Rough Canvas

Marcus made fun of him when Thomas struggled over what shirt to wear, and eventually borrowed one of Marcus'. But then, as if Thomas weren't nervous enough, Marcus had to be on the phone when the doorbell rang.

As he moved to the door, he admonished himself firmly. "I will not act like a starstruck idiot."

How Josh Martin's photograph stayed out of the papers was a testament to just how good Marcus was at simultaneously protecting and marketing artists. Even so, the fact that he was such a good friend and yet Thomas had never known much about him, like the most horrendous parts of Marcus' life, bothered him.

But that kind of secrecy was over. Marcus and he had talked a lot in the past twenty-four hours, enough that Thomas was able to push the feeling aside as he came face-to-face with one of the men who had inspired his own work. Thomas had pictured J. Martin a lot of ways, but he found Marcus' description accurate.

In his early thirties, with brown and black hair streaked with blond, Josh was tall, about Thomas' height. His gray eyes shifted restlessly. He was dressed casually in jeans and a snug dark T-shirt, revealing Celtic design tattoos around his wrists. Wire-rimmed glasses increased the stunning intensity of his gaze, but it also made him more boyish and sensually appealing at once.

The woman who had her hand threaded through the crook of his elbow had blue eyes like crystals and straight blonde hair that moved like rippling lake water over her shoulders. A pediatric specialist and surgeon, Thomas remembered Marcus saying, and he could see her resilient character in the firmness of her delicate chin, the decisive slope of cheekbone, giving a hint of the type of Mistress she was as well as the type of physician.

Thomas realized with some amusement they were studying him as thoroughly as he was studying them.

"I told you he was beautiful. Just as I remembered." Lauren spoke first.

When Thomas raised a puzzled brow, she prodded his memory. "At the club May I Have This Dance? a few years back. I was the Mistress in the balcony."

"She's got a way of breaking the ice, doesn't she? 'Yes, last time I saw you, you were being stripped naked in front of a bunch of strangers, myself included.' Kind of makes it hard to be formal, not that we were going to pretend to do that." Josh extended his hand. "Let me guess. He's on an important overseas call to underscore how terribly important he is, and remind us that, as the artists, we are completely replaceable and expendable."

Thomas grinned despite himself. "You must be the expendable and replaceable J.

Martin."

"Josh. You must be my replacement, if everything Marcus has told me about you is true."

He'd pulled off the casual first comment well, Thomas thought, but that one completely flummoxed him. Fortunately, Lauren came to his rescue.

"You're exactly as I remember you, except a little thinner and more serious-looking.

Is Marcus making you look after that ulcer?" She brushed Thomas' cheek in a kiss, laying her hand on his forearm as she did so, a light but confident grip. "We'd have been here sooner," she continued, "but the whole year has been about the European tour. Keep in mind there are advantages to being a starving unknown. If Marcus makes you a success you might as well manacle yourself to your studio."

"I'm in favor of anything that involves Thomas and chains." Thomas turned to find Marcus had joined them. He gave a wicked grin, then stepped forward to embrace Josh and Lauren at the same time, one in each arm, his face brightening.

While he didn't put it past Marcus to pull such a calculated stunt as Josh had just described, in this instance Thomas knew he'd actually been on another call with his brother, finalizing the burial arrangements. For that reason he was glad for the timing of Josh and Lauren's arrival, their presence obviously having the ability to chase some of the stress lines from around Marcus' mouth.

"Thomas, take Josh to the room you're using as your studio and show him what you did on the roof last night."

"Oh, I don't think - "

"I know that, you're an artist." Marcus waved a hand. "Go take a look, Josh. You'll like what you see."

As Thomas reluctantly complied, he threw a narrow look at Marcus before disappearing down the hallway with Josh. Marcus slid an arm around Lauren's waist and shot her a smile.

"He wants to kill me right now, but it's the easiest way to get him over his jitters.

We'll have to go dig the two out of there in a half hour because they'll be so busy impressing the shit out of each other and planning their next show together. That should take some pressure off Josh. He can scale back a bit, take some time to relax. I know he's been working his ass off."

"So have you. I've seen all the faxes and emails." Lauren studied him, then stepped up without preamble and put her arms around him. Drawing Marcus against her in a close, emotion-absorbing hug, she rubbed his back with her palms. "I'm so sorry. No, don't pull away. Just hold on a moment. Don't you know how important you are to us?" she scolded gently. "Josh absolutely wants to pummel you. It should have been you calling us instead of Thomas, but I'm glad he did. You look like shit."

Marcus lifted his head, startled. "I do not."

Lauren grinned. "The invincible pretty boy ego. Eternally sensitive but as enduring as the Rock of Gibraltar." She ran her thumb beneath one of his eyes. "You're always a god, Marcus. But for you, you look like shit. Which means anyone else would be set to go out on a model runway."

"Ego restored." Catching her wrist, he squeezed lightly and lowered their now linked hands to swing between them. "I'll be all right. I have Thomas."

"I noticed. When you came into the room, he was the first thing you looked for, like a captain seeking a port in a storm. Do you have him, Marcus?" She looked as if she regretted the question, but Marcus could understand why she asked it. Thomas had left before...

"We'll see. He hasn't resolved things with his family, or even told me how he plans to do so." This morning Marcus had woken up with the apprehension Thomas would be packing his bags. Thomas had been silent on the subject, and for once Marcus hadn't had the strength to demand an answer, seize what his Fate would be.

He was in limbo and he knew it, but he just...couldn't face it yet. He'd heard everything Thomas had said last night during their intense encounter, the implied promise, but that was... Well, he knew Thomas loved him, would tear out his heart for him when Marcus was in pain. He also knew Thomas felt the same way about his family in North Carolina.

He saw in Lauren's face she knew it wasn't like him not to force the issue, but instead of saying anything, she gave him a considering look. "Well, since we expect the boys to be occupied for the next half hour, why don't I offer you my limited culinary skills to help with dinner?"

"Or you could keep me company in the kitchen and take a glass of wine." She made a face. "Am I that bad?"

"No, of course not. You toss a good salad. Particularly if it comes in one of those premixed bags."

She smacked his arm, but agreeably accompanied him to the kitchen, pouring herself a glass of wine as he checked on the status of the dinner he'd had brought in by caterers. Normally he would have enjoyed the preparations of cooking for friends, but Marcus had preferred to spend his time wrapped around Thomas. Talking, fucking...sleeping, starting all over again. He had muscles that hadn't been sore in years.

"Why haven't you ever told Thomas about us, for heaven's sake? Are you ashamed of us? And Josh said he didn't even know you had lived with Thomas. Why hide us from one another?"

Marcus lifted his shoulder. "I haven't had many relationships, Lauren. In fact, with the exception of Thomas, the last one I had of this intensity was when I was fifteen years old. Everything else has been club relationships. I never wanted someone that close to me."

I didn't want to be hurt when they were killed, or worse, decided they didn't want to love me back.

He hadn't realized that about himself until this morning, when he'd held Thomas close, watched the sun rise and told his pet things he'd never even told himself.

Her irritation appeared to die away at the harsh honesty in his voice.

"Marcus, if you want him...I know it's tough. God, do I know. But you have to make yourself as vulnerable to him as you're demanding of him. Show him who you are."

"I did," he said quietly. "So now...I guess we see what we'll see." But as he turned away to check the stove temperature, Lauren could feel his fear of it like a tangible thing. She caught a flash of heartbreaking sadness in his eyes she'd never seen there before. Along with his obvious fatigue, it made her afraid for him.

Marcus, who never appeared vulnerable, seemed as breakable as a ceramic sculpture. She hoped like hell Thomas was telling the truth about his plans to stay this time.

* * * * *

After only a few minutes, any self-consciousness Thomas felt about Josh's status as an art giant vanished. They talked brush techniques, use of color and light. Josh gave him some sculpting tips, his specific milieu. Though it wasn't Thomas' best medium, there were a few pieces in his head he wanted to do.

Josh moved a lot as he spoke, the gray eyes brilliant. He used a scratch sheet on Thomas' easel to demonstrate his points. One part of Thomas' mind just cartwheeled like a giddy toddler with the thought, "I'm standing here getting tips from J. Martin", but the artist in him couldn't be suppressed for long. Before he knew it, he was beside Josh, pointing out other options, taking what Josh was suggesting to a different level, using it as a springboard for other possibilities.

The chance to stand with a peer and immerse himself in their shared world and language... Sometimes being an artist, obsessed with his art, was like being an alien.

There was no one to really talk to about it, who wanted to talk about the minutiae involved in creation that was so amazing and miraculous - to the artist alone.

Aside from the acclaim, the layers of experimentation and skill Josh had honed were as obvious as a perfectly cut diamond. Thomas stood shoulder-to-shoulder with a true creator, what he'd always called his favorite artists in his mind. There were things in Josh's work that no one but an artist could understand how miraculous they were to render.

Standing here talking about it was the most fantastic fucking charge, and Thomas knew no matter where he went with his art, to whatever showings or fame, this was what it was about for him. This moment with another creator who understood the singular intensity to bring to life that which burned inside of him, from whatever source it came.

Though Marcus wasn't an artist, he knew Marcus felt it in a different yet similar way. One of the many things Thomas knew that drew them together.

Lauren leaned against Marcus' shoulder as he propped himself in the doorframe, the two of them watching. "They don't even know what a miracle they are, do they?" she said softly.

"No." Marcus found he had to clear his throat to say the words, watching the focus of Thomas' dark eyes, the quick smiles and frowns, lines between his eyes. Even the way his body was aligned with Josh's at the easel. "It wouldn't matter if they did. It would just puzzle them. That's why Josh is where he's at and Thomas is going to be right there with him, if he'll let himself. I suspect there were people who stood like this watching Michelangelo or Matisse. It's like..."

He shook his head at himself, a light smile crossing his face. "Like watching God at work in His studio."

It was a sacred, spiritual gift to watch him work, to be part of the inspiration that made Thomas the creator he was. Marcus realized he wanted to come home every day to this, wanted to know Thomas would be part of his life. The part of his life that would keep everything else in balance.

Shadows gripped him at the thought. If Thomas changed his mind once Marcus got his grief and emotional shit under control, if he tried to withdraw again... Marcus knew he didn't have the energy left to fight him. After all the harrowing years when he never let himself entertain the notion, even in his darkest moments, Marcus now knew he would have a compelling reason to take his own life.

He should hate Thomas for doing that to him. For dredging up all the loneliness and rage of his past with the comparison of all it could be now. The hope or promise of an unconditional love from someone who accepted and wanted Marcus for all he was.

But of course that wasn't the way it worked. Marcus just wanted and loved him all the more.

Feeling Lauren's shrewd eyes on him, he dropped his hand and gave her ass a hard squeeze in the short skirt she was wearing.

"Marcus Stanton." She hissed, elbowed him in the ribs hard enough to make him wince, as he wasn't fully healed from the diner incident. Her exclamation drew the artists out of their absorption. They turned with matching looks, twin deer caught in headlights.

"Just checking out your wife's ass," Marcus explained. "It's as firm as ever."

"It's actually a bit softer," Josh responded. "I like it that way."

"I hate you both," Lauren announced. Thomas smothered a smile when she sent him a searing look. "Way too much testosterone in this house. Don't any of you doubt for a moment I can take all of you down. Even you." She shot a narrow glance up at Marcus.

"Sounds like something I'd like to see. After dinner." Josh grinned. "Is dinner ready?"

* * * * *

Ice not only broken but completely dissolved in the warmth of newly discovered friendship, dinner was an animated discussion of food, art, politics, television and even some about D/s clubs the three had visited in Europe or that Thomas and Marcus had visited together.

Thomas found Lauren and Josh were more like him, keeping their play intimate and preferring one another, using the clubs primarily as stimulating viewing entertainment. They didn't linger long on the topic, and he couldn't deny that he was glad, because when Marcus had been at clubs, that meant he'd picked up one or more partners, even if it was just for a night.

After dinner, he and Lauren cleared the dishes while Josh and Marcus went to the living area to discuss the show, prepare drinks. After a few minutes, however, Thomas noted Marcus wandered out to the balcony, excusing himself and encouraging Josh to check out his music selection while he lit a cigarette.

"Is he okay, Thomas?" Lauren asked softly, helping him rinse the bowls. "Really?"

"Yeah," Thomas nodded. Josh was following his own gaze, studying Marcus, his brow creased in similar concern. "He will be. A lot of stuff's broken loose in the past few days. Old wounds. He's messed up now, but he's trusting us enough to let it show.

That's good. It's good you came. I think he trusts you two more than anyone."

"Not more than you. You sound sure he's going to be okay because you're going to make sure of it." She met his surprised look with a smile. "You really have come home to stay. Does he realize that?"

Thomas lifted a shoulder, embarrassed by the praise but also disturbed by the question. "I hope so. I'm going to have to prove it to him. It's probably not going to be in a way he'll like."

"And that's why you want us here. You think he's pretty fragile right now." She moved closer, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him at the sink. She smelled good, a light powder, feminine aroma that made him miss Les, his mother.

Thomas glanced back at the balcony. Last night, Marcus had had a nightmare. A bad one where he woke soaked in sweat, trembling. To soothe him, Thomas had eased him back to the mattress, held him tightly. Laid a light kiss on his face, his neck, then shifted and spread them over his whole body until Marcus was trembling for other reasons.

It was a different, more erotic version of what his mother had done for him as a boy. If he had a nightmare, and they'd been few, she'd sit on his bed and kiss his face, his belly, blowing on it to tickle him, the soles of his feet, his hands. His chest, over his heart, sometimes laying her head on it to listen to it thump. She'd said that everywhere she'd placed a kiss, the fear would run away. Until it would give up and run away entirely.

"Yeah," he said, going back to her implied question. "I think he's pretty damn fragile right now."

* * * * *

Owen had told Thomas that Marcus was fearless. Never saw a kid so not afraid of anything. If he had fear, he hid it places no one could see. The night that gang of monsters dumped him off and ran, he looked so bad that Mike brought him to the back door of the hospital.

He talked an intern into coming out and treating Marcus in an alley, because he refused to bring him in where he might get caught as a runaway. I came out to help the intern.

Dodger was bleeding everywhere, beat all to hell. He regained consciousness while the doctor was looking him over. The first thing he asked was if Mike had found the money. The second was could somebody bring him a fucking towel so he could wipe the blood off his face?

Marcus had explained it. My father tried to use fear to make me what he wanted me to be.

That's when I decided not to be afraid of anything. Then you came and I remembered that true fear is knowing you have something you can't bear losing.

In the desolate comfort of the three a.m. hour, Marcus had given Thomas the rest of the story in terse sentences, a few syllables to explain what had built his own foundation.

When Mike went after the men who had effectively gang-raped Marcus, they'd stabbed him. Mike made it back to his place and refused to let Marcus call for help, so he'd died while Marcus held the edges of his gut together.

Tobias had been in a gang before he got together with Marcus and Emile, and he could never completely shake the old loyalties. Six months into his first semester of art school, Toby let one of his old gang buddies pressure him into covering his back for a robbery, and his head was bashed in with a tire iron.

On the wall of Marcus' living room, a canvas with the bold, angry colors of Tobias' work shone like jewels. The other three walls had been painted a relaxing blue-green, but Marcus painted his walls specifically for the art hung upon them, so Toby's wall was bare white, giving the art the full focus. When Thomas looked at it now, the significance of it being there was obvious.

Now he can't paint inside the lines of a coloring book... Marcus' words haunted the dark corners of Thomas' mind like a ghost.

Behind Marcus' back, determined to pull his weight, Emile took a blowjob gig meant for Marcus. While they didn't know for sure, Marcus suspected the john found out Emile was not anatomically male. Pissed off by what he would perceive as deceit, the john had taken his revenge. Emile was strangled, his body dumped like garbage in one of the landfills. It had taken Marcus and Toby a week to find him.

At the age Thomas had been playing in a baseball league and dreaming about the possibility of going to art school, Marcus had been in the sewers of New York, scoring a warm corner for him and his street rats against bigger, meaner vagrants.

Toby taught me that talent needed to be represented, nurtured, protected. So I ferreted it out, conned and hustled buyers and investors, got where I am today. I don't even have a high-school diploma, let alone a college degree, but do you think anybody ever assumes otherwise? You learn the right language, the right way to present yourself, no one even questions it.

Despite that offhand comment, since Thomas knew how difficult and highbrow the art world truly was, he also knew Marcus' acceptance in that world was right up there with biblical miracles. But what was hustling and charming his way into the intimidating art society of the Upper East Side when he knew what it was to fight packs of wild dogs for food found in the garbage? To hold your surrogate father while he died, holding his guts in, blood up to your elbows? The man who just happened to smack you around and tap your ass when he had the desire for it, but you loved anyway for reasons too complicated to explain?

You have a purity I've lost, pet. But in some ways, the important ones, you're not naive.

You understand the darkness without ever having been in it. You see the world as it is, all its misery and pain, all the beauty that somehow rises above it, and you accept all of it. You accept me.

When Marcus touched him Thomas saw it in his face now, how he drank in Thomas' balance, his quiet stable nature. Yeah, they fit. Yin had to have a yang. The art was the dot of darkness in Thomas' life and the dot of light in Marcus' that made them a part of each other, connected them. He'd always been thankful and awed by his gift, but now Thomas saw it had a higher purpose. Even if he became world renowned or crashed as an art nobody, the greatest treasure it had brought him was that connection with Marcus.

* * * * *

Lauren was watching Thomas shrewdly. "Marcus treats everything as a work of art," she said abruptly. "Something endlessly fascinating in both its perfection and imperfection. So it makes sense that he would wait for that feeling with the man he'd love forever. Josh told me that on the way here. Have faith, Thomas." Thomas' mind gingerly touched her words, as if they were an animal that might bite. But they also made him remember something else Owen had told him.

"You ever notice how he doesn't look at himself in a mirror?" Why would he need to? Thomas had asked it, half humorously.

"No." Owen shook his head. "I don't mean look at his hair when he's brushing it, or his jaw for a shave. He never looks at himself. It's his face that got him out. But it's his face that lost him his soul. The way he looks at you, son...he thinks you're holding it for him." Nodding to her, he skirted the living area with a gesture to Josh, and stepped with only a brief hesitation out on the balcony.

Marcus was standing with his back to him, wineglass in hand, considering the city below. The shirt lightly blowing against his body, stretching across the broad shoulders.

The pressed slacks defining his thighs and perfect ass. Studying the tilt of that sculpted face, the light fall of hair feathering his shoulders with the breeze, Thomas couldn't imagine anything further from the roots of a farmer's son.

And he wasn't seeing the surface. Beneath the New York City art dealer, even beneath the farmer's son. Down to the raw, open soul. Would Marcus have faith in Thomas at this most vulnerable juncture? Because Thomas didn't want there to be any more questions between them. Time to stop putting it off. Tomorrow he'd leave. Later tonight he'd talk to Marcus and make him understand.

Taking another step forward, he slid his arm under Marcus', flattened his palm on his chest and pressed his body up against his, feeling the flex of the firm ass as Marcus tilted his head.

"Let me pleasure you, Master," he murmured. "Lean back on me." Knowing they were turned so his act was disguised, Thomas slid his palm down the flat abdomen and found Marcus' cock, cupped him. That organ capable of giving so much pleasure hardened under his hand. Putting his lips to Marcus' ear, he nuzzled, despite the fact Josh and Lauren were in the penthouse.

"What are you doing?"

"Arousing you the way you always arouse me, when I can't do anything about it. I want to know how much you want me." Thomas found the side of Marcus' throat, nipped. "Knowing you'll have to wait and suffer the way you make me suffer sometimes."

"You might get punished for that later."

"I don't think you'll be able to hold out that long." Marcus curved his hand over Thomas'. "Look in the living room." Lauren had gotten her wine and was standing next to Josh, her hand on his nape as he sat on his heels, looking at the music choices. When he turned his head and kissed her just above the knee in her short skirt, her hand tightened on his neck. She murmured, "Behave", earning an unrepentant heated smile from Josh as he curved his fingers around the back of her knee, his thumb coursing along the upper part of her thigh.

The pose, him on his knees, the way it changed the look in her eyes, the intent look in Josh's that said he knew exactly what it did to her, was so familiar that Thomas couldn't help but get more aroused himself at the sight.

As Josh's hand climbed higher, he and Lauren still not cognizant of Marcus and Thomas' regard, she watched him, a soft look in her eyes. But her mouth firmed and she reached down, grasped his wrist to stop him. He kissed the back of her knuckles, caressed her with his cheek, brushing his hair against her bare skin and the soft gleam of the wedding band on her finger.

Devotion. Utter. Permanent. It was like much of the subject matter of Thomas' paintings. The shape of it could change, yes, but not the fundamental things that were the foundation. It was in the way they looked at each other.

"Perfect timing," Marcus said quietly. He caressed Thomas' back, that lingering touch just over his buttocks, easing him back into the room.

Lauren's head lifted. Josh merely rested his temple against her knee, his hand still firmly wrapped around her leg while her hand teased the strands of unruly brown and blond hair beneath her touch.

"I'd like the two of you to hear something." Marcus gestured Thomas to a chair but remained standing. Josh rose and took the sofa, reclaiming his drink as Lauren settled in under his arm with her wine.

"It means a lot to me, the three of you being here tonight." Marcus took a position at the fireplace, before the mantle. He cleared his throat, lifted a shoulder. "I haven't had many people in my life I've truly loved, that stuck. I'd forgotten what it means to have people who care enough about you to give up things for you. Be there when you need them."

He'd captured their attention fully, for certain. Thomas glanced over to see Lauren and Josh both intently watching him. Thomas turned his attention back to find Marcus' gaze specifically on him, and when his voice lowered, became somewhat more unsteady on the next words, Thomas leaned forward, his brows drawing down.

"Once, a long time ago, I gave you a chain, and I told you if you broke it, we'd go our separate ways and I'd wish you well. You remember? You mailed it back to me after you left, for Rory."

Thomas nodded. "I remember."

"That wasn't about being magnanimous. I was being a cowardly asshole who wanted to make sure I didn't let you get too close, even as I was doing everything I could to pull you inside me. So it's no wonder when you left, I felt ripped apart. You asked why I didn't come after you for so long. I was angry that I'd allowed myself to get that vulnerable again. That I'd set all the rules in place and it didn't make a damn bit of difference.

"Every day you were gone, I just missed you more, and I went ten rounds every one of those days, making sure I didn't call, didn't do all those desperate bullshit moves people stupid enough to open their hearts do."

Thomas swallowed. He heard Lauren say softly, "Oh Marcus," but Marcus pressed on, his eyes locked on Thomas'.

"I'm saying this in front of them, because it was Josh and Lauren who made me go after you. It's hard, especially for a Dom, to realize that to get what you really want you have to give up control completely, just hoping to hell that Fate doesn't kick your balls into the back of your throat. I've been there, one too many times, and I wasn't ever going to do it again."

A grim smile touched his mouth. "But I figured out that it's worse to do without you than to take that risk. So I hatched my strategy to sell your paintings and come back to get you, to deal with what we had.

"I don't want to be magnanimous anymore." His expression changed, that stern Master look, so unexpected that Thomas almost rose out of the chair, but something in Marcus' look kept him pinned to it just as effectively. "You're mine, Thomas. With your family, without your family, wherever we need to be, whatever we need to do, we need to be together.

"I will take a lifetime of you, good, bad, terrible, to anything without you. I love you. And as much as you're mine, I'm just as much yours. Maybe more, though until the other night I was afraid to admit that to you, or to myself." He was not going to get teary-eyed like Les over some Hallmark commercial, but damn, if Marcus wasn't making it tough. He wasn't done yet, though. Jesus.

Marcus turned, slid a box out from behind the framed print propped on the mantle and extended it to Thomas.

Thomas rose now, feeling at a loss for words. He had no idea where this was going, or what it meant, but he knew from the stunned look on the faces of the couple on the couch, he wasn't the only one who was nonplused.

Thomas opened the box and blinked despite himself. "You changed it." Marcus nodded. "I took the originally broken gold chain, had silver welded in as a decorative inlay. This chain, as small as the links are, is an unbreakable alloy. Once you put it around your waist and lock it with the fastener," his green eyes gleamed with that light that could spin Thomas' brain to his groin in a blink, "only I can get it off you." He reached into the box, touched the loop that was pinned to the velvet base. "And instead of a tail of chain, this goes around your cock. You'll wear my collar at all times, pet." Thomas touched the slim chain, the same metal disk lock. Mine. Looking far more like something that would be put on a prisoner. A willing one.

He pressed his lips together. "When did you do this?"

"Before I came down to buy the farm. I'd brought these with me as well." Thomas raised his gaze to find Marcus holding a second box. When he slid the top back, Thomas could only stare at the matching pair of men's rings. One gold, one silver, a single etching on each, a bold line like a lightning strike.

Thomas blinked. Blinked again. He thought either his senses had all been incapacitated or Josh and Lauren had become statues. Because everything was suddenly so still Thomas was as unaware of their presence as any other inanimate objects in the room. He wasn't including those rings as inanimate objects, though, not with their ability to inject this hot flood of feeling through him.

"I want you to marry me, Thomas." Marcus' attention had weight and heat on every exposed, raw part of him. "We can get a license in a state where it's legal, have a ceremony wherever you want, however you want. And I don't care if there's no law for it on the books, it will be the law between you and me and whatever God there is. I want it to be impossible for us to leave each other without a hell of a lot of paperwork, ugly custody battles over furniture, whatever.

"I want to marry you," he repeated. "I want you to know that every morning when you wake up and see me that I want to be there, that I made an oath to be there. To stand by you. And that there's no one else for me. Not ever." Thomas swallowed. "I've never thought of it. Never even considered it possible." He gave a husky chuckle. "Marcus, Jesus..."

"Yes or no, pet. That's the only thing that matters." It was the urgent note in Marcus' voice that pulled Thomas away from his own reaction. He raised his gaze to Marcus' face. When he saw the look in his eyes, the tautness around his unsmiling mouth and the tension in his face, Thomas was reminded of what had transpired over the past few days, his own thoughts when he was with Lauren in the kitchen.

Though Marcus wouldn't see it this way, he'd given Thomas the best possible opening for the conversation he'd intended to have with his Master later tonight. What Thomas was going to do to prove himself to Marcus, to win the trust Thomas knew would be required to love each other for a lifetime of ups and downs, good times and bad.

Thomas' world righted itself, giving him a calm peace. He stepped forward until they were eye to eye.

"No," he said.

As Marcus' expression changed, he pressed on. "Tomorrow, I'm going to go home and tell my mother how I feel about you, the life I intend to have with you. I'm going to deal with Rory. I'm going to make it clear who I am and what I want, and how it's going to be. Then, I'll come back and say yes."

He put his hand over Marcus' on the box, tried to ignore how the fingers had gotten rigid. "The words you just said to me mean everything. So I owe you the same. I won't ever have you wonder if you just overwhelmed me, coaxed me into this. I'm standing up to you, Master. To Marcus Aurelius Stanton, turning you down flat until I can go get my life in shape and deserve you. Then, I'm going to ask you to marry me." 239