the rest of the way down Trevor’s arms in a caress he hoped would be understood. Whatever it was, it didn’t lessen how badly he wanted this man.
“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to pry. Just curious.” Marc stepped closer, threading their fingers together, and gently kissed Trevor.
“No, it’s okay. It’s just . . .” Trevor looked down and shrugged before meeting his eyes again, expression closed. “Nothing to worry about.”
Marc nodded. It could be his own perceptions coloring things, but if he wasn’t mistaken he’d seen a flash of fear in those bright-blue eyes. Whatever had caused those marks, Trevor would tell him if he wanted to. Marc wouldn’t push, but a small part of him wanted Trevor to trust him enough to want to talk about it.
“Water’s good,” Trevor said, his voice a touch shaky. He stepped past Marc to stand under the stream, reaching for the soap.
Marc slipped his arms around Trevor’s waist and pulled their bodies flush, chest to back, and kissed the nape of Trevor’s neck. He moaned and dropped his head back onto Marc’s shoulder. “That feels good.”
“Yeah?”
“You know it.”
Marc rolled his hips until his penis settled nicely between Trevor’s buttocks. Trevor reached back, one hand covering a butt cheek, and tugged Marc closer while the other guided Marc’s hand down Trevor’s belly to his groin. That was guidance Marc would gladly take. He cupped Trevor’s balls with his right and began caressing the length of his cock with his left. Trevor wiggled, changing the angle in order to squeeze his legs together and trap Marc’s now fully hard and aching cock between them in a perfect, slick grip.
“God. Seriously.” Marc groaned, the sweet pressure and hot, wet friction on his cock making it hard to think. “How have we not met before?” How have we not been taking showers like this for years now?
Trevor answered by angling his head back to capture Marc’s mouth in a frantic kiss, and all Marc could do was hang on tight. His legs shook, his body trembled, his blood sang, and together they rocked in unison. Synchronized motion and panting increasing until their bodies and combined voices reached crescendo, rivaling the patter of hot water sluicing over their even hotter skin.
Marc carved a trail of kisses over Trevor’s shoulder, up the side of his neck, and then tugged the shell of his ear into his mouth. “So far, best Christmas ever.”
Trevor chuckled low and deep in his chest, and it was one of the most erotic sounds Marc had ever heard. He tightened his arms around Trevor, pulling him as close as possible, and rested his chin on Trevor’s shoulder. They stood like that for a moment, bodies pressed together, and nothing had ever felt more right to Marc.
But he wasn’t ready for that kind of “right” in his life.
“C’mon.” Marc released Trevor and, stepping back, gave his ass a playful smack. “I think we’re clean enough for dinner.”
But after they’d dried off and dressed, Trevor sat down on the edge of the bed, looking exhausted. Marc had been so pumped at the idea of spending more time with Trevor that he hadn’t realized how little they’d slept the night before, nor had he noticed the dark circles beneath those bright eyes that had now gone dull and distant.
“Are you feeling okay?” he asked.
Trevor jerked back from wherever he’d gone, the light returning, but the smile on his face didn’t quite match his eyes.
“Yes,” he said a bit too quickly and then shook his
head. He released a breath on a sigh that seemed like it had been held in for too long. “To be honest, I’m feeling a little tired.”
“Why don’t you take a nap, and I’ll get dinner ready for us?” Marc stepped forward and rested a hand on Trevor’s shoulder.
Trevor eyed him dubiously. “I thought you didn’t cook?”
“Just because I don’t cook doesn’t mean I can’t.” Marc winked. He reached up to caress Trevor’s cheek without even thinking about it. He pulled his hand back. “Besides, you’re on Christmas dinner duty tomorrow.”
“Okay.” Trevor smiled. “Thank you. I was going to make cranberry chicken with white rice and green beans, but you can do something else if you want.”
“No, that sounds perfect.”
With a nod and a smile, Marc turned to gather their wet towels and throw them in the hamper in the bathroom. When he walked back into the bedroom, Trevor had already crawled under the covers and curled up. He must have been more than a little tired to have passed out that quickly. Marc went over and pulled the blankets up a little more, feeling the need to tuck them under Trevor’s chin, and then stood back. He looked natural, right, there in Marc’s bed. In Marc’s house. As if he belonged there. Everything about Trevor felt right, really.
Marc brushed a stray lock of hair back from Trevor’s forehead and then left him to his slumber. He had to shake a little rust out of his cooking skills and see if he could pull off the meal Trevor had intended, lest he send the man running for the hills.
He would not analyze why that mattered later.
Insistent morning sunlight teased Trevor’s eyes open, and disorientation quickly followed. Instead of the thick pine forest that usually greeted him through his bedroom window, his vision was filled with a majestic view of white-blanketed farmland and endless blue skies. He sat up with a start and looked around the large room, the floor-to-ceiling windows beyond the foot of the oversized bed he was in, and he remembered. Against his better judgment, he had gone home with a man he’d met while stranded during a blizzard.
And he’d slept through the dinner that man had been making for him. Shit.
He threw his legs over the side of the bed and glanced back over his shoulder. The bed sheets on the other side were in disarray. Not only had he slept through dinner and the entire night, but Marc had apparently slept right beside him, and he hadn’t even stirred.
With a sigh, he put his ear to his left biceps, listening to the thrill of blood as it flowed through the dialysis access point of the fistula in his arm. Everything sounded okay, which was good considering he’d managed to completely forget checking yesterday. The very last thing he needed right now was for a clot to form.
Getting up to retrieve his bag—and the ten different medications, binders, and vitamins within—he noticed a plate of strawberries and cheese, garnished with a sprig of fresh mint on the night table. His stomach grumbled. Beside the morning snack was a glass of water, as well as a glass of orange juice.
Damn it. Why did Marc have to be so thoughtful?
Sitting back down, he passed on the OJ—the potassium he was always trying to keep balanced would be thrown off by it—opting for the water instead, and swallowed his pills. Then he eyed the cheese. As much as he should avoid it as well, he loved cheese too much. Besides, his renal dietitian said “should” avoid it, not “must always.” There were only a couple of small cubes. A little deviation wouldn’t kill him. Not yet, anyway. And should he end up deciding to go off dialysis, he was going to eat everything and anything he hadn’t been able to for the last seven years.
When he finished the cheese and fruit plate, he pulled on a pair of jeans and a Henley, topping it with a light sweater. He gathered up the dishes and made his way to the kitchen, an annoying sense of anticipation creeping in with each step. He should not have come here. He’d been too attracted to Marc from the start, had enjoyed the man’s company too much, and that shower yesterday afternoon . . . A part of him knew he was dangerously close to ignoring his situation and enjoying what Marc had to offer. He couldn’t let that happen. What he should be doing is grabbing his bag and going to a hotel until he could get a flight out, or home if the road up the canyon was accessible now.
He rounded the corner to see Marc sitting at the dining room table in front of a laptop, file folders and papers spread out around him. He looked up, and the smile Trevor found himself graced with sent a wave of warmth rushing through his veins and cascading over his skin. Which was quickly followed by the chill ache of loss and impossible wishes. How could there be a god, if one were so cruel as to put a man like Marc into his life just as it was coming to an end?
“There you are,” Marc said, rising from the table and crossing the room. “I was giving you another half hour before I came in to make sure you were still alive.”
I’m alive for now, anyway. “I am so sorry to have passed out on you like that.”
Marc waved him off. “Don’t worry about it. You obviously needed it.”
“Yeah,” Trevor said, turning to put the plate and juice glass on the counter. Strong arms wrapped around his torso. He knew he shouldn’t do this, but he couldn’t seem to step out of Marc’s embrace, either. Just a hug. Simple human touch. That’s all. Didn’t have to be any more to it than that. Reluctantly, he let Marc turn him until they faced each other.
“Marc . . .” He’d meant to remind him that this wasn’t going anywhere, meant to step back and put safe space between them, but only a soft sigh drifted past his lips and then Marc’s mouth was pressing against them. He breathed the man in, wanting to stop but wishing he could give everything, and lost himself in the languid kiss.
“Damn, you taste good,” Marc whispered as they parted, his voice gravely.
“Strawberries. In winter, even,” Trevor said, trying not to show how off-balance this whole thing had him. “Thank you for the morning appetizer, by the way.”
“My pleasure,” Marc said, squeezing Trevor more tightly. He didn’t seem to want to let go, and Trevor found he wasn’t able to as his emotions took the reins from his brain. He let his hands roam over Marc’s back, skin hot through the fabric of his heavy shirt and down to the curve of his firm butt. Trevor didn’t know who had started it, but they began a slow sway where they stood—not quite a dance but so, so nice.
“How about I make us break—”
“How about I make us breakfast,” Trevor interrupted and smiled sheepishly. “Since I went and slept through dinner last night. And then we’ll entertain ourselves by doing something about the serious lack of holiday cheer in this house.” Anything that would keep them busy and out of bedrooms or showers.
Marc smiled and kissed him again. “Sounds good to me.”
He sat on the other side of the island, elbows on the counter, hands clasped under his chin while Trevor set about gathering the ingredients for a vegetable omelet. He desperately needed the distraction from things he couldn’t have but wanted anyway.
He tipped his head toward the abandoned computer on the table as he pulled a knife from the rack on the counter and started slicing mushrooms. “Please don’t tell me you’re working on a holiday?”
Marc raised his hands in surrender. “Guilty, but no more now that you’re up.” A blush crept into his cheeks. “And truth be told, I . . . uh . . . I tried to google you while you were sleeping.”
“No wonder I feel so dirty,” Trevor said, making sure his tone sounded light and teasing as an unwelcome wave of delight washed through him.
“Ugh.” Marc ducked his head. “I’m sorry. That sounded creepy.”
“No! Not at all.” Trevor laughed, pushing the chopped mushrooms aside and grabbing a green pepper. “Well, a little. But I’m actually flattered.”
Marc shifted on his seat and lifted his eyes. When their gazes connected Trevor could have sworn sparks shot out between them. “I wanted to see your artwork.”
“And did you find me?”
“There’s only one artist in t
he Boulder Art Gallery named Trevor. Trevor Morrison. That would be you, yes?”
Trevor nodded.
“I did, then,” he said with a smile. “And your work is amazing.”
Now Trevor was the one to blush. He turned to toss the mushrooms and peppers into a pan and started on the broccoli. “Thank you.”
“I love how you use a palette knife instead of brushes, and your choice of vibrant colors is captivating. Oh, and the mood you evoke with The Lonely Hour . . .”
Trevor looked over his shoulder when Marc trailed off. He was staring out the window, his gaze distant again, lost in whatever thoughts the painting had inspired in him. Trevor hoped they were good thoughts.
“The empty bench in that painting is a quiet place to sit and contemplate, search for answers, to welcome something new into life,” Trevor said, remembering how young he’d been when he’d painted that one, how he’d felt like the whole world awaited him. Less than a year later his kidneys began to fail. “I sat there on that very bench myself. It’s in front of a corner park in Paris.”
Marc met his gaze, smiled, but Trevor could see the wheels spinning behind those heart-melting eyes. Suddenly feeling on the spot, Trevor turned back to his breakfast task, breaking two eggs into the frying pan and mixing them in with the veggies. He startled when arms wrapped around his waist from behind, but then settled against the warm body at his back without making the conscious decision to do so. Moist breath tickled the nape of his neck before soft lips pressed a kiss to his skin.
“You’re a beautiful man.” Marc’s voice was a rasp, barely audible, and screaming with such raw yearning that Trevor had to grip the edge of the counter to keep himself upright. “I’m glad I met you, and I am honored you came to spend this day with me. I know we agreed this would just be what it is, but say there can be more than this.”
Trevor closed his eyes, squeezed them tight, and swallowed hard against a lump that had formed in his throat. Part of him so badly wanted to say yes—oh God, did he—but there was no way he could.