by Joey W. Hill
If you wish to don a loin cloth like an Egyptian slave and fan us while we sleep, Gideon, we won’t object.
Sure, I fuck your brains out, do all the work, and now you want me to fan you. With you vampires it’s all me, me, me.
Daegan’s lips quirked as he gave Gideon’s hair a sharp tug. But they all settled then, the night sounds of the marsh taking over. It wasn’t too far from dawn, such that Anwyn dropped off fairly quickly. Gideon dozed himself for a bit, but he and Daegan were on the same time clock. When they hit that vital hour before sunrise, they both woke, because Gideon’s fledging Mistress needed the subterranean bedroom for full daylight.
Daegan carried her, Gideon securing the house as they passed through it. Once downstairs, they took their accustomed spots on either side of her on the bed, flanking her. Daegan propped his head on his hand, though, and laid his hand on her hip. When the vampire nodded to it, Gideon wasn’t entirely sure the vampire meant what he thought he meant, but as Daegan’s eyes met his, he was sure. Well, hell.
Taking a breath, Gideon laid his hand over the vampire’s. He felt Anwyn’s smooth skin between his splayed fingers. Some of the remarkable feelings from the past few hours returned as Gideon stroked the male’s knuckles. An odd lump grew in his throat before Daegan gently disengaged his hand, leaning forward to lay that hand on Gideon’s face and force him to hold his gaze. His expression told Gideon he was fully his Master once more…not that he’d ever stopped.
Correct, vampire hunter. I am always that. But…
He drew back, tapping his chest where Gideon had cut him, where the letters were no longer visible. But, as Daegan had said, it didn’t matter. Especially when he spoke the words in Gideon’s mind now.
Your name is in my heart, Gideon. Always. Now lie down and sleep, and know we belong to one another, all three of us. Nothing can change that. I will never allow it to be otherwise.
Gideon reached out and put two of his fingers on the same spot, feeling the steady beat. Same goes, vampire. You’re not alone in that, remember? Or do I have to fuck your ass all over again to remind you?
Daegan’s lips curved at the challenge, those dark eyes gleaming. Do not push your luck, vampire hunter.
At that, he slid down behind Anwyn, motivating Gideon to do the same on the other side. As Gideon put his arm over her waist, his palm settling on the curve of her hip, Daegan’s arm overlapped his, the vampire’s hand coming to rest on Gideon’s side, a result of the male’s longer arms. Gideon didn’t mind. Anwyn shifted in her sleep, tucking her typically cold feet between Gideon’s calves for warmth, her hands finding their way to rest on Daegan’s chest.
If there was any moment more perfect in the universe, Gideon didn’t want it. He fell asleep, holding the feeling inside of him, the connection to the two of them, and was content.
The End
First Christmas
A vignette about Marcus and Thomas, characters from the Nature of Desire Series.
Originally Published 12/22/13
Marcus first appeared as a key secondary character in Book I of the series, Holding the Cards. His and Thomas’s full story occurred in Rough Canvas, and they have made subsequent appearances in other books in the series.
Background: In this story, we revisit Marcus and Thomas during their first Christmas together as a married couple.
* * *
Finally on the plane. Planning a nap so I’ll have enough energy to do what I want to do to you when I get there. Fuck, that made me sound old…
Well, you are in your forties now. Some decay is expected. Don’t forget, before Christmas Eve dinner with my mother, you have to practice not using the f-bomb in every sentence.
Decay? Fuck fuck fuck fuck, fucking fucked, have fuck, will fuck, should fuck…
Thomas snorted. Propping an elbow on the top of the ladder, he leaned against its steps as he sent a response text: She’ll smack you with a wooden spoon where it will do the most good. I still have the mark from the last time she used it on me. I was nine. Get some sleep. I miss you.
Pocketing the phone in his jeans, he turned his attention to the task at hand, adjusting a strand of lights on the eight-foot Christmas tree in their living room. Yeah, maybe it was overkill, but it was his and Marcus’s first Christmas together as a married couple. The twinkling white tree lights reflected off the wedding band on his left hand. Though it had been a few months, Thomas still found himself staring at it a couple times a day. It represented a treasure he’d never expected to have in his possession. A treasure he’d never expected to have complete possession of him, but Marcus was his Master, now and forever. The ring said so.
That didn’t mean the road was always paved in gold, though. Thomas surveyed the tree, suppressing a sigh. He’d wanted to text Marcus something like “Tree and house look great. Can’t wait to show you.” But Marcus would have responded with something like, “If you meet me at the door with a bow around your dick, that’s all I care about.” Typical banter, but it would have fallen flat for Thomas right now, part of a string of disappointments he’d hidden inside since the Christmas season had started.
It had become more and more difficult to involve Marcus in the traditions Thomas had thought they might enjoy together. Shopping for family members, decorating, planning the Christmas Eve dinner they’d agreed to host for Thomas’s family. Marcus had claimed work, gallery showings, a new artist to supervise, yada yada. He’d nod or point when Thomas asked his opinion on dinner, gifts, decorations, but as soon as he could manage it, Marcus’s eyes would cut away and his body language would avert in the same manner, not-so-subtle signals that he wasn’t interested in anything more than perfunctory responses.
He was ready to show up for sex and anything that didn’t involve Christmas, but the closer they drew to the holiday, the more he seemed to be pulling away. Marcus had bailed three days before Christmas Eve, saying he had to head off to New York for a few last minute issues. Though Marcus promised to be back before that night, Thomas had half expected to receive a text at any time since then, saying something had come up and Marcus wouldn’t be able to make it home until after the holiday. Apparently his Master had realized that would be the final straw, causing Thomas to break all this open, confront what the hell was going on.
Thomas had tried to be patient. He understood this was the first Christmas Marcus had spent in a family environment in a long time, and his memories of past Christmases couldn’t have been good ones. When he’d been living on the street as a teenager in New York, God only knew what kinds of things he’d been doing to mark the Yuletide. Thomas had rationalized it was best to let Marcus stand on the outskirts if that was where he needed to be this first Christmas, easing his toe into these waters. But Thomas had nursed his own hopes of creating a wealth of first Christmas memories with Marcus, and it was hard to put that away.
He was being selfish. In every other way, their first few months of married life were nothing short of wedded bliss. Though Marcus winced at such sentiment, he hadn’t denied it when Thomas teased him with the term. They’d worked together on renovating the old farmhouse for their unique needs and style while maintaining the homey spirit of the place. Marcus wasn’t as intuitive when it came to “homey”, but he’d gone along on that journey with no hesitation, bemused and pleased by the choices Thomas had suggested to transform a house into a home.
He’d even seemed quite touched by the house warming gift Elaine, Thomas’s mother, had brought them. Practical as always and realizing they were having to furnish and outfit a second home, Elaine had purchased a blue and brown glaze vase from a local artisan and stocked it with kitchen utensils. While the quality of the vase was nothing close to the standards of the NY art world, Marcus had been very complimentary of it and it now had an honored spot on the sturdy oak table.
The remembrance warmed Thomas and increased his sense of shame. He firmed his jaw. If the first Christmas was a tough one for Marcus, there would be other Christmases. When Tho
mas had danced with his mother at their wedding, she’d given him a piece of advice that resonated clearly now.
“This is the least important day of your marriage, Thomas,” she’d said. She’d seemed so small in his arms, and yet those eyes and mouth of hers always conveyed a larger-than-life will. Much like the one the man he was marrying had, God help him. “A marriage is far more than one day,” she said. “It’s years and years of loving, laughing, crying, fighting and learning hard lessons about making your lives fit together. You build it one brick at a time, and some days you’ll want to take that brick and bash it against his head. Other days he’ll feel the same about you. Love becomes strong because of the hard times, not the easy ones.”
He got it. He did. He was in for the long haul. But God, he wished Marcus wanted to share Christmas with him, rather than just endure it.
“It’s a shame Marcus isn’t here to help.”
Daralyn was a quiet slip of a girl, a shadow always watching and listening, so Thomas wasn’t at all surprised she’d picked up on his mood as if he’d been bitching non-stop for the past ten minutes. She spoke from the floor, where she sat cross-legged, untangling a string of lights for the live garland coiled around her like a fragrant, pine-scented boa. Marcus and Thomas paid her to clean the house once a week, extra income for her above what she earned working at the hardware store with Rory. She also now lived in their small guesthouse, an outbuilding that used to be the farm’s second hay barn.
The idea had been his sister Celeste’s, or “Les” as they called her. She’d offered up the wisdom in a quick heart-to-heart with her oldest brother. “We need to start treating Daralyn like a grown-up. Maybe she isn’t ready to live on her own in an apartment somewhere in town, but she needs her own place. A place where she’s not sharing the house with Rory like she’s his sister.”
The significance of that pointed statement wasn’t lost on Thomas and, with Elaine’s help, who was on the same track, they’d eased the shy young woman toward the idea. Since then, she’d embraced it fully, delighting in having her first “home”, especially after Marcus and Thomas made it clear it was her space to paint and decorate as she wished. When he had the upper doors open in the main barn that was now his studio, Thomas could hear the soothing chimes she’d hung by her front door. Their music was brought to life by the breezes that came across the open fields.
Thomas cleared his throat. “He’ll be here in a few hours. He caught a ride with some clients who were flying a private charter to Florida. They said they didn’t mind dropping him off on the way.”
Given how surly Marcus had been before he left, Thomas hoped he was in a better mood with his fellow passengers. Else they might drop him off over the state without landing first. He glanced at Daralyn. The young woman wore modest, serviceable jeans and T-shirt, her smooth brown hair pulled back in a tidy braid down her back, her usual attire.
“You know, much as I love having your help, you spent all morning getting this place in shape,” he said. “You really don’t need to be doing this, too.”
She shook her head, raising remarkably beautiful hazel eyes to his before returning her attention to twining the now unsnarled lights around the garland. “No one should decorate for Christmas alone. It makes you feel sad.”
Since Daralyn had spent her childhood with an abusive uncle and father who could have cared less about whether or not Christmas was celebrated, Thomas was sure she’d experienced that firsthand. The miracle was that she’d tried to do it on her own, in a household with nothing resembling a family. As a teenager, before they’d found out the reality of her situation, he remembered visiting her one Christmas and seeing a small tree. She’d probably dug it out of the untended overgrowth behind the house that was one step up from a shack. She’d hung it with a few sparse ornaments, all made by an adolescent hand. The candles in the window were the kind for storm supplies, but she’d put greenery around them to make them more festive. He wondered if she’d known the seasonal mythology behind candle lighting, to represent the Bethlehem star, to guide Mary and Joseph… It didn’t matter. It had all been about hope.
“Daralyn is special,” his mother always said. “She may seem like a skittering mouse, but there’s something beneath as resilient as an angel’s smile.”
Since she’d been living under his family’s protection, Daralyn had grown more confident, meaning she would actually talk without being addressed first, mostly. And she’d learned to interact with customers at their hardware and farm supply store, offer help when needed. But with the exception of Thomas, whom she’d inexplicably trusted from the first, she was nervous as a cat around men. She’d grown more comfortable around Rory, though. They’d all noticed it, how she watched him when she thought no one was looking.
Considering that now, he added a few more ornaments to the tree. “I think you should corner Rory tomorrow night,” he said casually. “Tell him to kiss you under the mistletoe. If you jam the brake of his wheelchair, he can’t get away.”
He saw her hide her serious smile behind her hand. “That’s just mean.”
“Big brothers are mean. It’s our job. He watches you, you know.” Thomas had a vision of Rory trying to run him over with his wheelchair for initiating this conversation, but even his mother had said if they waited on the two of them, she’d be long dead in the ground before they exchanged their first kiss.
“Oh…well.” Daralyn flushed, which was a good sign. It was when color drained from her face that panic hit. “I could never…tell him to do something.”
The last part was delivered in a very quiet voice, but Thomas not only caught it, he understood the significance in a way she likely didn’t. At least not consciously. Which was interesting, because Marcus had picked up on it the first time he met her, but Marcus picked up on a true submissive orientation like a coon dog on the scent of bacon frying three counties over. Thomas could just imagine his Master’s response to such a provincial comparison.
Thomas hadn’t been as sure of her status, given her traumatic history, but the more time he spent around her, the more he was sure Marcus was right. Though whether it would help or hinder her in a relationship was hard to say.
Giving her a thoughtful look, Thomas came across the room to take the garland from her. The two of them moved to the doorway where he’d already placed the hooks. As he hung the garland over them, Daralyn fluffed the greenery, arranging it for its best look. “You have a knack for this stuff,” he said sincerely. “Mom loves the Christmas displays at the store. And the flower arrangements you leave when you clean here work great. Which is once again, over and above what we pay you to do.”
“Oh no.” She shook her head vehemently. “You shouldn’t be paying me at all. You let me stay in the guesthouse for almost nothing—”
“It’s a one-room space with a kitchenette and bathroom. And we had to add that, as well as insulation and a proper floor, to make it habitable. Between the work at the store and keeping us straight here, you do plenty. Neither one of us likes cleaning, but neither one of us wants to live in a pigsty, either. Then there are the nights you fix us dinner because Marcus is a workaholic and I’m too up to my elbows in my projects to even think about cooking. Not up for discussion. You’re worth every penny.” He nudged her. “If I were you, I’d badger us for a raise or a Christmas bonus.”
She worried her bottom lip with even teeth, changed the subject. “Do you want the small frosted gold balls on this? I think that would look really nice.”
He nodded. “That’d be the perfect touch. See what I mean? And you know, if you don’t feel comfortable telling Rory, maybe you should ask him to kiss you.”
Daralyn’s braid fell over her shoulder as she bent over the box, retrieving three of the gold balls. She had a good figure. Good enough to have Rory’s eyes roving over her, despite his best attempts not to let the rest of the family see him doing it. She needed some serious feeding up, though. A good wind could blow her away.
“Ma
ybe I should,” she said, surprising him. “But maybe you should tell Marcus it hurts your feelings, the way he’s been avoiding sharing Christmas with you.”
Thomas could deny it, but again, she didn’t miss much. He met her gaze as she straightened. He needed to paint her in a field, lying among flowers, with that wistful smile on her face he sometimes caught there. It contained all the sorrow and joy of a broken world. Though he did a lot of erotic material that appealed to gay men, he wasn’t limited to that. He could easily imagine a whole series with her as subject matter, the colors starting to mix in his mind.
She was watching him with that very smile now. “Marcus told me you do that, but it’s the first time I’ve seen it. You’re thinking of a painting, aren’t you?”
He chuckled, a little self-consciously. “You shouldn’t believe everything he tells you, but yeah. As far as sharing with him…I think he’s dealing with some past Christmas stuff. As long as he’s here and we get through, that’s what matters.”
Thomas stepped back, sweeping a critical gaze over the living room and kitchen. With the tree, lit garlands and assorted decorations tastefully embellishing the farmhouse décor, it looked like a country Christmas postcard. It had to have some kind of positive impact on Marcus, no matter how he acted. The tree was decorated with a variety of ornaments from Thomas’s past, as well as ones he’d bought to make it his and Marcus’s tree. Things he’d hoped Marcus would like, since the day they’d planned to shop for them together, Marcus had begged off with another business interruption.
It was excuses. All excuses. Daralyn was right. It hurt, because even though rationally Thomas understood that it was about Marcus’s past, it felt like he was making a statement about their future together. When he’d asked Marcus a few weeks ago what he thought of going with the eight-foot tree versus six-foot, Marcus hadn’t looked up from his laptop as he answered.
