No Place That Far

by L. A. Witt

  He glanced around. “Did you get—”

  “There.” Timur nodded sharply toward the bedside table. Next to the lamp, plain as day, a handful of condoms and a bottle of lube.

  “Good. Good.” Marcus leaned down and just let his lips brush Timur’s. The man lifted his head, searching for more, but Marcus sat up again, leaving Timur to growl with frustration. Chuckling, Marcus reached for one of the condoms. “Problem?”

  Timur muttered something in another language. French-accented Ukrainian, Ukrainian-accented French—Marcus couldn’t tell, and wouldn’t have been able to understand it anyway, but the frustration came through loud and clear. Perfect.

  Condom in hand, Marcus sat over Timur again. He glanced at the foil packet, then down at his own cock and Timur’s.

  Timur growled something in his native tongue again. Then, “Now.”

  “Patience.” Marcus reached behind him and trailed his fingertips along Timur’s thigh. “Just trying to decide who’s wearing the condom this time.”

  Timur’s brow furrowed. “Trying…?”

  Right. Language barrier. Smarmy comments didn’t translate well.

  Marcus leaned down again, almost touching Timur’s lips, but not quite. “Am I fucking you? Or are you fucking me?”

  Timur shrugged as much as he could. “Don’t care. Just fuck.”

  Fair enough. Marcus was nearly undecided himself. He’d planned to ride Timur, but the whole rope thing had given him more ideas. It did level the playing field a great deal, and he imagined Timur on his knees or frog-tied, ankles tied to thighs. So many ways he could immobilize Timur, and judging by his responses so far, Timur was up for trying more than this one.

  Marcus tore the condom packet and ground against Timur’s cock—a minute movement, really just a shifting of his weight, but Timur tensed and groaned. “Wait…till I’m free.”

  It was a playful threat, and one that made Marcus shiver deliciously. He lifted up and placed the condom on the tip of Timur’s cock. “Seems you’re lucky.”

  Timur growled. “Not lucky yet.”

  Marcus rolled the condom down, made sure it sat perfectly, then grabbed the lube and covered Timur’s cock with it. They were both impatient, so he didn’t waste any more time, but he did take Timur slowly, just because of his sheer size, and the position required just a bit of control.

  Timur arched and moaned when his cock breached Marcus. Marcus steadied himself with flat palms on Timur’s heaving chest, settling back slowly, relishing the stretch and being filled. Timur didn’t thrust, let him move at the speed Marcus was ready for, and God bless him for that, because, fuck, size. “How’s that?” Marcus lifted off just a bit, then sank down a couple more inches.

  “Is good.” Timur’s eyes were closed, and at some point, he’d wrapped his fingers around the bars he was tied to.

  “How good?” Marcus teased, slowing down until he was barely moving at all. “Faster? More?”

  “I…” Timur sighed, slowly dragging his tongue across his lips. “Is good.”

  “Good enough?”

  Timur laughed almost soundlessly and opened his eyes. “You want English words. Can’t…”

  Marcus grinned. He had Timur flat on his back, hands bound, and as good as ball-gagged. Completely at his mercy. “Maybe I should tease you, then.” He moved a little faster, just enough to make Timur groan. “Make you beg.”

  Timur gave another barely audible laugh. “What I beg for, you get too. Or not, if you make me beg for it.”

  Damn it. He had a point. And with a cock this perfect moving inside him, Marcus wasn’t about to cut off his nose to spite his face, not even playfully.

  He slid his hands up Timur’s chest to his broad shoulders and steadied himself as he rode the man faster.

  “See?” Timur whispered. “For both…is good.”

  “Yeah. Is good.” Marcus dug his fingers into Timur’s shoulders and picked up even more speed, finding that perfect rhythm. He knew without a doubt it would put him over the edge in almost no time, but as incredible as this felt, he couldn’t comprehend why he’d ever want to back off, so he didn’t. He didn’t hold back at all. The bed creaked, the paracords protested, and both he and Timur moaned and swore in at least two or three different languages.

  Beneath him, Timur gasped. He’d stayed almost perfectly still this whole time, but when his forearms rippled and his grip tightened on the headboard bars, Marcus’s eyes widened—he knew what was next, but he still wasn’t ready a split second later when Timur thrust up into him, driving himself deep and hard and keeping perfect time with Marcus.

  “Oh fuck,” Marcus groaned. “That’s…”

  Timur was speaking, slurring words that were incomprehensible to Marcus but had to be profane. The veins on his forearms stood out just like the cords on his neck. Between the sight of him—sweaty, flushed, falling to pieces—and his thick cock moving inside Marcus, Timur drove him fucking insane.

  Marcus rested one arm on the bed, and with his other, stroked his cock, and that was all she wrote. His vision went white, his whole body tensed and relaxed at the same time, and he lost his goddamned mind.

  And Timur just kept right on fucking him. It took everything Marcus had to push back against those thrusts and not get bucked off while he came. Timur’s muscles strained even harder, and those sounds were almost like he was in pain, and then he came too. A couple more erratic thrusts that shook them both, and Timur stilled, relaxed. For a few moments, they both just panted; then Marcus leaned down again to kiss him. Timur opened his eyes and smiled when their lips touched. From tied-up force of nature to this mellow, gentle expression. The guy made his mind spin, quite apart from the sex.

  Ray, if anything, had been way too serious in bed—that same perfectionism that had gotten them a Michelin star and top ratings in every stupid city guide meant Ray was also basically incapable of being playful like this. Also not spontaneous, and the kink angle—forget it. He’d never been good at letting go either. Timur was.

  Marcus shook his head and reached for the rope. Timur shrugged again. “Keep it?”

  “Want to stay tied up?”

  “No rush.” Timur yawned.

  Again, it wasn’t fair to compare the two, but Ray was the get-this-off-me-now type right after orgasm. Timur was so much more chilled, it amazed Marcus. Reluctantly, he got off, then dealt with the condom. He found a small bathroom just across the hall and grabbed a towel from there to wipe the semen off Timur’s chest and belly. Timur stretched out under the touches like a cat, a half grin tugging at his lips.

  “Comfortable?” Marcus asked, chuckling.

  “Is better than sleeping in a tree.”

  “A…what?”

  Timur laughed and shook his head. “Tied to a bed with a man who likes to fuck. More comfortable than many things.”

  Marcus could only imagine, but at the same time, he couldn’t argue. If the tables had been turned and Timur had had him tied to the headboard, he didn’t think he’d be in any hurry to leave.

  Still, he didn’t want to push his luck and have Timur actually get uncomfortable, so he loosened the paracord. Timur slipped one hand free, then the other, and they left the ropes partially wound around the bars. As Marcus settled onto the mattress, Timur wrapped an arm around his shoulders and drew him down against his chest.

  Marcus closed his eyes and sighed—being tied to a bed might have been comfortable for Timur, but there was nothing in the world more comfortable than lying beside someone as warm—and hot—as Timur.

  The sex, as well as Marcus’s shift at Wilde’s, quickly started catching up with him. His eyelids were starting to get heavy, his whole body lethargic.

  “Damn.” He yawned. “I want to do…” What was I talking about? “I want to do more. Tired.”

  Timur tenderly stroked his hair. “Sleep. More tomorr
ow.”

  Marcus laughed. Timur said it so casually, as if they were talking about an outing or planning to do some chores. Sleep now, sex tomorrow.

  And amusing as it was, it sounded like a pretty damned good idea.

  Especially the sleep.

  Chapter Seven

  Marcus’s eyes fluttered open. It was daylight now. Holy fuck, bright.

  He groaned and buried his face in the pillow, but he didn’t drift off like he’d hoped. Slowly, consciousness was taking over, his awareness of his surroundings coming into focus like a developing Polaroid.

  And then he realized why he’d woken up in the first place—something soft brushed the back of his shoulder. Down. Then up. Then down again.

  A spider?

  Panic jolted him completely awake, and he pushed himself up, batting at the place where the offending sensation had been. He found nothing, though, and didn’t see any spiders scurrying into the folds of the comforter.

  Idiot. You were dreaming.

  He rubbed a hand over his face and turned onto his side. Timur was still next to him, lying on his stomach and snoring softly. And it turned out Marcus hadn’t been dreaming after all—the soft thing that had tickled his shoulder was the end of the big orange cat’s tail. She had perched on top of Timur, sleeping between his shoulders and on top of the tattooed Madonna. It glared at Marcus as if to demand an explanation for his presence. Her tail twitched, emphasizing her annoyance and brushing Marcus’s arm just like it had been when she’d woken him up.

  He gently nudged her tail away, and if looks could kill…

  “Easy, kitty,” he muttered. “Not a morning cat, are you?”

  The tail swished harder, thumping against Timur’s shoulder. He grumbled something and stirred beneath the huge, surly cat. He started to push himself up, but the cat dug her claws in.

  Muttering something in Russian—Marcus guessed—Timur turned his head, stubble hissing across the pillow, and looked over his shoulder. He and the cat made eye contact for a second, and he just laughed, reaching back to scratch her ears, which prompted her to swat at him with one of her huge orange paws. He lifted himself again, tilting just enough to put her off-balance, and she jumped off him, landing on the floor with an indignant huff.

  “They think I am their bed.” He rolled onto his side and reached for Marcus’s face. “Spoiled.”

  Marcus just chuckled. The cat was a foul-tempered little shit, but he had to admit, there was something almost painfully adorable about a big tough soldier like Timur gently interacting with her. It made him miss Jasmine, but he also wasn’t ready to get a new cat yet. He was over Ray, but not over Jasmine.

  Marcus sat up and rubbed his face. “So what’s the plan today?”

  “No plan.” Timur remained exactly where he was, and Marcus wondered just how early he had to get up while in the Legion. Maybe he took advantage of any scrap of laziness he could get now.

  “So what do you do when you’re not shooting at people?”

  Timur glanced at the cat, then back at Marcus. “Train, eat, sleep. Read.” He pointed vaguely toward the backpack with its survival supplies. “Books in there.”

  And why that surprised Marcus he didn’t even know. Despite his limited English and bulk, Timur didn’t strike him as stupid.

  “You?”

  “Well, I’ve never shot at people. Regardless of how much I’ve wanted to at times.” Marcus rolled his neck. “But I cook. Helps me to relax. I work out too.” Timur’s eyes lit up, and Marcus chuckled. “I should take care of a few things today, but we could meet later on at my place, and I’ll rustle up some food for us. If you’re interested.”

  “Yes.” Timur definitely perked up. “When?”

  “Six at my place? I can pick you up here at five thirty. You can stay overnight if you like, or I’ll stay here.”

  “Cats will be all right for night.”

  “I think so.”

  And there went his amended two-night-stand rule—it had turned into a three-night stand. Practically fucking married.

  But rules were made to be broken. And so was furniture. And if Timur was willing to put the structural integrity of Marcus’s bed to the test tonight? Well, fuck the rules.

  When Marcus had extended the invitation for Timur to come to his place, he’d only had sex and cooking on the brain. And out of sheer habit, he’d imagined them fucking and cooking in the place that had been home for the last few years—the house in Medina that he’d shared with Ray.

  Not…this.

  He stood in the living room and scowled at the piles of boxes—some open, most still sealed. He’d had a guest or two since moving in, but nobody he’d particularly wanted to impress.

  Which gave him pause.

  Did he want to impress Timur?

  No. No, he didn’t. He wanted to cook for him, and he wanted to have sex with him, and then when Chris and Julien came back, and Timur left for God knew where, that would be it. So what if Timur thought he was a hoarder or disorganized or whatever the fuck he thought? As long as he was happy with Marcus’s food and dick, it was all good.

  But…maybe he didn’t need to use the couch as a laundry basket. Because it could be used for other things. Not because it needed to be clean or because he needed to show his clothing was always kept neatly folded and put away. The couch was a flat surface usable for sex. That was it.

  Whatever helps you sleep, yo, he thought as he started collecting clothes off the cushions. And as long as he was taking them into the bedroom, he went ahead and folded them. And put them away. Just to keep them off the bed and any other surface that might be useful this evening. Which was also why, while he was at it, he made the bed. Gave the bathroom a once-over. Okay, twice-over.

  The one room in the house he didn’t have to worry about was the kitchen. No kitchen of his would ever be anything short of immaculate.

  But…just in case.

  By the time he’d finished scrubbing every surface in the kitchen until the appliances gleamed, it was nearly four o’clock. Just enough time to get himself in order before he went to get Timur. And, damn it, he hadn’t gone to the grocery store yet. Fuck. Well, he’d just have to do that with Timur. Hopefully he wouldn’t mind.

  He quickly made a shopping list of everything he’d need to prepare the dishes he’d planned, then took one last look in the bathroom mirror to make sure he looked presentable. And that the bathroom mirror looked presentable, along with the rest of the room.

  Relax. He’s not going to give the place a white-glove inspection.

  Marcus rolled his eyes at the thought. Probably just some insecurity left over from life with Ray. Marcus was still surprised Ray hadn’t ever done a white-glove inspection of their place. God knew he’d done enough of those at the restaurant. As if Marcus would ever allow a speck of dirt in his kitchen.

  On the way out the door, he paused and added “more wine” to the shopping list. If he was already this spun up and neurotic over Timur coming to his place, he was going to need it.

  At least Seattle’s horrific rush-hour traffic wasn’t exceptionally bad today—no wrecks to slow things down more than usual—and he managed to get to Burien on time.

  Listening to music and thinking about Timur, he shook off the stressful memories of his ex-husband and instead focus on tonight. When he pulled up in front of Chris and Julien’s house, his mood was considerably lighter. This time, he got to ring the doorbell, and it took Timur a few moments to get to the door. When he opened, he was only wearing a towel around his hips and still soaking wet otherwise, with water running from his short dark hair into his face and along his nose. “Shower.”

  “Sorry, I’m a little early.”

  Timur waved him in, closed the door and took the towel from around his hips to run it over his face and head. Marcus tried not to stare. “Five minutes.”

>   “Sure. I’ll check on the cats.” Which meant he wouldn’t jump Timur then and there.

  Timur went back upstairs, and Marcus checked the cat food and water. The orange one watched him closely as if it suspected him of wanting to steal some. “Not quite that hungry,” Marcus assured it.

  Everything seemed in order—no coffee machine that needed switching off, the fridge was closed properly—so Marcus crossed his arms in front of his chest and leaned against one of the counters to stop himself from fussing. It came with the territory for him—kitchens always felt like they should follow his rules and be organized like his own kitchen, because that was the best and only way to do it. Professional neurosis.

  Timur came back down the stairs. He wore some beaten-up sneakers and khaki trousers that looked pretty military to Marcus, as well as a snug Seahawks T-shirt that looked brand-new.

  “You going as a native?”

  Timur paused, then pointed at the shirt. “Native?”

  “American football? Seahawks is our local team.”

  “Ah.” Timur shrugged, looking a bit at a loss. He might have been given the shirt as a gift or picked one up at the airport—it clearly meant pretty much nothing to him. “Let’s go?”

  “Let’s.” Marcus opened the door and headed toward the car. “We’ll have to pick up some ingredients and wine on the way. I forgot to ask if you’re allergic to something. Lactose or gluten intolerant?”

  Timur shook his head. “Not allergic.”

  There was a supermarket a few minutes from Chris and Julien’s place. It wasn’t the gourmet, artisan, organic, free-range, fair-trade, everything store Marcus usually went to, but it would do the job.

  On the way in, he wondered if this kind of thing was alien to Timur. He had no idea where the man had grown up, and zero clue how to ask without sounding like he assumed everyone outside of metropolitan American cities had to forage for roots in between trapping rabbits. Though now that he thought about it, he was curious. Where had Timur come from? What had his early years been like? And what the hell was the French Foreign Legion like?