“Can I get you two another drink?” A frazzled-looking waitress interrupted their heated stare. Trevor leaned back, not having realized that he’d bent forward in the first place, pulled into Marc’s intense eyes by some unseen force.
“Not for me, thank you,” he said.
“I’ll have another hot brandy, please,” Marc ordered. With a nod of her head, the woman turned on her heel, and then they were alone again. Well, as alone as they could be in a packed lounge.
Marc shifted in his seat. “So what do you do, Trevor?”
“I’m an artist. And you?”
“Lawyer.”
“Oh no!” Trevor exaggerated a wince, and Marc laughed. “There has to be a joke somewhere about that. An artist and a lawyer walk into a bar . . .”
Marc chuckled. “With the number of ‘walk into a bar’ jokes out there, I wouldn’t be surprised if there is one.”
“I’m going to have to google that now,” Trevor teased.
Charged silence settled between them for a long moment, and their eyes locked again. Trevor knew he wasn’t imagining it, seeing his own desire reflected back at him in captivating shades of green. He had zero intention of starting anything with anyone, but there was no denying the way this man was tripping all his wires. They were two grown men stranded in a blizzard, though. What could it hurt to enjoy each other’s company for one night? Assuming Marc had been able to get a room, of course.
“So . . .” Marc began. He looked down at his drink briefly, as though he were carefully choosing his words or about to admit some deep, dark secret. Trevor caught the slight dip of Marc’s mouth as he pursed his lips, making a dimple in his cheek peek out. Uncertainty flickered in those eyes like a passing shadow, and gave Trevor the impression there was a story behind Marc’s outward confidence. A story he suddenly found himself wanting to hear. Or better yet, paint.
“Tell me what life as an artist is like.” Marc absently slid a long, manicured index finger around the rim of his glass.
Trevor followed the movement, hypnotized. A flush spread over his skin, seeped beneath the surface, and hopped a ride on the fast-moving current of blood in his veins to pool in his groin like an oasis at the bottom of a waterfall. Christ, all he could think about was getting Marc alone.
He cleared his throat and lifted his eyes. A faint grin tipped one side of Marc’s mouth, and Trevor fought the urge to lean across the table and capture those lips with his. Marc lifted an eyebrow, expectant. He was waiting for . . .?
Oh right, an answer. And the question was . . . not what he’d expected. He really had thought he was going to hear some sort of confession, and now the simple question about his work threw him off.
Floundering, he cleared his throat and blurted, “I paint.”
Marc’s grin stretched into a full-on smile and transformed him from merely attractive to heart-stoppingly gorgeous. “I’ve heard a lot of artists do that.” He winked.
Trevor laughed, a self-conscious weak-sounding thing, and ran a hand through his hair, tongue-tied. When did that ever happen?
“Well, no two days are quite the same, which suits me fine.” Aside from his dialysis treatments, which were as regular as clockwork. “I spend a lot of time observing the world around me, drawing and painting how I see it, how it makes me feel, what I hope my interpretation gives to others. Nothing makes me happier than being able to create something that moves or inspires someone in a positive way.”
“That sounds like a beautiful life,” Marc said, a wistful note in his voice.
Almost. He knew he had a lot to be grateful for, knew he was fortunate to be able to make a living doing what he loved most in the world. There was just that little ticking clock that dulled everything around the edges.
Trevor shrugged. “I can’t complain.” He smiled and received a matching one from Marc. The slow spread of it, the softness and promise in it wrapped around Trevor like a security blanket.
Amid the hustle and bustle of the bar, an easy stillness settled between them. Voices, laughter, and music teased Trevor’s hearing, and people dancing and making the most of their snowbound evening blurred in his peripheral vision. A bubble seemed to have formed around the small table in the back corner where they sat, protecting them from the world mere feet beyond them.
“How about you, Mr. Lawyer?” The low, husky tone didn’t surprise him, unintentional as it was, but the fire that flared in Marc’s eyes in response had Trevor sitting up a little taller. “Are you some high-powered shark defending criminals like the ones I see on TV?”
“God, no.” Marc shook his head. “I like to think I’m one of the good guys. I’m a civil rights attorney.”
Trevor raised his eyebrows, his thoughts immediately turning to a sexy Matthew McConaughey, who once played a lawyer defending a black man in the deep South. But now his mind’s movie reel replaced Matthew with Marc. “Tell me more.”
“It’s not nearly as exciting as it looks on TV.” Marc grinned, and his eyes sparkled. “Mostly it’s just a lot of paperwork and research, preparing arguments and such.”
“What about in the courtroom?”
Marc shrugged. “There can be some drama, but the high-profile cases don’t really come around all that often.”
“So what kind of cases do you handle, then?” Trevor leaned forward, drawn in by Marc’s soothing, seductive voice. Didn’t seem to matter what he was saying as long as he was simply speaking.
“Let’s say, for instance—” Marc paused, and Trevor got the feeling it was cut for effect “—that you’re gay.”
The effect worked, and Trevor grinned. “Go on.”
Marc tipped his head slightly and complied. “The state of Colorado has laws in place that protect employees in the private sector, as well as at state- and local-government levels, from discrimination based on sexual orientation, and gender identity and expression. Let’s say again, that a video of your boyfriend proposing to you . . .”
Trevor’s smile stretched wider, and he shook his head. Twice. Slowly. “Single.”
Marc nodded, the light in his eyes brighter. “The video goes viral, your boss sees it, and after fifteen years of being a model employee, fires you for no reason other than that you’re gay. I’m the guy you want at your back to settle those situations.”
“I’ll have to remember that,” Trevor said, deliberately dropping his voice an octave. “And . . . I think I would like having you at my back.”
The man was flirting, and the images that rushed into Marc’s mind of him at Trevor’s back had him acutely aware of his cock shifting in his pants. A strong naked back, Trevor moaning and writhing in his arms as he plunged deep . . .
He might actually have to thank Kate for kicking him out of the office.
Marc certainly wasn’t looking for any kind of relationship, but enjoying another’s company for one night wouldn’t interfere with his climb to partner. And if he was reading Trevor right—and he was certain he was—maybe they could make the most of being snowed in. Trevor hadn’t been able to get a room, after all . . . and Marc had one ready and waiting.
For now though, sitting here talking with Trevor was like being on vacation, as though he had nowhere to go and nothing to do but simply sit and enjoy the day and the company. He liked the way Trevor’s long-fingered, graceful hands moved as he talked, the way his smile shone through his eyes, and Marc found he wanted to know more about him.
“Tell me about your art,” he nudged. “What is your favorite medium and style? What inspires you?”
Trevor chuckled, his sky-colored eyes ablaze, as though the sun shone in their depths. “Are you sure you really want to get me going?”
“I am.” Because in another life I’d never have become a lawyer. “I’ve always admired artists.”
“So . . . you have a thing for us creative types?” Trevor teased. A pink blush colored his cheekbones, but he didn’t shy away from Marc’s gaze.
“Something like that.” Marc smiled. He couldn’t deny he was feeling something for this particular one right now, but he was interested for more reasons than that. Interacting with people like Trevor gave him a chance to brush against something he’d given up years ago—to live vicariously, if only for a moment. “Was art something you always knew you wanted to do?”
“I’ve been drawing and painting for as long as I can remember,” Trevor said, the focus of his eyes going distant as though reliving a fond memory. “My parents encouraged me to explore and develop my interests and talents. One of my earliest memories is of my mom coloring with me.”
A pang of envy and loss struck Marc with surprising force. Hadn’t that been what he’d wanted once upon a time? How different would his life have been if . . . No. He mentally shook those thoughts from his mind. He wouldn’t be the highly successful lawyer he was today if the course of his life had been any different.
“You’re lucky to have had that kind of support,” Marc said, fighting to keep his voice casual.
Trevor nodded, lifting a hand briefly, his finger pointing—or more like flicking—in Marc’s general direction. “Believe me, I know how much I lucked out when my parents chose me.”
The comment struck Marc a little odd—maybe he was adopted?—but he didn’t press. He sipped his brandy and let Trevor’s voice drift over him.
Their conversation moved seamlessly from topic to topic, though time seemed to stand still. Which made the yawn that threatened to crack Marc’s jaw a shock. Caught off guard as he was, he couldn’t cover it fast enough.
But Trevor didn’t seem offended, going by the amused glint in his eyes and his playful smile. “I agree. It’s been a long day.”
“Indeed.” Marc glanced at his watch, surprised to see they’d been sitting there for the better part of three hours sharing their life stories. He hadn’t noticed the crowd had thinned out, either. It was still busy, but no longer standing room only. Those who hadn’t found rooms were either pulling all-nighters or curling up in corners with extra hotel blankets and pillows. “Well, I suppose we should call it a night, then.”
Trevor’s face seemed to fall ever so slightly. His lips parted as if to speak, but the follow-through never came.
“Did you manage to get a room for the night? I think they filled up pretty fast.” Marc already knew the answer, but he asked anyway. Didn’t want Trevor to know he’d been watching him ever since he stepped through the front doors.
Trevor shook his head. “I’ll be roughing it somewhere in the lobby tonight.” The faint inflection on that last word very nearly made Trevor’s comment a question, and a wave of hope crossed his features, splashed over the table, and began to fill up Marc.
Marc held Trevor’s gaze. “I have a room.”
A glass clinked and someone laughed boisterously, but the cacophony was muted, just low enough to register but not loud enough to actually decipher. All Marc could focus on was the hunger—and not of the empty-stomach variety—radiating from the man across from him. Marc was certain if he looked close enough he would see tiny bursts of blue-white energy snapping and exploding between them.
“It has a king-sized bed. You’re welcome to share it with me. Uh . . . the room, I mean. I’m pretty sure it has a rollaway.” Where the hell had those nerves come from? Jesus.
Marc resisted the urge to tug at his tie, only then remembering he’d taken it off earlier after he’d checked in. They’d been sparring innuendo all night, so he was sure Trevor knew where this was leading, but still, he didn’t want to be presumptuous. He pulled at his watch strap. “At the very least you can get a hot shower and a proper night’s sleep.”
“I—” Uncertainty crossed Trevor’s features, and he looked away for a second.
Maybe he’d been reading Trevor all wrong.
But then the sides of Trevor’s mouth tipped upward and his eyes darkened when they once again met Marc’s. “I’d like that. Very much.” His voice, deep and husky, had Marc’s desire beelining straight to his groin. “Thank you.”
Marc nodded, then cleared his suddenly dry throat and downed the last of his drink. “Shall we, then?”
Trevor’s smile widened, and the air crackling between them grew louder. “Lead on.”
Marc stood and shoved his hands into his pockets to stop them from trembling. It wasn’t like he’d never had a hookup before, but this felt . . . different somehow. Why, he couldn’t say. Maybe it was because the few hookups he’d experienced had involved a nightclub, liberal amounts of alcohol, and minimal conversation before coming to a mutually beneficial release. This time he’d spent hours getting to know Trevor, and he’d enjoyed every second of it. Enjoyed it so much that, shockingly, if Trevor really did just want to sleep on the rollaway, he’d still be happy to have Trevor’s company for the night. Well, mostly.
Trevor gathered his bag and jacket and stood facing Marc, waiting for him to show the way. Again, that invisible current snapped between them, pulling at Marc and burrowing a little deeper under his skin, sinking into his bones. Trevor moved aside and placed a hand on the small of Marc’s back, guiding him forward. That tiny, gentle touch stole his breath and awakened his senses even more.
Hyperaware of Trevor behind him, the nearness, the heat of him, Marc caught the leg of a chair with his foot and stumbled. A firm grip on his biceps kept him from tipping past his center of gravity. Jesus, Roberts. Pay attention!
He shot a quick glance over his shoulder, hoping Trevor wouldn’t notice how red his face must be. This was not like him. He didn’t get flustered over men, he wasn’t klutzy, but for whatever reason, here he was, fumbling around like a high schooler on a first date.
This is not a date, he reminded himself quickly. This is a hookup. Period, full stop.
“Thanks,” he said.
Trevor nodded, an amused grin on his face, but he didn’t drop his hand from Marc’s arm until they stepped out into the lobby. The release was slow, like a caress, and a tingle lingered in its wake.
They walked side by side in silence, shoulders brushing, anticipation and excitement sparking in the atmosphere surrounding them. They paused at the elevator doors, and Marc took a deep breath. This time he knew where his nerves came from: he hated elevators.
Steeling himself, he reached out and pressed the Up button with a slow, shaky finger.
“I take it you’re not a fan of the vertical lift?” Trevor asked, pointing to Marc’s unsteady hand.
He shook his head. “I never take elevators.”
“Ever?” Trevor raised his eyebrows, as if he’d never heard of such a thing.
“Not if I can help it.” A bell dinged, alerting them to the arrival of their car. “And my office downtown is on the seventh floor.”
“You must have fantastic glutes.”
“Maybe you’ll find out,” Marc said under his breath once Trevor had walked into the vacant car ahead of him.
Trevor leaned against the back wall and dropped his bag to the floor, his eyes inviting, his smile seductive, and Marc didn’t wait for the elevator doors to shut. Two quick steps brought him into Trevor’s space, close enough to feel the soft gusts of breath fanning his cheek.
“Hold on!” someone shouted, and then a hand snaked between the closing doors, forcing them back open, and a frazzled-looking woman pushed inside. Marc managed to suppress a groan and stepped back to press number five on the keypad. He met Trevor’s eyes and grinned, receiving a roll of the eyes and subtle head shake in return.
The woman pressed floor number nine—figures—and then shook the snow off her coat.
“Phew! What a night, huh?”
Marc couldn’t agree more. This was going to be one long elevator ride.