by L. A. Witt
“Well.” Marcus cleared his throat. “No point in dwelling on that tonight. This is your wedding.” He clapped Chris’s arm. “Congrats again.”
Chris beamed. “Thanks. To be honest, I’m still kind of amazed it happened.” His gaze drifted toward Julien, and Marcus followed, his own gaze landing squarely on Timur, who was laughing at something Chris’s husband had said. Chris’s voice sounded far away as he added, “Two years ago, he was dead. Now…”
“It’s crazy, isn’t it?” Marcus asked, almost whispering.
Right then, Timur’s eyes flicked toward him. They locked eyes, and Marcus’s heart skipped. Crazy. Yeah, that was an apt description. Amazing how a guy’s entire look could change after a quick little encounter like the one they’d just had. Broad shoulders and powerful muscles were entirely different when he knew firsthand just how strong they were, and how the man used them. Every little nuance of that slight smile had changed—Timur still seemed reserved, maybe even a bit shy, but there was something else there now. Whether it was because his eyes had narrowed just enough to make him look like he was mentally calculating the precise position in which he planned to fuck Marcus later, or because Marcus had had a taste of what those lips were capable of, or maybe… Who the fuck cared? That mouth was gorgeous, and talented, and when the hell was this wedding going to be over so he could—
“Marcus?”
He jumped and turned to Chris. “Hmm?”
Chris’s eyebrow rose, and when his eyes darted back to Julien and Timur, Marcus knew he was busted. Especially when the corners of his mouth started to pull up. “You dirty dog.”
“What?”
Rolling his eyes, Chris playfully kicked him under the table. “Don’t even try it with me. I’ve seen that look on your face at work, and it’s usually followed quickly by you explaining exactly what you’d do to the other guy.”
Well, if he wasn’t busted before, the heat rushing into his cheeks probably finished the job. He cleared his throat and forced himself not to glance at Timur. “What can I say? The guy’s hot.”
“Mmhmm.” Chris turned oddly serious. “He’s probably not sticking around, though.”
“Perfect.”
“Yeah, but…” Chris glanced at Timur, though Marcus kept himself from doing the same. “Anyway.”
“What?” Marcus leaned in closer. “There something I should know about him?”
“Not…” Chris sighed. He rested his arms on the table and moved in closer too, so they were huddled together almost conspiratorially. “Julien’s told me a little bit about him. He’s an awesome, stand-up guy. Julien has quite literally trusted him with his life more than once.” Chris’s eyes flicked toward the guys, and, judging by the shudder he didn’t quite mask, he was definitely looking at Julien. Shifting his attention back to Marcus, he added, “But his sexuality’s kind of a…well, it’s kind of a big question mark.”
Marcus bit back a groan. For fuck’s sake. “How do you mean?”
“Well, he’s definitely not straight.” A hint of amusement flickered at the edges of Chris’s mouth. That was a surreal thought—Julien regaling Chris with tales of whatever he and Timur had done in remote parts of the world. The humor vanished, and Chris went on. “But Julien’s not so sure he’s gay either. Or even bi. When you’re out in the trenches like that, you kind of fuck whatever warm body is handy and don’t split hairs about the plumbing.”
Marcus rubbed the bridge of his nose. Obviously Timur had experience with men. There hadn’t been a single inkling of virgin uncertainty in the way he’d touched and moved, never mind how he’d kissed and taken control. And he supposed that at a wedding full of strangers in a totally foreign country, another horny wallflower counted as a handy warm body in the trenches, regardless of the plumbing.
“Just giving you a heads-up,” Chris said gently. “He’s a good guy, but I have no idea what he’s into, you know?”
“Good to know. Thanks.” Marcus lifted his head. “I’m not really in the market for much right now any—”
Movement beside them halted his thoughts, and when he looked up…
God, how he wanted to see Timur from this angle again. Just naked, and preferably with his cock in Marcus’s mouth. So yeah, he tended to avoid the “curious” or the “can’t get pussy, so willing to take dick” segments of the male population, but he absolutely still was considering Timur, at least for a hot and sweaty night, after which Timur would likely head to the airport, nice and relaxed for his intercontinental flight, and that would be that.
“Timur, you’ve met Marcus?” Chris asked.
Timur nodded. “You work at same bar?”
“Yep. And we’re—” Chris glanced past Timur. “Damn it. Wedding duty calls.” He rose. “You guys enjoy yourselves, okay?”
Oh, we will.
Chris squeezed Marcus’s shoulder, and then left in the general direction of Julien.
Timur glanced after him, but then his attention was back on Marcus. “Did you buy things?”
“Not yet, but good idea.” Marcus stood, and they ended up very close again, chest to chest, and the expression in Timur’s eyes was downright hungry. Whatever he might prefer if given a range of choices, Timur was itching for sex, and that was fine by Marcus. He was too. So he worked his way through the crowd and got to the small shop in the hotel foyer, where he found condoms and lube.
With everything in a white—and thankfully opaque—plastic bag, he returned to the party, where Timur was still standing by the sidelines. Considering he didn’t talk much to anybody else, and also didn’t dance or stuff his face, he seemed remarkably stoic just then. Maybe he had practice from all that guard duty? What exactly had he done in the Legion? With his hard body, calloused hands and his ability to shift gears from stoic to passionate without warning, he didn’t strike Marcus as the regimental cook.
The party was getting louder and more drunk, and a few people were already leaving—those who had to work tomorrow or had other early commitments, probably. He sidled up to Timur and glanced meaningfully at the bag. Timur leaned closer. “Five minutes, my room?”
“Yep.”
Timur went back into the crowd toward Julien, exchanged just a few words with him, then headed upstairs. Technically, the best man was supposed to stay and make sure everything went smoothly, but Julien gave Marcus a look and a lopsided smile. Maybe they had been obvious, if you knew what to look for, but Marcus had gotten the impression that Julien was overall a fairly laid-back guy, and apparently he’d had his battle buddy’s back. Which was damn nice of him.
Once Timur was gone, Marcus checked his watch, had another drink—water, this time. He’d have excused himself, but Chris was nowhere to be seen, so he just left, getting to Timur’s room via a different route.
He wasn’t even sure why they bothered being this discreet. Every wedding guest was focused on the two grooms, and the two grooms had given their tacit blessing for Timur and Marcus to make their escape to commit all manner of sins that would probably have the largely Mormon guests gasping and clutching their pearls. Maybe discretion was the best approach.
Heart pounding, Marcus hurried down the hall on the fifth floor. He stopped in front of the room and was about to knock, but hesitated. It was room 521, right? He glanced around. It was this one. Wasn’t it? What if he knocked on the wrong—
The door opened.
Timur had shed his jacket, and his vest and bow tie were gone, and, sweet mother of God, this was definitely the right room.
“Thought you were lost.” Timur reached for Marcus, hooked his finger under the edge of his vest and hauled him closer. He was strong enough he probably could’ve dragged Marcus all over town if he wanted to, but it wasn’t like Marcus put up a fight. He let himself be drawn in, and he let himself be gathered up in those insanely strong arms and kissed. Fuck, he could get addicted to the way this man k
issed.
They were moving. Timur was in control, and the alcohol was flying copilot, and Marcus went along for the ride, following passively while he kissed not so passively. The door closed. One of them pushed Marcus’s jacket off his shoulders, though he didn’t know or care who had done it.
“I hope you’re planning on checking out late tomorrow,” Marcus said as he unbuckled Timur’s belt.
“Checking out late?” Timur drew back enough to meet his eyes. “What does that mean?”
Right. Language barrier. And Marcus’s English wasn’t so great at this point either.
“Never mind.” He tugged at Timur’s belt. “Just meant it’s going to be a long night.”
“Good.” Timur claimed Marcus’s mouth again, and Marcus forgot whatever the hell he’d been doing with the belt still in his fingers. Whether Timur knew if he was gay, straight, bi or whatever, one thing he did know was how to kiss a man. All that alleged uncertainty, not to mention the language barrier and whatever culture shock the poor dude must’ve had ever since he’d touched down, vanished whenever their lips met. Neither of them could probably understand each other, could barely hold a conversation, but they sure as hell understood this.
Timur figured out what to do with his hands before Marcus did, and he unbuttoned Marcus’s silk vest. As he did that, Marcus realized he was still holding the barely connected pieces of Timur’s belt, and he managed to separate those pieces the rest of the way, the buckle jingling between their nearly touching hips.
Still kissing, they worked their way past buttons, buckles and zippers. Marcus toed off his shoes without missing a beat. Timur had already lost his—Marcus suspected he’d kicked them off the second he’d come into the room. His were likely rentals and not nearly as comfortable as the ones Marcus had been wearing, since those were his everyday work shoes and were thoroughly broken in.
Well, maybe Marcus was dragging Timur away from his sacred duties as best man, but at least that meant liberating him from god-awful brand-new dress shoes that had likely been pinching his feet to death. That should’ve been enough to score Marcus some points with Saint Peter.
That absurd train of thought made Marcus break the kiss with a laugh.
“What’s funny?” Timur cocked his head.
“Nothing. Nothing.” Marcus busied himself working Timur’s tuxedo shirt over his massive arms and shoulders. “Just…didn’t expect this when I came to the wedding.”
Timur laughed too. “Is a nice surprise.”
“It so is.”
And so was all that ink. Holy shit. Marcus stepped back and stared at the elaborate lines and colors all up and down Timur’s powerful arms and across his chest. He couldn’t even comprehend the designs—just skin, muscles, ink. Hot.
“You like?” Timur raised his eyebrows.
“Oh yes. Oh God yes.” Marcus ran his fingers along one of the lines. It was raised slightly, and the detail was fairly basic. An amateur tattoo? Maybe done by an artist using some ancient technique instead of the precise guns used in the States? Whatever the case, it was beautiful. He had some rather significant scars too. Nothing that he would’ve acquired by wiping out on a bike as a kid or anything like that. Marcus wasn’t even sure he wanted to know.
“There is a bigger one. My favorite.” Timur gestured over his shoulder.
“Your favor— Oh, tattoo.” Marcus swallowed. “Can I see it?”
Timur flashed a small smile, then turned around.
Whoa.
The whole picture blew Marcus’s mind. That powerful body, naked from the narrow waist up, was sexy enough, especially with a pair of perfectly tailored tuxedo pants to emphasize that ass. And the tattoos provided the most mouthwatering framework, bringing out the contours of his muscles. There were some scars on this side too, but mostly, the tattoos held his attention. Or rather, the tattoo. Singular. It was designed to fade in, and the center was a huge portrait of a Russian Orthodox Madonna with child, done in the same style as the icon paintings—big halos around Mary’s and Jesus’s heads, and Mary had that long, narrow patrician nose and soulful, almond-shaped eyes that in turns seemed to look sad and loving. From the stylized features to the carefully arranged folds of her clothes and the reaching hands of baby Jesus, it was nothing short of art.
“That’s… Never seen anything like it. Not in the flesh.”
Timur half turned around. “Like it?”
“I do.” Marcus couldn’t decide whether it was incongruous or not. Timur could just as easily have had a sprawling dragon or tiger on his back, but of all things, he’d chosen a Virgin Mary and Child. He reached out to touch it, traced the line of Mary’s veil. “Why did you get it?”
“For protection.” Timur turned fully around again and lifted his shoulders. “After first firefight.”
“Did you get hurt?”
“No. Friend did.” Timur shrugged again. The few words seemed to hold a lot more meaning, but Timur didn’t seem the kind of person who’d just spill his guts. And, anyway, he was supposed to be no more than a booty call—a nice one, where sexual history and orientation didn’t even matter, let alone what the significance of all his tattoos was and what else lay encoded in his flesh as scars and habits and reflexes. Timur reached out and touched the band around Marcus’s upper arm. “This?”
“I used to have barbed wire around it—like just about every adult male, so I had it covered up with a tribal.” Marcus rubbed along it. “I was considering a sleeve, but I used to work in a five-star fucking restaurant, and we liked to keep up appearances.”
“And now?”
Timur was right. Now he didn’t, and quite a few employees at Wilde’s were inked wherever the hell they wanted. Ray hadn’t been keen on anything that might raise eyebrows. But Ray didn’t call the shots anymore. “I’ll think about it.”
Timur nodded.
“So, what…what’s your favorite thing? I mean, in sex.” Quick change of topic, but then he realized that might be answered with pussy, if I can get it, when he really didn’t care just now.
A grin spread across Timur’s lips, and something told Marcus pussy, if I can get it wasn’t going to be the answer. Not tonight, anyway.
Timur stepped closer to him and slid his hot, rough hands over Marcus’s waist, drawing him in. “Naked.”
Marcus gulped. Semidressed fooling around had been hot earlier, but now that Timur mentioned it… Yes. Naked. “We should…we should get…”
But then Timur was pushing Marcus’s trousers and boxers down over his hips. He let them pool at Marcus’s feet, and then stripped off his own clothes.
“Better?” Marcus asked as he toed his clothes out of the way.
“Da.” Timur’s lips quirked. “Yes.”
“Good.”
“Yes. Good.” Timur’s hands landed on Marcus’s hips again, but instead of drawing Marcus closer, he pushed him back a step and followed. Another step, and Marcus’s calf bumped the bed.
He shivered. This was getting more and more real by the second, and he loved it. He was overwhelmed by it and couldn’t tell where the booze ended and the arousal began, but he couldn’t get enough.
“Wait.” He gestured at his discarded trousers. “I should get the…the things. So we don’t have to stop.”
Timur nodded, and Marcus knelt to grab his trousers. He fumbled with them, but found the bag containing the condoms and lube. “There. Now we’ll—”
Oh Lord. He was right at eye level with Timur’s cock. Right at the perfect height.
He glanced up at Timur and was met with the filthiest, most knowing little smirk. Any other night, Marcus would’ve been all about power games and posturing and if you want me to suck your dick, you’d better start sucking mine.
Tonight, he put a hand on Timur’s hip, took his cock between his lips and wondered how the fuck he’d made it this far into the e
vening without doing this. Timur got even harder, and, yep, he was definitely too big to get anywhere past a gag reflex that wasn’t at the level of professional porn. But Marcus still enjoyed teasing him and loved the taste and feeling, and the small signals from Timur’s body, the way he sucked in a breath or shifted his weight, or even how his balls felt in his sac when Marcus rolled them in his free hand.
Timur didn’t touch him, didn’t grab his head or ears or shoulders, just stood there, head rolled slightly back, hands clenched at his sides, breathing and groaning every time Marcus pulled back and focused his attention on the big cockhead. Slowly, slowly, Marcus pushed for more and took him as deep as was possible, then slipped away and instead sucked on his balls and stroked him.
A tremor passed through the big man. “I want to fuck you.”
Marcus glanced up.
Timur offered him a hand, and Marcus used it to pull himself to his feet. He didn’t expect it when Timur spit into his hand and closed his strong hand around Marcus’s dick. The spit did almost nothing to temper the calloused roughness of the hand, and the touch was too intense to be just pleasant, but the discomfort added an edge. Whatever Timur’s orientation, he seemed to believe in giving a guy a hand. Marcus found himself thrusting into the rough hand and steadying himself on Timur’s shoulder as he did, then felt Timur’s other hand slide to his ass, and a bit farther, two fingers pushing into his crack to rub against his opening. “Getting impatient?”
“Can I fuck you?”
“All right.” Truth was, he was more than eager to know what Timur would feel like fucking him. Quite possibly part of the attraction was his sheer size, and another part was that he was a complete stranger and would be gone soon, and that he wasn’t part of the usual scene. No expectations, no routines, just what they both wanted and what they were willing to give the other. Marcus got on the bed.
