Authors: Joey W. Hill
“
You
look gorgeous, Thomas. Now hold still or I’m going to choke you into a faint so I can do this without you moving around so much. I’m a professional doctor, I can do it.”
“Is Josh helping Marcus do this?”
Lauren snorted and cursed, chuckling as she ruined it herself this time. Seeing Thomas grin, she narrowed her gaze at him. “You did that on purpose. I had to tell Josh not to wear gym socks with his dress shoes. The only way Marcus would let Josh touch his cravat is if
he
was passed out. Ah, hell. Julie, go get Tyler. He knows how to do this stuff. Third row from the back. He’ll be sitting with a stunning woman with white hair.”
Julie slid off her perch on a nearby chair, gave them a brilliant smile and
disappeared.
“He’s here with his mother?”
“Hardly. I said white, not gray. She’s his wife.” She gave him an arch look. “I should have really fixed your ass and told you Josh was giving Marcus one last quickie before he’s off the market.” She reached out and ran a hand down his lapel,
straightening the white rose in the buttonhole. “But the truth of it is, he’s even more nervous than you are.”
She raised soft eyes to him, registering his astonishment. “You and I know about this stuff, Thomas. Love, commitment. It’s really new territory for him. He’s been so afraid to give his whole heart to anyone, and he’s given it to you.” After a brief pause, her lips tightened. “How did things go in Iowa? I still can’t believe you insisted on a visit there before you did this.”
Thomas sobered. “I wanted him to know that he didn’t have to hide anything about who he is, or who he was, from me. It went about as he told me it would.” He shook his head. “His mother said she couldn’t see him right now. We left after about an hour.”
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But Thomas had gone back in for just a minute, while Marcus spoke to his brother outside about his mother’s financial arrangements. His mother stood isolated, alone at the kitchen counter, slicing a tomato into the tiniest pieces Thomas had ever seen in his life.
He came within three steps of her, studying her housedress, so like the ones his mother wore in the morning, the smooth gray of her hair pulled into a barrette at her neck. Her husband had probably liked her hair long. He knew he liked Marcus’ that way and suspected the thick, healthy strands had been inherited from her. She didn’t turn around when he spoke, but she stopped cutting. That was the only
acknowledgement he needed.
“Your son asked me to spend my life with him. To marry him.” He made himself
say it, though he knew many people thought wanting to commit their whole lives to someone spiritually was only a heterosexual person’s need. “I know it would mean a lot to him if you attended, but even if you don’t, I wanted you to know. He’s always going to have someone looking after him. I’ll be there to hear his good news when he’s excited about something. If something makes him mad, I’ll help him work through it, because he has a hell of a temper.”
“His father had that,” she said, then pressed her lips together.
Thomas nodded. “So he comes by it honestly. If he’s sad, I’ll be there too. I’ll do whatever needs to be done to help him be happy. He’s not going to be lonely. I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering how I got so lucky, even though he tells me he’s the lucky one. So…I just want you to know that. Being his mother, I’m sure knowing someone’s going to be looking after him is important to you.”
Then he turned and left.
“Doesn’t he remind you of Marcus?”
Lauren’s whispered question brought him back to the present, and the reality of finding himself face-to-face with Tyler Winterman.
He also found he had to agree with her. A hundred percent sexual Dominant in a
six-four frame, Tyler had an easy confidence and authority. While he wasn’t as pretty as Marcus, he certainly held him toe-to-toe in charisma, enough that Thomas found
himself a little fumble-handed and tongue-tied around him, despite the fact Tyler was obviously, solidly straight.
But feeling his hands on his throat, tying the cravat, his face so close, Thomas couldn’t help but flush. He guessed he would always be a shy Southern farm boy, but that was okay. That’s what Marcus wanted.
“So are you going to give Marcus that auction piece you bought out from under
him?” Lauren teased. Tyler stepped back, eyed the cravat critically, nodded. Then shot Lauren a look. “I made a photo of it,” he said in a rich Southern drawl. “It has a very nice frame.”
Tyler’s wife stood at the door. She reminded Thomas of the other side of the
entrance to an Egyptian pyramid. A pharaoh and his queen. The way her gaze moved 257
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over Thomas told him she was a Mistress. Josh had told him that, but it still boggled the mind, two Dominants married.
When Lauren saw his gaze shifting between the two of them, she tugged his sleeve.
“Don’t try to figure it out,” she murmured. “It fits, is all. It works for them.”
Apparently it did, for as Tyler came to her side, the woman with moonlight-colored hair and pale blue eyes yielded to his arm sliding around her waist. He pressed her against the door with his body for a simple brush of her lips that, though brief, was full of heat.
“Newlyweds,” Lauren rolled her eyes.
“Yeah, thank God we’re past all that,” Josh said. He’d arrived in the opposite
doorway and now stood watching them. “I see you have enough company to keep you from bolting. But I’ll be happy to distract them if you’re having second thoughts. Not many artists are brave enough to marry their pain-in-the-ass manager.”
“I thought you were in the other room to keep Marcus from bolting,” Thomas said dryly. Julie chuckled, moving under his arm to wrap her arms around his waist and give him a hard hug. Thomas smiled down at her, squeezed her shoulders.
“I was.” Josh shifted. “His mother and brother are here. That’s why I came to get you. Tradition and all, but—”
Thomas was already past him and out the door, moving down the hallway.
The door to the other dressing area was ajar. Thomas stopped in the opening and surveyed the three people facing each other in an awkward triangle. Marcus’ mother had worn a pretty pink dress that managed with some artful tucks and gathers not to hang too obviously on her too-sparse frame. It helped soften the harsh lines of her worn face. Her other son had a reassuring hand at her elbow even as he kept his gaze fixed on Marcus.
Thomas rapped his knuckles lightly on the frame, all uncertainty melting away in the face of Marcus’ speechless, pale expression.
“Connie, thank you for coming. You look beautiful.” Thomas took her free hand
briefly. Coming to Marcus’ side, he touched his back, an obvious protective and reassuring gesture. “John. We’re so glad both of you could come.”
He looked up to see Tyler and Josh at the door, Lauren and Julie just behind.
Reinforcements. Friends who cared.
“We’re going to start in a few minutes. I’m going to ask Tyler and Lauren here,”
Thomas nodded, turning Connie and putting his hand out to direct John, “to take you out and get you settled. I think we’ll break tradition, such as it is,” a ghost of a smile touched his features, seeming to surprise them both, “and have you seated with my mother and sister. Mom’s about as overwhelmed by all this as I’m sure you are, and you’ll be an anchor for her.”
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Tyler stepped forward on cue and offered his free arm as Lauren guided Marcus’
brother. Thomas turned back to Marcus when they ushered them away. Josh, Marcus’
best man, did his part and quietly closed the door.
“Marcus?”
There was a muscle twitching in his jaw, one hand clenching. Thomas reached out, closed his hand over a rigid biceps. “Hey. You okay? I invited them. I didn’t tell you because…well, I didn’t want them not coming to ruin it. I hoped, but hell, it shocked me to see them, just about as much as it did when Mom told me she and Les were coming.”
“Goddamn it.” Marcus turned away, drew a deep, shuddering breath. “You know
you’re every fucking miracle in my life, right? Everything that’s told me I ever did anything right?”
Thomas’ throat closed up and he simply put his arm around his lover, the man who was his Master and would soon be his spouse, always. “And you’ve always been my best friend, from the beginning. Helping me to be everything I could possibly become.
So let’s go get married so we can screw legitimately.”
Marcus coughed on a snort. “I think there’ll be some disagreement with that.”
“Fuck them. I love you. Want to see what Les made us as a gift?”
“You’re opening gifts without me?”
Thomas laughed and went to the table. “Shut up and look.”
This changing room had become a temporary storeroom for the earlier gifts.
Thomas took Les’ out now. It was needlepoint, a framed print. At one time, he would have worried that Marcus would laugh at something so provincial, but now Marcus took it and a smile spread across his face, dispelling the shadows. It made him such a sexy picture in that tux it almost took Thomas’ breath. He had to look down at the picture as well so he wouldn’t make a fool of himself.
It was a rendering of the country mouse and city mouse folk tale. She’d stitched a city skyline behind the country mouse, a rolling field and black-and-white cow behind the city mouse. Each mouse had features of Thomas and Marcus. At the bottom she’d carefully stitched the wedding date and the modified quote:
What therefore God hath joined together, let no one put asunder.
“She wasn’t sure if we’d like it, but…”
“It’s perfect, like her.” Marcus said, obviously moved by the work she put into it, the sentiment it conveyed. “And what’s this—”
Thomas tried to get it back, but Marcus snatched the note Rory had included.
You know, they say sons marry their mothers. I’m thinking Marcus seems about as
bullheaded as Mom. So good luck. You’ll need it. Oh, and if you and the New York fruit could
arrange to be home the week before Christmas to help with the tree deliveries, we could use the
extra hands.
Thomas burst out laughing at Marcus’ look of affront. “He’s comparing me to your mother?”
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“Well you do have that kind of disapproving purse to your lips right now… There are definite resemblances. I mean, her hair isn’t as well conditioned as yours, but maybe you can give her tips on that.”
“Horse’s ass. Remind me to bring a crate of New York apples and oranges for the obnoxious little cripple.”
When Marcus shoved at him, Thomas ducked away and put the picture down with
the other gifts.
It made him think of something else, though. While he tried to push the thought away, of course Marcus saw the shadow of it cross through his eyes.
“What is it, pet?”
“I guess that holds true for me too. I’m like your mother. Just because someone tells you that you have to act a certain way to prove you love them, doesn’t make that the honorable thing to do, or the right thing. Sometimes, making them realize you need to do the right thing
and
can still love them is what’s right. I’m so sorry, Marcus.”
He faced him, met him eye to eye. “Thank you for fighting for us both until I
figured it out.”
“Well,” Marcus shrugged, finding himself at a loss.
Thomas touched his face. “You aren’t getting all weepy on me, are you? You
Yankee boys, you cry a lot. Now Tyler Winterman, he seems a big strong Southern guy, no tears… And he can tie a cravat too, which you know is very important for my day-to-day fashion requirements.”
Marcus caught his wrist. “Don’t test me, farm boy.” He shot him a smile. While he knew Thomas was teasing him, he nevertheless felt the need to add, “You’re mine, pet.
Mine to protect and love.”
“Same goes. I’m yours. Master.” Thomas moved closer, his dark brown eyes getting that intent focused look that made Marcus’ thoughts immediately shift to what they might be doing to celebrate their first night married. “And I’m going to take care of you too. Whatever way you demand, and a lot of ways you won’t.”
“I can think of a few demands now.” As Marcus closed the gap to taste Thomas’
lips, Thomas’ fingers dug in at his waist in that strong, urgent way Marcus knew so well.
Strength and gentleness. His farm boy. Strong, sexy exterior and a steel core, with a generous, shy heart that was all his. Forever.
His family.
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About the Author
I’ve always had an aversion to reading, watching or hearing interviews of favorite actors, authors, musicians, etc. because so often the real person doesn’t measure up to the beauty of the art they produce. Their politics or religion are distasteful, or they’re shallow and self-absorbed, a vacuous mophead without a lick of sense. From then on, though I may appreciate their craft or art, it has somehow been tarnished. Therefore, whenever I’m asked to provide personal information about myself for readers, a ball of anxiety forms in my stomach as I think: “Okay, the next couple of paragraphs can change forever the way someone views my stories.” Why on earth does a reader want to know about me? It’s the story that’s important.
So here it is. I’ve been given more blessings in my life than any one person has a right to have. Despite that, I’m a Type A, borderline obsessive-compulsive paranoiac who worries I will never live up to expectations. I’ve got more phobias than anyone (including myself) has patience to read about. I can’t stand talking on the phone, I dread social commitments, and the idea of living in monastic solitude with my husband and animals, books and writing is as close an idea to paradise as I can imagine. I love chocolate, but with that deeply ingrained, irrational female belief that weight equals worth, I manage to keep it down to a minor addiction. I adore good movies. I’m told I work too much. Every day is spent trying to get through the never ending “to do” list to snatch a few minutes to write.