Rough Canvas (4 page)

“I see you standing against a fence, farm boy. Leaning there like you’ve just

finished a day of plowing. You’re sweaty, streaked with dirt and you’ve taken off your shirt.”

“Of course.” Thomas grinned, but he let out a moan of sheer ecstasy as Marcus hit the kink in his shoulder. “Right there.”

Marcus obliged. “You’re wearing those working jeans that have no style, but

they’re riding low on your hips. Because you’re leaning against the fence, they’re straining over that fine ass you’ve got.” His fingers trailed there, but he’d told Thomas not to move, so he didn’t, though his balls drew up tight and hard from his Master’s provocative touch. “Maybe a cowboy hat dangling from your hand.”

“Bill cap,” Thomas said automatically.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a baseball cap. We don’t wear cowboy hats.”

“All right, then. The sun’s setting behind your precious cow and sunlight is just barely touching you, outlining your body. I can see the hint of sweat on your

shoulders.” He smoothed his hands over them. When his fingers grazed Thomas’ jaw, they paused to caress his lips. Thomas closed his eyes.

“He’s just a farm boy taking a break after a hard day, never realizing how

breathtaking he is in that one perfect moment. Everything about him is in that picture.”

“You’re so full of shit.” Suddenly uncomfortable, Thomas flipped and attempted to heave Marcus off him. Instead, he found himself pinned full length under his Master’s aroused body. He’d struggled, but when Marcus fisted his hands in his hair and kissed him hard, his tongue sweeping inside to claim his mind, that was that.

It had lingered with his muse, though, so he’d created the painting. He’d never done a self portrait and was glad to do it from the back. He did a photo session to get some perspective on points of himself he’d never seen, which included some close-ups he’d had to forcibly wrest from Marcus to destroy.

In the end, he’d found it oddly difficult to paint himself, trying to put together the pieces from photographs. The final effect gave the painting a brilliant starkness, almost as if the artist had painted the figure from inside to out, starting with the skeleton and 19

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forming muscle layers over which the skin was painted. The figure of the man was an absorbing contrast to the easy beauty in the green of the meadow, the vibrant colors of the sun.

* * * * *

“I kept that farm scene, because your soul is in it. You’re living up to your

responsibilities.” Marcus nodded toward the hardware store. “But you’re looking toward that sunset, all the colors, the miracle of it, yearning for it.

“It was one of your best pieces. It was you. I wanted it.” Marcus’ tone lightened, but Thomas heard the edge beneath it. “As you said, I get what I want.”

Marcus leaned against the fence. There was just the space of one man between him and Thomas now. When Marcus put his foot up on the bottom slat, Thomas couldn’t see if he was as turgid and aching as Thomas had been only moments before. And

would be again in no time if Marcus didn’t remove his chiseled face, sensual lips and lean strong body from Thomas’ senses soon.

“I have a proposal for you. One that I hope you’ll consider. It would allow you to be here and nurture your talent both. Are you ready to listen, or do you need further attention?” He flicked his glance over Thomas, letting his gaze slide down like the lazy path of hot oil on heated skin.

Oh yeah, in no time at all. “Just tell me.”

Marcus inclined his head. “Artists come to New York to make it because that’s

where you can get hip deep in the industry, make connections. You’ve done that. My gallery is in the center of things and the reaction at that auction says I can market your work without you. J. Martin is one of my biggest clients and he doesn’t make public appearances at all. If you never want to cross the Mason Dixon line again, you don’t have to. You provide the art, I’ll sell it, get it distributed, build your name.”

“What do you want in return?”

Silence was a weighted thing, and Thomas felt it in Marcus’ gaze. Suddenly,

beneath it, he felt so out of place. Everywhere. He didn’t belong here, but it was where he was needed, had to be. He didn’t belong in Marcus’ New York world anymore

either, but when he’d been with Marcus, he’d felt like he belonged anywhere. Wherever Marcus was.

He couldn’t be thinking like this. He started to fumble open the work apron and spread it over his damp groin. Marcus spoke.

“One of the buyers was Hans Joyner, a hotel mogul who’s salivating to see more.

He’d like to put about fifty original pieces in his exclusive male salons across Europe.

No restrictions on the subject matter. Fifteen thousand each upon delivery. Take out my sixty percent and you’re still bringing in six thousand dollars per completed work, in addition to what else you’ll start selling when your name starts growing.”

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As Thomas hesitated, Marcus sighed. “Thomas, you’re working short-staffed at a

hardware store that, while admittedly a tribute to a bygone age, only makes enough to break even. Barely. You run in the red half the time. You still have debts from your father’s funeral and Rory’s astronomical medical bills, not to mention that expensive medical college your sister’s scholarship won’t cover beyond the first year. If one of the big home improvement stores goes up in a nearer town in the next few years, it will end you and you know it.”

“You’ve no right to dig into my business.”

“No right.” Abruptly, the civilized veneer was gone. Thomas was blasted with the unexpected heat. Marcus pivoted and shoved him back into the same corner, slamming his palm against the side of the barn so Thomas was caged between Marcus’ arm and the fence. Violence and desire always rode the same horse when it came to his feelings about Marcus. Despite a desire to shove back, Thomas abruptly wanted the taste of that mouth again, the feel of those hands gripping him so roughly. Gripping him any way Marcus desired.

The green eyes flickered with the knowledge. With fire.

“Do you want to kiss me, pet?” Marcus asked huskily. “Do you think I don’t know just my voice can make you hard? You were hiding that stiff cock of yours behind the counter from your sister, because your body remembers everything about responding to my voice, my touch, the whisper of a command. Did you cream yourself when I

grabbed your wrist?”

His hand dropped to cup Thomas’ balls again, his thumb rubbing slowly along the ridged head of his cock. Marcus swore softly as Thomas groaned, clenching his teeth.

He wouldn’t stop him, but Thomas grabbed the edge of the fence in one hand, holding it so his knuckles whitened, so he wouldn’t be weak and seize Marcus again.

“What you want is for me to bend you over this fence and fuck you hard, fill you where you’ve been empty for far too long.”

“Haven’t…been.”

“I’m sure. There’s a wealth of eligible playmates for you down here.” Marcus’ gaze shifted briefly over the open field. He leaned even closer, his lips a hairsbreadth away, his breath caressing Thomas’ face. God, Thomas wanted that tongue, needed it pushing into his mouth the way he wanted Marcus’ cock pushing into his ass. “But that’s not the reason I know that. You’re mine, Thomas. You’ve been mine from the beginning. If you let any other man touch you, I’d kill him.”

With that one statement, Marcus put it out there. Thomas had walked away,

convinced himself it was over, whereas Marcus had never released the end of the leash.

Perhaps that’s why Thomas had never felt the chain had been broken. Because it hadn’t.

A hard shudder ran through him despite himself. Marcus’ eyes grew more intent,

more brilliant. Perhaps his mother was right. A serpent in the desert. Marcus’

complexity, his gentleness, his urban polish, his humor, all of it was underscored by a generosity that was limitless. He even at times had a loving, nurturing nature.

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But all of that was twined like a serpent’s coils with this, a ferocious darkness, a Dominant’s need to possess and control that Thomas had not realized he would match with an equal submissive hunger. From the beginning he’d wanted to belong to Marcus and only Marcus, in ways a boy from rural North Carolina wouldn’t have imagined existed inside himself.

“No!” He shoved Marcus away from him and backed into the open space of the

parking area where he could breathe, though the world was teetering dangerously as if it wanted him to slide right back into Marcus’ grip. “Don’t fuck with my head. You don’t need to pull that crap just to get me to make more money for you.”

While he said it only to hurt, he needed the defense. Besides which, in his heart he knew it was true. Not the part about Marcus using him for money. Even before he walked away, Thomas had always known Marcus would tire of him in time, no matter how intimate they’d gotten. These were Thomas’ roots and he needed those roots. He had to live up to them, because they were permanent and real. Unlike Marcus’

attraction to him, which he knew was only permanent and real in his most fantastical dreams.

Marcus’ face transformed into a mask of indifferent politeness, which told Thomas he’d hit the mark with enough accuracy to make his heart hurt. “I knew you were gutless when you walked away from me. I didn’t think you’d resort to being that stupid redneck kid again as well.”

Thomas’ spine snapped straight, his chin jutting out like his brother’s. “Now you’re trying to start a fight.”

“If it makes you remember the will to have one, gladly.” Marcus nodded once.

Coldly.

“This is who I am. Where I’m staying.”

“Is it what you want?”

“It doesn’t always get to be about what you want,” Thomas said between clenched teeth. “Life sometimes is making the best of what you’re given.”

Marcus considered him. The breeze moved his hair on his shoulders, a strand

brushing his firmly held lips. “Fine, then. Ignore your feelings about me, bury them. Try to destroy them by throwing asinine insults at me, but do the work, send it to me. I’ll sell them at the contracted price, send you the money and it will supplement your income to keep your family going.

“If nothing else, I’m still the gallery owner who has the connections to get your work noticed, Thomas. Your talent is phenomenal. You’ve only scratched the surface of it. No matter what you think about me, people don’t spend thousands of dollars on a piece of artwork from someone whose name they don’t even know, unless the talent is so remarkable they don’t care whether it’s a brand name or not.”

“Stop.” Thomas shook his head. “You know I can’t handle that kind of shit. I

can’t…I haven’t thought about…”

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As Marcus’ eyes narrowed, Thomas felt the gnawing teeth start up on his gut, as vicious as the blades of the chipper.

For months, the ideas had been elusive, formless, ruthlessly kicked into a hole in his subconscious like a swamp filled with sucking mud.

Because of that, he couldn’t allow himself to accept what Marcus was saying.

Couldn’t even enjoy the vision for a moment, though a greedy part of him wanted to bask in the idea of achieving success as an artist. Instead, Thomas almost felt sick. When he moved his hand to knead his stomach, he forced himself to stop as Marcus’ sharp attention went to it.

It wasn’t Marcus’ fault. He knew that. He’d always known that. It just wasn’t meant to be. Thomas took a deep breath, let it flow out of him, let the anger go. “You know your business, you always have. When you say things like that…it scares the hell out of me. It also…there’s a part of me that’s just fucking amazed by it.”

A light smile crossed Marcus’ face, but didn’t reach his eyes. “You deserve to let all of you be amazed by it. Not just a part.”

“It’s not there anymore.” Thomas forced the words past stiff lips. “I need the

money, but I wouldn’t know where to start. Everything’s insecticide, feed, and ‘what size couplings do you need for your plumbing’?” He gave a half laugh at Marcus’

raised brow.

“I’m sure I don’t want you to explain what a coupling is to me.”

Thomas shook his head, reached out a hand. It felt as if it weighed three times what Kate did. “Thanks for dropping off the check. I’m sorry for how I acted. You…you didn’t do anything. It was all me. I took it out on you. You just surprised me, is all.

Wasn’t ready to see you here.”

“I don’t exactly fit in this painting, do I?” Marcus looked around, still not taking the hand, though Thomas kept it out stubbornly.

“No, you don’t.”

When Marcus clasped it at last, Thomas tried not to show how the contact rippled through him, ached in his bones as if he’d been gripped by the flu. Already the sandwich he’d packed to have at noontime was something he knew he wouldn’t be

eating.

“Give me a week.”

“What?”

“You’ve been here eighteen months, working six or seven days a week with no time off, no breathing room at all. I think they can cover for you a week, particularly if it means they can add a significant source of income to the annual budget. I’ve got a friend’s place up in the Berkshires for a month.”

Still holding Thomas’ hand, Marcus reached inside his coat with a free hand and drew out an airline ticket. “The date’s transferable. I’ll be there for the next thirty days, working out of the house and visiting some of my gallery contacts and artists in that 23

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area. Come spend the week in the house, bring your sketchbook. I promise you

beautiful scenery, wonderful eccentric communities and quiet spots of nature.” His eyes gleamed. “A wide variety of things to resurrect your muse.”

“You’ll be there.”

Marcus nodded. “I’ll be there.”

“Marcus, I can’t… I can’t promise you anything.”

That wasn’t what he’d intended to say.
No, I can’t start this again. I can’t be with you
even a week. A day.

But Thomas didn’t say that. Everyone knew an addict couldn’t have just one drink, one fix. But no matter how strong Marcus’ hold over him, they both knew the building behind Thomas, the people waiting in it and all that meant would always call him back.