Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 479(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 479(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
Fuck. It was an endless cycle.
When Royce stepped away to use the restroom, Marc escaped his office and retreated to the second floor of the gallery. Toward the back hung Blue. The painting had been christened with a more complicated name, but since Marc had acquired it for his private collection, he’d started calling it Blue. He had a piece he personally owned in each of his galleries. He kept them there because they helped him find his center, focus his mind.
And since returning to Cincinnati, he’d been spending more and more time with Blue. His assistants didn’t question it. In fact, that afternoon, a chair was already placed in front of it as if they’d expected him to need some quiet time after the previous night’s chaos.
He didn’t need to tell them that the reason for his anxiety had nothing to do with the fire alarm and everything to do with the man probably prowling the gallery in search of him.
Royce was different.
He’d mentally said those words a least a dozen times since first meeting the man. Royce wasn’t like the long line of mistakes he’d made with regard to men and sex in his early twenties. And Royce had been different. There had only been pleasure behind all that strength and control. They’d both enjoyed themselves, finally getting the release they both so badly needed after a week of touches and kisses that had left them on edge.
Then why the fuck had it hurt so badly when Royce hadn’t returned to the bedroom afterward?
In the past few years, there had been a somewhat steady stream of random hookups, where Marc walked away at the end of the night and didn’t feel a thing about it. Didn’t need to call the person the next day. Didn’t want to wrap around the person and fall asleep against him, only to wake the next morning to start it all over again.
But Royce was different.
He knew more about Royce than any of those other men. They’d been living together for more than a week. He knew that Royce loved action movies and those goofy spoof comedies. He loved rock music and would hum in the shower. Of course the only personal information that he’d managed to get out of Royce was that he had only his mom when it came to family and that he’d lived in Virginia for several years before moving to Cincinnati. He’d brought his mom, Cathy, with him.
The point was, they talked and shared and laughed. They took turns cooking dinner…and then ordering out when it often went wrong. And they talked the whole time. They watched movies together and pointed out their favorite parts or why they hated certain actors. He was starting to figure out just the right kind of little quip that would get Royce to smile, and he knew just how to lean into him to get Royce to wrap his arms around him.
And he loved it.
Footsteps echoed across the hardwood floor, alerting him to Royce’s approach. The man could be frighteningly silent when he wanted to be, so the noise was a courtesy. With a soft sigh, Marc leaned back in the hard, plastic chair and stretched out his legs. Blue wasn’t helping as much as he’d hoped. His mind was too full of Royce.
The bodyguard stopped when he was standing behind Marc. From the corner of Marc’s eye, he could see him with his hands shoved into his pockets. The silence settled over them for a couple of minutes before Royce finally broke it.
“I like it.”
That had Marc sitting up. Royce had never once commented on any piece of art—whether in his home or at the gallery. He hadn’t a clue as to what the man preferred or even if he noticed the art around him.
“What’s it called?”
“I call it Blue.”
“You painted it?”
“No, I simply own it.”
“I like it. Reminds me of the sea after a storm. Everything churned up and swirling together. Powerful but…” Royce’s voice drifted off and he frowned. Marc watched the uncertainty crawling across his features, digging in lines. “Is that what it’s supposed to be? The ocean?”
“Could be.” Marc settled back in his chair, staring at the painting. “I never met the artist, so I don’t know his intention. I bought it because it gives me peace, and I like that feeling.”
Royce grunted softly, and the silence stretched for another minute until Royce shifted from one foot to the other. “Are things weird between us because of the fire alarm or the sex?”
And this was just one of the things he loved about Royce. His wonderful bluntness. After spending his life surrounded by people who were always putting forth the perfect words and censoring what they really thought or felt, Royce cut straight to the heart of the matter, and it was amazing. Refreshing.