You'll be in my bed.

A hard shiver went through Thomas, as it had every time that arrogant statement stroked through his mind, making his blood run hot and thick through his vitals.

He was insane. Two weeks had passed. He hadn't intended to go, had known he was risking too much. That check, the bills it immediately made disappear, couldn't help but factor into it. But Thomas knew it was the least of his reasons for driving away from the hardware store and swinging onto the interstate.

When Marcus left, Thomas had walked out into the field with Kate, kept on walking. For one weak moment, he'd been overcome with this irresistible warm...glow.

Marcus had come for him. He didn't believe it. Couldn't do a damn thing with it, but for just a little while, the horrible ache that had been with him for over a year had settled down.

It would be back in the dead of the night, of course. Probably ten times worse for having seen Marcus. But right then, he'd pushed the consequences away and stood in the field, aching in a good, stupid way, like a kid who'd gotten his first kiss.

Marcus had written his cell number on the ticket, but he hadn't used either the number or the ticket. He knew he might back out if he stopped for anything, even to park at an airport and check his bag.

So he'd just gotten into his ancient Nova and driven. He had to stop twice along the turnpike to coax the car back to life, but his worn-out faithful steed revived each time, as if knowing she had to get him to the end of this quest.

However, nineteen hours later, as he drove through the winding two-lane highway deep in the Berkshires, populated with small towns where houses were likely to be constructed by their owners and locks weren't included as part of the design, he was tired enough to be concocting horror stories about what he might find.

Marcus might have given up on him and invited someone else to come.

His lips twisted grimly. Well, tragic irony would be a good jump start, if that was the type of thing that got his artistic muse going. Unfortunately, it wasn't.

Images had once flowed through his mind as if the muse had set up house there. He could see the possibilities in...well, everything. For months, since the block occurred, he hadn't had the energy or the courage to face what had caused the muse to depart so abruptly, cutting off the power, clearing out and leaving nothing.

He only knew at one time he'd been able to translate all the raw emotion of life to a canvas. Despite how close that emotion cut to his own life, his soul had somehow found a safe haven from which to observe without becoming a paralyzed part of it.

It had been a week since Marcus had visited. When Thomas had made the decision to take him up on his offer, his mother of course had been the most difficult obstacle, Rory a close second. Only Celeste, after all the screaming and tears were done with, had squeezed him in one of her generous hugs, bringing her bony body close, and whispered, "Have a good trip."

His mother had gone to church right before he left. She'd likely stay until he returned, holding a solitary prayer vigil.

He'd told her he'd be back in six days. Made himself say it only once. Left the ledger out where she could see it, see what money like that on a regular basis could do for them.

With each mile between home and Marcus, he was torn between sick apprehension and excitement. Need. Arousal. He'd taken a box of sketchpads, his pencils and charcoals, but he didn't know what he was doing or going to accomplish. He might destroy what was left of his sanity.

He'd left Marcus abruptly, both when his father died and then shortly thereafter when Rory was hurt. Then he hadn't come back at all. If nothing else, they could do the proper goodbyes. Best case scenario, he'd get his muse jump-started from the beauty of the Berkshires, be Marcus' lover for a week, be as generous and grateful as he could be, leave on friendly terms, and that was that. He'd handled it badly before, like an immature child. Marcus deserved better than that.

So it went, a jumble of thoughts he recognized as nervous babbling and rationalizations as his foot pushed down on the pedal even harder. Nineteen hours, and he never even turned on the radio, just letting the cacophony of his mind keep him company. A couple times on the Pennsylvania turnpike he thought of hurtling over the edge of a cliff.

Now at last, he made the turn off the two-lane highway and drove for a few miles into deeper forest until he was on a dirt road. When he saw the red cedar mailbox that was the landmark for the house, he made the turn.

As he went up the hill, he saw the brown wooden cottage, blending into the close surrounding foliage. It had the look of a custom-designed chateau. The house was on pilings with a generous shaded patio below, while the upper level had a glassed-in sunroom that led out to a deck with a lattice-enclosed area for a hot tub. Turning around, he saw the incline gave the house a view of the layered vista of hills.

There was only one car, Marcus' Maserati Spyder. Of course, he could have brought someone. He could be in there with a lover. Thomas put the Nova in park, gripped the steering wheel.

Don't be a complete pussy, Thomas. Get out of the damn car. But his mother's tears, Rory's accusing stare, the ache behind his eyes and in his back from driving like he had demons on his tail...the miles between this place, what it symbolized, and a farmhouse hardware store a handful of states away, loomed in his mind like a crash wall in a driving test. Getting out would be like flooring a car that had no brakes. Nothing would stop him but the crash at the end of the road. The end of this week.

If Marcus had told him to come to New York, he couldn't have done it. Perhaps Marcus knew the quiet setting, the familiarity of trees and nature all around, wouldn't only inspire his muse but reassure him, give him that final gentle push. He knew the Berkshires. Now that he was here, though, it wasn't enough. He couldn't get his hands to let go of the steering wheel, couldn't reach for the door, get out. Who was he kidding? This was a mistake.

Then Marcus stepped out on the deck, glass of wine in hand. He wore slacks and a pale yellow shirt, open and fluttering loose, showing the smooth pectorals, ripple of muscled abs, the hint of his waist, the intimate crease of armpit as the breeze tried to edge the shirt off one broad shoulder. One hand was in his pocket and his feet were bare, his hair loose on his shoulders.

His green eyes were brilliant, even from here, filled with an intensity that washed over Thomas, drawing him into the fantasy of a tranquil, emerald lagoon where everything else was sucked out to sea, to be churned in the surf where it couldn't touch him. Not for one week.

He got out of the car, looked up at the other man. "One week." Thomas said it out loud first thing, because he knew it was the only restraint that would apply here. The limitation of time. From the look in Marcus' eyes, he knew he understood that quite well.

What was that question, so often posed in movies between lovers in whimsical moments? If you only had one week to have something you always wanted that you could never have again, would you take it?

It was a banal reality show question whose significance he hadn't appreciated before. Yes. He would. Even knowing that walking away from it at the end of the week was more than he could bear.

"Leave your things for now and come up here." Marcus nodded to the outside stairwell that led up to the deck. "I've got a good Shiraz." At Thomas' grimace, he grinned. "But I can probably scrounge up a beer."

"Now you're talking."

A nice, even conversation. Like everything was fine, like the air wasn't so charged with energy that a single spark could ignite the forest around them.

Thomas came up the stairs, found Marcus already returning from inside, sliding the glass door back with a knee, beer in one hand. His favorite label, Bud Light. Marcus rarely drank beer, and when he did, it was an import.

"You knew I'd come."

"Yes. For your art, I knew you'd come, even if you wouldn't just for me." There was no censure in his tone. Calm, civilized.

When Thomas reached out to take the beer from Marcus' hand, Marcus set it down on the rail before they made contact, absurdly disappointing Thomas. He needed to play it cool, easy and Marcus was helping him.

He didn't want Marcus to help him.

His stomach was taut with all the things Thomas did want, such that his hand shook as he took the bottle to his lips. He covered it by turning away, looking at the view, when all he wanted to do was look at Marcus. "Spectacular. This place is a new one. When'd you discover it?" With someone else?

"Friends of mine own it. They're in the Bahamas, at my place there. We swap." Thomas nodded. Swallowed. He felt Marcus' eyes on him and made himself turn his head to look at him. Leaning his hips on the rail two feet away, Marcus drank his wine. The wind made the tail of his open shirt feather against Thomas' forearm, drawing his attention to the fact there was only a foot between their hands on the railing.

Marcus' long fingers, manicured, his knuckles perfectly proportioned. Thomas' hands, calloused from farm work, several knuckles enlarged from a lifetime of drawing, brushwork. The tip of the one finger gone.

As if following his thoughts, Marcus reached out and brushed the scarred tip with his forefinger, held it there, head cocked. "Does it hurt?" Thomas shook his head, tried to relax his beer hand. It allowed him to press the point of his wrist into his stomach. He rested his forearm on his hip bone as he shifted to lean his side against the rail.

"You should have used the plane ticket." Marcus' gaze took in the amount of bug matter on the hood and windshield of Thomas' vehicle. "You probably only stopped for a vat of those boiled peanuts you think are food."

"They stopped making them at the state line."

"Thank God for the limits of the Mason Dixon. I have some Chinese takeout, plenty for two, and you're going to eat all of it." Marcus straightened abruptly, moved toward the glass doors.

"I want..." Thomas stopped. His hand gripped the beer bottle in a tight fist, as if squeezing could call back the words.

Marcus stopped and looked back at him. Thomas wished he knew what Marcus was thinking, feeling. He knew what he needed, didn't know if it was fair, was afraid to ask.

"What, pet? What do you want?" It was the gentle tone that did him in, made him blurt it out.

"I'd like...while I'm here. I'd like permission to call you Master... For one week." He had to add that, had to be honest, even as he flinched at the flash of derision that crossed Marcus' expression.

But then it was gone, and there were just the shades of green in Marcus' eyes. All the mysteries of life were there, all the answers. Marcus inclined his head.

"Then you will."

Thomas let out his breath. He couldn't explain why that gave him a sudden sense of grounding, much of the awkwardness melting away, though it did nothing to alleviate the sexual tension. That was still hot enough to make him think he was feeling the heat of a southern sunset, instead of a New England one.

"Come here."

Putting down the beer, Thomas walked across the deck, not conscious of any sounds his shoes were making. All he could see was the outstretched hand against the fluttering pale yellow of Marcus' shirt, the silhouette of Marcus' body revealed fully and then cloaked by it, like an unconscious strip tease.

Marcus slid the door open, tugged Thomas so he stepped into the room in front of him, into a quiet and cool living area that was a warm, masculine comparison of wood tones, highlights of deep reds, the scent of wood reaching his nostrils. Dim light. A lantern and some candles. A fireplace.

Marcus had been reading, for there was a newspaper open on the sofa, Neal Boortz's fair tax book facedown on the arm. Cell phone and organizer next to a scattering of notes. His watchband was stretched out next to them. All familiar things, set out in a familiar way. Marcus had a method of arranging his personal belongings like carefully monitored chess pieces, whether he was at work or leisure.

It gave Thomas what he knew was a false illusion. The sense that he was home.

The door slid closed behind them and Marcus pressed against his back, sliding his arm under Thomas'. His hand moved to the front of the jeans Thomas was wearing and palmed him through them. Already semi-erect just from Marcus' proximity, Thomas hardened immediately, his cock pressing against the restraint of denim to get to that touch.

He was fueled by the energy of having thought about Marcus from the moment he'd gotten behind the wheel. Or since he'd come into the store, or after Thomas had walked out of his life. Oh hell, even before that, from the moment they'd met.

It seemed everything inside him had been about Marcus always. Since Thomas knew that kind of thinking made sense only to people ridiculously, passionately in love, it made it all the worse to be unable to deny it.

Marcus' lips whispered along the back of his neck, his jaw brushing Thomas'. "I want you naked. All the way. Now."

He helped, his fingers slipping the button of Thomas' jeans with strong, sure fingers, tugging at the zipper and taking it to half-mast before he withdrew his hand and stepped back. Waiting.

Thomas took off the shirt first, pulling it free and tossing it to the arm of a nearby chair. He had to bend to untie the shoes, bring one up off the floor to tug at the heel.

When he did, Marcus' hands gripped his hips, steadying him even as the touch seared through him, sending his emotions rocketing off balance.

After he got the shoes off, Marcus withdrew again. Thomas removed his jeans, still feeling Marcus' watchful presence behind him like fire coursing over every inch of skin he was revealing. His cock was leaking, no surprise there, so erect it brushed his belly.

"Turn around."

He did, feeling inexplicably nervous. Marcus was physically perfect, and Thomas knew he'd dropped a lot of weight, even though he'd kept his leaner muscles hard from all the manual labor at the store. He hadn't even gotten a haircut before he came up, had decided to go without a shave for the last twenty-four hours in finalizing things at the store, dealing with his mother's final last-ditch effort to stop him, Rory's biting insults.

Hell, he'd basically fled like a fugitive with a small duffel of balled-up clothing he'd barely looked at. All that had mattered were the sketchpads and pencils. And Marcus.

As Thomas completed the turn, Marcus' voice was a quiet command. "Keep your eyes down."

His hands clenched, then opened as Thomas nodded, let out a breath. It had been like this the first time Marcus had taken control, dominated him as his Master.

He hadn't wanted to call it that then. Marcus hadn't been his first sex with a man.

Thomas had a couple of tangles with men in New York who'd validated with pleasant skill what he'd always known about himself, that it was a man's touch he craved.

Marcus had revealed a whole other level to him that took him by surprise. The click of the cuffs locking had been an answer to a question in his soul he'd never been brave enough to hear, let alone ask. It was as if the need had always been there, just waiting for him to look toward it.

Thomas didn't even know if it was a level he would crave with anyone else. He didn't look at men and think of being restrained by them, marked by them. He might be attracted to them, but it became clear that was about sex. Apparently, there was only one man he wanted as a Master. Whether that was something about Marcus or something about himself, or about their chemistry together, he didn't know. Any other sex was just sex. He didn't know if that was a blessing or a curse.

What he did know was that Marcus' way of taking him over fed his soul the same way his painting did. It fulfilled a yearning inside him that had no names. No form, only a dense substance that could choke him with feeling, like now. Which was yet another reason why it was fucking crazy to be here.

But that was the type of thing Marcus was so good at. Showing up after just the right amount of time had passed, when he'd had a shitty enough week to be tempted.

Tempted beyond refusal. So he told himself.

Marcus closed his hand around Thomas' cock. Thomas shut his eyes, his balls drawing up dangerously.

"Don't you dare close your eyes."

"I'm afraid I'll come. Master."

"Turn back around and get on your knees. Elbows on the floor. Spread your thighs out so I can see you."

Thomas swallowed, that universal sign of nervousness, but complied. He heard Marcus walk away. Though he kept his head down, Thomas managed to sneak a look at him moving across the room and down the hallway, leaving him there waiting in a position to be fucked at his Master's pleasure.

Marcus looked so good it hurt to see him. The curve of his bare heels, the way the slacks fit his ass and thighs. Not tight. Marcus was GQ all the way. To get a good view of his ass, Thomas had to wait for him to wear jeans or be naked, and holy Christ, even if it took until Judgment Day, it was worth the wait.

The view coming back was as good or better, because it was easier to see the line of his cock, the weight of testicles. Particularly when the former was aroused as Marcus' cock was at this point, straining the fabric, making Thomas swallow the excess saliva pooled in his mouth.

Marcus had chest hair, the finest layer of down over the pecs and a narrow point arrowing down to his navel. Thomas wanted to reach out and touch, rub his face against it. Lick Marcus' nipples to hard points, close his palm strong and sure over the prominent arousal, feel the steel of it, grip the length and be awed at the privilege of touching it.

Marcus would snort at that, of course. Call him a fucking idiot even as he'd let Thomas do it, the green eyes disappearing as his head dropped back to his shoulders and he let Thomas work him.

Marcus straddled his back now, his calves and feet on either side of Thomas' thighs.

Reaching under him, he took hold of his cock without fumbling. Thomas bit down on the inside of his cheek, trying to hold onto his control at the touch of bare hand to bare skin. He felt straps and the metal of a chain a moment before they bit into his flesh, the cock harness cinching tight at the base of his cock and the second loop binding his balls.

Marcus had never used a cock harness on him. It gave a different edge to this moment than they'd shared before. It made Thomas remember that he'd left Marcus and had stated practically from the moment he got out of the car he intended to do it again.

So Marcus was going to make him suffer, and God help him, all Thomas felt was an overwhelming flood of response in his loins, his chest, in the tightening of every muscle of his body in reaction, in the desire to be with him. His arousal ratcheted up exponentially.

Marcus ran his hand over his ass. Taking hold of the left buttock, he squeezed hard, his fingers deep between the cleft, brushing the rim. Thomas shuddered and was thankful for the cruel pinch of the harness on him. God, please fuck me. It would hurt, because it had been awhile, and Marcus was well endowed. Not to mention Thomas knew he was a tight fit, but he welcomed the pain. Wanted it with a savagery he couldn't explain. Punish me. Hurt me.

It made him think of places Marcus had taken him, just to watch. Club dungeons they had visited where Marcus fondled him under the table or in plain sight while others performed. Slaves stripped and flogged, muscles tightening against pain even as the slave groaned with the pleasure of it, begged for more. For the release that pain brought, to be just who they wanted to be. The slave of their Master, the beginning and end of who they were, because everything they wanted was within that boundary, and the pain reminded them of it.

"You want me to beat you. Stripe your ass raw. I can feel you trembling for it." Marcus' voice, husky, capable of pulling Thomas over the edge with just the intonation, a simple uttered command. "But I won't let it be that easy, Thomas." Thomas heard the unfastening of the belt, the tongue coming loose. The unzipping of the slacks was a sound that skittered down his spine, the soft rush of clothes falling to the ground, being kicked to the side. The yellow shirt was abruptly before him and Marcus folded it over his eyes, tying it behind Thomas' head, as if immersing him in a sun-drenched room. A room that smelled like Marcus' heat.

Thomas wanted to weep. He wanted to roar. He wanted to turn and take hold of Marcus with both hands, tear at his flesh with teeth and sheer ferocity until he could get inside of him.

Marcus would have made a good horseman. He anticipated everything. Like the knotting of Thomas' shoulders as he tried to thrust himself up from the floor and turn on him. Before he could do it, Marcus had a hand firmly on the back of his neck, gripping as he knelt, pushed his weight against Thomas' ass so he hissed through his teeth, trying to push up, but Marcus had all the leverage.

Before he could think to roll, Marcus parted his buttocks and thrust home. Rough, non-lubricated, raw and painful possession that burned like the fire in Thomas' chest and stomach.

"Stay still and take it, or I'll make it much rougher, farm boy." Jesus, Marcus was big. And Thomas wanted more. Despite the command, Thomas pushed back, tilting up, telling Marcus he wanted it, telling the bastard he could take anything he could dish out. Even with his dick tied in a knot in that harness, unable to release. Thomas already felt like he was in the throes of an orgasm, he was quivering so intensely.

"There you are. Rock that ass, fuck my cock. Tell me how much you missed me and I might let you come."

Thomas sobbed in his throat, snarled and shoved back against him, hurting.

Marcus' hand curled in his short hair, held him with brutal efficiency as he slapped himself against Thomas' ass, hard. Again. And again. Fast, then slowing it down, making Thomas feel every inch of that cock deep inside of him, burning down his shields, leaving raw exposed flesh inside and out.

"Marcus...Master." He said them both, breathed them both, and he had Marcus' answer in an unintelligible noise that meant nothing in words, but spoke directly to something inside him. A harsh breath, and Marcus kicked his knees out wider, dropping Thomas down almost on his face as Marcus held his hips with both hands now.

Thomas cried out at the pain, a pain matched only by the agony in his balls, drawn up so tight and wanting to spew come everywhere, mark all of Marcus' scattered things. The book his hands had touched, the wineglass where his lips had been, the pillow he'd put his head on. He wanted to give it all to him. But Marcus wasn't going to allow it. Not yet.

His Master came in a sudden explosion of brutal force, jetting into Thomas. The heat flooded him, stroked that gland inside so sensitive to such stimulation. He wondered if Marcus had intentionally not used a condom, and why he didn't care, even though he knew they were both being stupid bastards.

But this moment had nothing to do with any of that. It was raw, primitive, and would have been as appropriate in the forest outside, perhaps more. Which made him imagine Marcus as a lion, hunting Thomas down, fighting with him, taking him down.

Marcus withdrew, drawing a quiet moan from Thomas. He was so close to orgasm he knew he would have come without the restraint.

"Up on your knees. Ass on your heels."

As he obeyed, Marcus inserted a lubricated dildo into him Thomas hadn't even seen him bring out. It was a good size, filling him tight. "Jesus..." It whistled out between his clenched teeth, and Marcus' sexy low laugh made Thomas want to do all sorts of dark, deadly things.

"Now sit back on your heels, holding that in."

Thomas wondered if a person could die from withheld release, for if it was possible he was going to have a meltdown. Only Marcus could do this to him, take him beyond thought or reason, desiring only to release, to please his Master. In the nastier, more insecure moments, he'd wondered if it was just the advantage a slick New Yorker had over a country boy with little experience, but he'd held his own.

From the first time Thomas had seen him, he hadn't known who or what Marcus was, just that he wanted him. Wanted to be his. And the fact Thomas had thought of it that way should have given him a clue to the hidden craving in his own makeup. An unexpected sexual preference. Preference. There was a grimly amusing word. As if any need this elemental was a choice. Just as Marcus had always said.

As Marcus trailed his fingers along Thomas' shoulder, the blindfold loosened and fell away. "Hands behind your back now, pet. Lace your fingers and let me see you pull your shoulders back."

Oh God. The position squeezed his buttocks together more tightly, stretched his cock up in the restraint as if he were some sort of overly endowed fertility god. He couldn't see him yet, but Thomas could feel Marcus looking.

He imagined it, Marcus' eyes lingering on his cock, his lashes fanning his cheeks, his eyes just hints of emerald in the dim light. He was in the cave of a dragon, a wild animal in truth, waiting to be devoured. Wanting to be consumed and not caring. Just wanting to feel the hot breath wash over his skin, the hunger pressing him down.

The dragon moved around him, bringing dangerous grace into his vision as he crossed the floor, circled the couch to go into the kitchen. Marcus went behind the counter island and Thomas heard running water, then Marcus returned with a basin of water, washcloth and soap. He set them down on the coffee table, three feet in front of Thomas.

Standing there, tall and naked, he wet the cloth and began to clean his own genitals.

Slowly, working the soap up and down his shaft, under the broad ridge of the head, cleaning the slit, then putting the cloth back into the basin to rinse it, wring it out again and wipe away the soap with more water.

Now Thomas knew for sure he was just going to die of need, right here. The ache in his gut was as excruciating as the chronic pains he'd been feeling for the past six months, only he wanted this ache. It was like a knot drawing tighter and tighter, but when it released, oh God, it was going to feel so fucking good.

Marcus' hand touched Thomas' jaw, his thumb at the corner of his lips. Somehow he'd been so overwhelmed he'd closed his eyes. But when he opened them, Marcus was putting the blindfold back on. His expression was focused, intent, his mouth a firm line.

No give. No mercy.

"Take my cock and suck it back to life. Then I'm going to fuck you again. When you've made me come three times in your ass and three times in your mouth, when your jaw is aching and your ass feels like I've given you an enema with Tabasco sauce, then I'll let you come. But not a minute before. And when you do come, it's going to be the best and worst orgasm you've ever had."

Beneath the blindfold, Thomas squeezed his eyes shut again, a shudder running through him. Okay, Marcus was pissed. Seriously pissed with him. But he'd do it. He could torture him three times that number of times, and he'd still do what he had to do, though his cock throbbed so hard now he made sounds of growling need in his throat as Marcus fisted a handful of his hair and began to roughly fuck his mouth. Thomas still reveled in it, in serving his Master, clutching at that sense of completeness he hadn't had in over a year.

He'd forgotten that Marcus never lost control. Even if he was pissed, he never lost sight of the ultimate goal. As he worked his cock back up to a full erection, night closed in. After spilling his seed down Thomas' throat, he switched positions, removing the dildo and taking Thomas' ass, pushing him to the floor again, until he snarled his release and Thomas' body shuddered in an agony of need.

Time ceased, details blurred. There was only flesh meeting flesh, penetration, burning. The blindfold removed again, Thomas watching with glazed, watering eyes as Marcus washed himself, that sensual torment of seeing the soap-and-water slicked fingers moving over the cock that had been deep in both orifices of his body. Then his lips being stretched again. Rocking against that rubber phallus, holding it in with his heels. When Thomas couldn't see, it was all intensified, the slide of Marcus' body against his, every rough thrust, every light caress.

There was one blissful point when Marcus stopped deep inside of his ass and pressed a kiss to the back of Thomas' neck. It was possibly the most unbearable moment of all as Marcus slid an arm around his waist and held him, his palm over Thomas' thundering heart, just before he came again.

He should have been keeping count, but he wasn't. It all became about serving Marcus until his Master was ready to have him do otherwise. It was all he was, all his mind wanted to be.

Once when Thomas was eight, he'd been dared to swim a hundred laps in the community pool. He kept going and going and going. Someone stopped him by reaching in and grabbing his arm, pulling him up. He'd been dazed, disoriented, because it had been all about proving he could keep going. The number was no longer important.

The blindfold was untied again. Marcus brought back the room, the features now sharp-edged in their clarity. The book. The wineglass. The edges of the coffee table and frame of the picture over the fireplace. It was twilight outside. The room smelled of sweat and sex, old wood and lubricant which Marcus thankfully had started to use on the second penetration.

"Back on your heels, pet." But this time Marcus didn't put the dildo back in and Thomas was glad, because his ass was so sore. "Hands clasped together at your lower back again."

The now constant quiver in Thomas' muscles increased when he felt the pressure of velour cuffs being wrapped around his wrists and then ankles. Marcus hooked the two sets together, so he was completely helpless.

Then his Master went back to the sofa and sat. Thomas fastened hungry eyes on him. Marcus' chest was slick with sweat, hair damp. He'd been kind enough not to pull on his slacks and so he sat there completely naked. For the moment, his cock rested on his thigh and the nest of his testicles as he considered his slave. His green eyes were still that of a dragon's, laced with fire and power, the simmering fierceness of his climaxes still in his face, the sensuous, taut set of his mouth.

Thomas' attention lingered on the slope of his chest, the tapering to the stomach.

God, but it was mouthwatering terrain. No one could look at Marcus' smoothly muscled upper body and not want to take a hard, deep bite. Suck and lick him like an ice cream, like the curves of a creamy vanilla double scoop. The long thighs and narrow calves, all roped with the clean lines of a cyclist's muscles, were equally tempting.

Even the graceful arches of his feet. Every inch of Marcus stirred Thomas, kept him hard, and he suspected the harness was going to leave a permanent collar imprint on the base of his cock. He didn't like to think just how appropriate that was.

Marcus reached for his wine, took a swallow. His hand rested on the chair arm, his palm on the upside down book. Thomas could imagine him picking it up, choosing to pass the next half hour in reading another chapter or two while his slave suffered watching, the hard-on making him dizzy as he contemplated the perfect beauty of his naked Master, hungered for his hands, his mouth. Any kind of attention at all.

Marcus was not in a mood to be that cruel anymore, however. Thank God. He rose, picked up a folded hand towel from the kitchen and came around the table. As he dropped to one knee before Thomas, Thomas' shaking increased. Cupping his jaw, Marcus framed his face, ran his thumbs over Thomas' lips so that he parted them.

Thomas tried to catch a finger in his teeth.

"Sshh. Be still. Keep your eyes open."

Did Marcus know how hard this part was for him? Had always been? Staring into his Master's face, seeing the way Marcus looked at him as he gently caressed his jaw, his forehead, touched the corners of his eyes, traced the line of his nose.

"So straight, pet. You've got such a patrician nose." It was a far different torment than all the rest, because it was the one Thomas hungered for most. Despite all the sweat-covered images that haunted him, these were the memories that plagued him most of all.

Marcus leaned in, fitted his mouth over Thomas', his hand holding his jaw and throat, controlling the moment, controlling everything even as Thomas shook as though he had an infectious fever. Marcus made an approving growl deep in his chest. With his hand he restrained the sudden fierce need Thomas felt to crush, tangle tongues like combatants. His Master kept it slow, steady, wet.

Marcus' aroma was in his nose, the damp hair on Marcus' forehead brushing his, then his cheek and jaw.

When Marcus reached down and gripped him, Thomas groaned in his mouth and Marcus answered with a quiet murmur of pleasure. The straps loosened, fell away. It was all Marcus' fingers running over the cruelly chafed area, stroking up the length of Thomas, the sensitive underside, closing around him firmly, a sure knowledge of what would jack him off in no time. Damn if the bastard was able to set just the right rhythm while still keeping his mouth moving on Thomas' in that erotic, slow swim of a kiss, tongues tangling, lips sliding and teeth gently nipping.

Thomas' hips jerked and he yanked against the bonds on his wrists and ankles. Oh God...this was... He didn't know how long it had taken to bring Marcus to climax six times, but all the images and remembered sensations slammed back into him, assaulting him to mesh with the movement of Marcus' hand.

"Master, I - "

"Another ten seconds. One..." Marcus' tongue invaded, swept in, fucked his mouth relentlessly now as Thomas made noises of wordless protest, begging. Marcus' hand increased in strength on Thomas' jaw as his grip down below did the same. "Two..." He wasn't going to make it.

"You better make it, pet." Menace, threat of more torture infused in the words like hot flame. Marcus' thumb rubbed the tip, pressed against the underside of his cock.

Thomas arched up, his thigh muscles straining. "Oh God... Shit..."

"Wait." Marcus snapped it once, reining him in like a stallion who'd had the bit ripped against his mouth. He couldn't let go. Not until his Master said. Oh, but fucking hell, he was going to die. The world had slowed to a crawl, moving toward that countdown.

Marcus' hand left his jaw, found the towel. "Seven...eight..."

"Ten."

He couldn't help it. The climax exploded from him, so violently that he tried to buck, yank upward. With his hands bound to his ankles he lost his balance, falling forward, nothing to stop him except Marcus' ready hand, sliding around his shoulders, holding him, his face pressed into the side of Marcus' neck and bare shoulder.

Their knees became interlocking puzzle pieces, one of Marcus' in between his legs, one on the outside, Marcus' cock and balls brushing Thomas' kneecap as he jerked and spewed against Marcus' hand under the soft abrasion of the terry cloth he had cupped firmly over him with one deft hand.

It was a cleansing, a scalding of the nerves of his body from his brain to his cock and through all the limbs, leaving Thomas quivering like an oak after the furious passage of a violent tornado. He felt every point of contact between their bodies, not just the clasp of Marcus' hand commanding his cock, but his cheek against his temple.

The still damp, amazingly semi-erect dick against his knee, the fingers around his neck, caressing the side of his throat, his pulse pounding beneath the pads of Marcus' fingers. As Thomas tried to straighten, the world tilted as if he were a bug in a jar being tumbled by a cruelly curious child.

"Easy." Marcus steadied him.

Acting on desire and instinct, Thomas shifted, inching backward a slight movement at a time, hobbling on his shins to the short range of the ankle cuffs. Then he pressed against Marcus' touch, trusting him to balance him as he began to lean forward, down, down. He didn't know if Marcus would permit it, but he did, his face a soft blur, then Thomas' cheek was on Marcus' knee and he was bent forward all the way, his back curved, legs folded under himself.

His belly pressed on his spent cock as he brought his lips to Marcus' cock, brushed his cheek against his leg. Opened his mouth and drew him in, slow, savoring him, sucking him into the back of his throat.

"Jesus." Marcus' soft utterance was like a prayer. His hand splayed out on Thomas' bare back, his other hand curling loosely over Thomas' bound hands, holding the joining point of the cuffs. His fingers betrayed a slight quiver Thomas savored as much as the taste in his mouth. He began to suck slowly in an almost trancelike state, licking, working the organ he knew as well as his own, trying not to think if there were others that could share that distinction.

This was now. He had no right to demand any more, certainly knew it would have been fair to expect far less than what Marcus had given him already. For now there was just the velvet steel of Marcus' cock in his mouth, elongated enough to press into the back of his throat and stretch his mouth again as Marcus splayed his knees and took over, pushing down on him harder.

It took a lot longer this time, because they'd both flat-out exhausted each other. But Thomas didn't mind taking it slow and easy. Marcus' groan as he released at last was a lullaby to Thomas. He swallowed the thick salty taste of him, thinking of how much of Marcus he had inside him now, both orifices.

He kept his head down, eyes closed, forehead pressed against Marcus' sticky cock, inhaling the scent of him as Marcus' palm rested between his shoulder blades, holding him there as Marcus breathed deep, shuddering breaths. Then the thighs shifted beneath Thomas' face as Marcus leaned forward to unlock the cuffs.

As Marcus raised him, they faced each other naked, knee to quivering knee. When Marcus brushed hair off his own brow with his forearm, Thomas watched, wishing.

Marcus seemed to understand, because he tilted his head, his attention moving to Thomas' now free hand. Thomas didn't pause, afraid Marcus would change his mind.

Reaching out, he threaded his fingers into that dark, thick silk. A lion's mantle added to the creature's virile beauty, and so too did Marcus' dark mane.

Thomas dared to let the heel of his hand caress Marcus' damp brow, the side of his cheek. When Marcus' hand closed over his wrist, he could feel Marcus' desire to remove it, take control of the intimacy. Thomas curled his fingers into his hair more deeply in response, tangling.

"When you were counting, before I came...you skipped a couple numbers, didn't you?" He noticed his voice was hoarse from the abrasion of taking Marcus four times down his throat. From the flicker in his Master's gaze, Thomas suspected Marcus liked hearing it. "You forget how to count?"

"You weren't going to make it. You were ready to spurt like a twelve-year-old with his first copped Hustler."

"Asshole." Thomas made the comment without rancor, for Marcus had let him go, was running his knuckles lightly along his forearm as he let Thomas keep his fingers in his hair.

"Let's get some food in you." Marcus at last pulled Thomas' hand free, kissed his palm and then set it away from him, rising. While Marcus smiled, Thomas noticed it didn't quite reach his eyes. So much could be said with the violent power of sex, but it could leave emotions lingering in the air like the sharp, poignant residue of gunpowder.

When Thomas rose, he was forced to catch hold of Marcus' arm abruptly, causing them both to sway. As the two men regarded each other, Marcus' jaw at last relaxed into a rueful grin, easing some of Thomas' sudden tension.

"Look at us," Thomas managed. "Like a couple of drunk sailors."

Marcus snorted. "You start singing In the Navy, you're sleeping in that junk car of yours."