Page 76 of A Wedding in a Week

“You mean it, don’t you?” He’s back to whispering, his hand not on the doorframe now. It finds a doorknob and turns it, and we aren’t outside a bedroom. It’s the bathroom Jack promised, lined with what he’d called sex-lair candles. There are so many of them, but I only light one as Marc says, “You actually mean it,” and that single flickering flame shows what the dark has hidden.

Marc’s eyes do glisten. They’re also red-rimmed with emotion, with overwhelming tiredness that’s banked every day that we’ve spent in this city.

I start to back out. “Let’s find you a bed.”

“No.” He scrubs his face. “I want to wash this week off.”

It hasn’t quite been a week yet, and we’ve both snatched hospital showers, but I know what he means. Sloughing off these clothes feels like shedding a grimy layer, and once the bath is running, I lean over it to crack open the window, night air a cool contrast to humid steam. “Warm enough?”

Marc tests the water, nodding. Then he sheds his clothes too. They pile next to the bath, getting wet after he makes a request. “Get in with me?”

Water almost spills over the side when I settle back in a bath that must have been built for big men like me. Marc’s build is slimmer, like Rex’s, but he isn’t who fills my head. That space belongs to Marc, who kneels between my spread knees to light more candles. He also opens a bottle and sniffs before pouring a stream of liquid that doesn’t froth when he swishes. Bath oil floats in puddles, lacing the air with a scent that has to be expensive—somehow sharp and soft at the same time—and that describes who I watch lean over the side of the bath to dig in a pocket of the trousers he discarded.

Marc’s all man, wiry, muscled, and wet, but he’s soft too, or his face is, once he’s checked his brother’s progress. Then he reaches up to put his phone on the windowsill, and almost slips.

I don’t let him.

I pull him against me instead, his back to my chest so he can’t slip again, and he twists to kiss me, our mouths barely meeting. Water splashes as Marc shifts against me, and I was wrong about him and softness. He’s all sharp elbows and struggle until our mouths slot together.

My hold slips from his chest to his pelvis, where he starts to harden. I do too, my cock trapped against the cleft of his arse as I wrap my fingers around him.

I barely stroke him off to start with, my right hand not numb now but still tingling. Or maybe that’s the effect Marc has on me. Every part of me stutters like his breaths do, puffing against my lips as his cock slowly but steadily firms, our kiss breaking off when he lets out a low groan that echoes.

He’s quiet then, too quiet, the slap of my fist and splash of water the only noises, and if there’s a city outside the window, I don’t hear it. I’m tuned into Marc, into this man who holds his breath until I say, “Breathe. We’ve got all night.”

We’re connected again then—our mouths meet, tongues sliding together like Marc slides against me, shifting, more water splashing, and we’re chest-to-chest, my legs around him, locking us together.

That’s what I’d do, if I got my way. I’d lock him somewhere he only got to feel good, but this is Marc, so I know that’s pointless. He’s his own man, one who levers himself up, no sign of precious metal now his hair’s wet, but he’s still precious to me, here or at home, and maybe candlelight is enough for him to see me think that.

“Love you too,” he says plain and simple, followed by something I haven’t seen in ages.

Marc smiles.

I don’t see exhaustion on him. I can’t spot any fear or worry. I only see that he means it—that he’s here with me in this moment. That he’s my partner in this bubble made of favours, fabulous scent, and the light cast by candles.

I’m so full of feeling that my chest seizes, and it’s Marc’s turn to order, “Breathe, Stef,” while still smiling.

My lungs fill. I heave in another huge breath and the water heaves too, Marc sliding away, a slippery fish I can’t grasp. He’s up and out of the bath, his body shining, rippled with flickers of gold while rooting through a bathroom cabinet, and I know I’m a bore when it comes to judging beauty, but he’s never looked better to me than when he bends over to root through another.

I’m a big guy, but you know I can move fast when I need to—the bathroom floor is awash, and my knees might complain about hitting the tile later, but if anyone’s used to aches and bruises, it’s this Luxton. Plus I don’t have the capacity to register pain, not when I’m busy getting thankful at having two working hands to hold his arse cheeks and squeeze them.

I must ask him, “Yes?” because Marc’s answer is another echo.

His fuck, yes rings out, followed by something lower, and I thought I’d heard groans from him before but this one’s almost subvocal. I feel it, or maybe that’s just his shudder at my mouth on where I want him open. Perhaps it’s my beard that prompts his shaking, or the spear of my tongue, soft first then demanding, that provokes a spasm. He tightens before giving, then quakes at me pushing in a finger that I make as slick with spit as I can. I want to slide it deeper, faster, to get all of me inside him and stay there, but I slow down, my ingress slow and careful.

Thick knuckles, remember?

Taking it slowly almost kills me. I have to grip my cock at the base, but that’s a good reminder that I want Marc to enjoy it, not feel pain after witnessing so much of it. I’ll take all the time in the world to get him ready.

Marc shakes with each lick, with every wet kiss, with each inch of gradual progress until I try to shuffle closer but end up slipping and lurching forward.

Marc shouts then, and it’s a good sound, so I keep going, finding what feels amazing for him, getting him so wet saliva drips from his balls. His cock is hot and so hard when I reach through his legs and grasp it, and I want my mouth on it too, so I make room, nudging his leg, and he gets the message.

He props a knee on the edge of the basin, so incredibly open for me, but I bend deeper, getting the head of his cock in my mouth for a fleeting moment, only long enough to taste precome before bottles rain from the edge of the sink, landing with a clatter.

I look up to see another cabinet is open, Marc searching, frantic, his next yes low again and guttural. It’s also triumphant.

He’s got a condom. He’s also on his knees, rolling it on me, and I’ve had sex in softer places, but Marc wants it right here, right now, so I do it. I fuck him on marble floor tile, on towels, on our damp clothes, and none of it is gentle.

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