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)
The shudder that ran through his body let him know he wanted that. To capture that absolutely perfect, fucking moment. If he couldn’t have Royce as his own, he could have him as his muse.
Color filled the canvas. Fast and furious. He worked through the entire CD on repeat, then random songs on his playlist. He painted to Ed Sheeran, Anathema, Two Feet, and more, going from electronic, to rock, and back to progressive. And when Just Her came on, he was snapped back into that club in Italy so fast, it made his head spin and he dropped the brush.
Then he dropped to his knees.
He had no idea what time it was or how long he’d been working. With the break in concentration, he only knew that exhaustion pulled at every muscle in his body. It had been years since he’d let go like this. Since he’d disappeared into that hazy zone of creation. Holding his breath, he looked up at the canvas and saw something that startled him.
It was there.
That elusive something he’d been aching to find his entire life.
The painting wasn’t done, but what he had created so far was already his best work.
He stared, eyes dry from focusing for what had to be hours, and suddenly he didn’t want his brother there, and he didn’t want Royce there. He didn’t want to go to his gallery. He wanted to paint. Lock himself away somewhere for however fucking long it took so he could tap into this. Whatever this was.
He wanted more. He stood, ignoring the ache in his hands and lower back. He methodically put away the paints and washed his brushes. He put the easel, with his work, in a storage closet because nobody was seeing that until it was done. Maybe not ever. It felt like a secret only for him.
When he shut off his music and left the room, early morning light was already trickling in through the windows, and when he got to his room and saw Royce on that damn chaise, he lost it.
He pulled off his clothes, grabbed lube and a condom, and walked to stand over Royce. The man was too aware to sleep through any of it, so his eyes were already open when Marc stopped. Royce didn’t speak, just lay there, staring. Dawn had barely started her rise, so Royce was a vision of midnight hair, tattoos, and shadows against Marc’s white chaise. As Marc stared back, Royce pushed his blanket to the floor, then rolled down his sleep pants to drop them to the side. He lay back and waited.
God, he was beautiful in this light, and Marc’s heart began to beat hard and fast again as he ran his gaze down that rough, tight form he loved. He started to drop to his knees, but a hand stopped him. Royce pulled him down on top of him, spearing his hands into Marc’s hair on either side of his head. Royce held him there, just above his face, staring hard at him. Then he slid his mouth over Marc’s, his tongue slipping slowly inside. Marc closed his eyes, basking in the deep, drugging kisses that followed. In Royce’s chest hair brushing over his nipples. And the tight grip on his head. One that spoke of a possession he desperately wished the man really felt.
Because something in his kiss told Marc a different story.
With the return of heavy emotion filling his lungs and making his chest tight, Marc pushed himself back until he straddled Royce’s legs, standing on either side of the chaise.
He rolled a condom on Royce, watching as his eyes shuddered as Marc stroked him several times. Then without taking his eyes away, he lubed Royce then reached around to work on himself. Not long because tonight he wanted it all. The stretch and burn. The pain. Maybe it would do what even the painting hadn’t done. Yank him out of this state of fear that felt like he was smothering under a heavy, black tarp.
With that thought, he moved forward enough to line them up, and when Royce put a strong grip on either side of his hips to slow his downward motion, Marc growled and shoved his hands off. He pressed his own onto Royce’s chest as he forced the man into his body. Black edged out his vision as the pain hit, intense. Just the way he wanted it.
He opened his eyes, momentarily pulled out of the dark funk of his brain, and this time when Royce snarled and grabbed his hips, he let the man slow him down.
For a moment.
Marc ran, and his leg muscles were strong as hell. He moved his hands to either side of Royce, poising an arm’s length away. Royce brought up his legs, changing the angle of his dick inside Marc as he thrust up hard. Marc cried out as the pleasure mixed with the pain, his head bowing over, his hair slipping down over his eyes.