“That’s where you’re wrong. You have everything to give me.” Marc rose to his feet and took Trevor’s hand in his before he could turn away.

How could the man standing before him be dying? Right now? He couldn’t accept that. Sure, Trevor had been pretty wiped out yesterday, but Marc, too, was tired after the ordeal of the blizzard and the night of passion. But otherwise Trevor looked healthy as a horse. And to have been told such a bleak diagnosis but still be making sure Marc had a good Christmas, going out of his way . . . No. Marc would do everything and anything in his power to save the man he never knew he needed.

Trevor made to tug his hand back, but Marc held tight. “Come with me. Please.”

“Marc—”

He cut him off with a gentle kiss. “Please.” He had to know, right now, reassure himself that Trevor was very much alive and healthy and, if he had any say in the matter whatsoever, would stay that way. “You said no more talk, so let me show you.”

He led Trevor to the bedroom and stopped at the foot of the bed, turning around to face him. Trevor nodded and let his hands drop to his sides, but his eyes revealed a kaleidoscope of emotion—pain, sadness, longing—his mind a whir behind those blue depths. But lingering beneath it all, there was hunger. That was what Marc wanted right now, to still that mind, draw desire to the surface, and shift Trevor completely into sensation and raw emotion—life in its purest expression.

He placed another sweet kiss on Trevor’s silky lips. An air of detachment hovered around Trevor as Marc slowly began unbuttoning his shirt, as though he was just beyond an unseen barrier.

“Let me love you,” Marc whispered against Trevor’s mouth. “Right here, right now. Let me love you.”

Trevor closed his eyes and groaned. “Marc—” His voice was hoarse, ragged.

“Please.” Marc kissed him again, soft, reverent, hoping Trevor could understand the words he seemed unable to articulate.

Mere seconds later, Trevor’s groan became a moan, and he leaned into the kiss, attempting to deepen it, but Marc pulled back, gentling it until Trevor acquiesced. He had no intention of rushing this. Just like the first night at the hotel with Trevor, that urge to make sure he gave everything he had to this man built like a firestorm in his chest. It mattered more than ever now, as though this was his very last chance at experiencing something great. Something he would never find in his life again. No matter what Trevor said, if they only got a year together, it would be a year to last a lifetime.

With each button Marc freed, Trevor pushed for more, but Marc controlled the pace, their mouths dancing in a sensual give and take. He freed the last button on Trevor’s shirt and slowly slid it off his toned shoulders. He ran his hands over the smooth planes of Trevor’s chest, his abdomen, up the sides of his torso, and back over his shoulders, cataloguing every inch of the man. All the while, he continued his languid kiss, opening his mouth and teasing out Trevor’s tongue, savoring his taste.

His fingers brushed the raised skin of Trevor’s biceps. Trevor tensed but didn’t break their kiss. Marc did. “This?”

“Direct access to my veins for dialysis.” Trevor seemed to hold his breath, his gaze searching Marc’s. For what, Marc didn’t know, but he wasn’t about to stop now. He reclaimed Trevor’s mouth, fighting to hold back.

He broke the kiss again and stepped away, shaking his head when Trevor tried to follow. With their gazes locked and the air between them sparking like an electrical storm, he slowly pulled his shirt over his head, letting it fall carelessly to the floor. He moved back to Trevor, wrapping one arm around his back and the other behind his head. Pressing skin to skin, he claimed Trevor’s mouth again, but this time when he deepened the kiss, Trevor answered with a checked fire that Marc fought to keep at bay just a little longer. He wanted this moment, this night, this lovemaking, to last as long as possible. He wanted to draw out every breath and gasp and sensation. Revel in it, roll in it, until it permeated his every pore and became a part of him.

Once again he put the brakes on the kiss, this time having to place a hand on the middle of Trevor’s chest to keep him from following. His breath came in short and shallow bursts, keeping time with Marc’s. Confident that Trevor would stay put, Marc closed the distance just enough to work Trevor’s pants open while holding his gaze, silently telling him that he wasn’t going anywhere and that he wasn’t letting Trevor go anywhere, either. They would get more than a year because Marc wouldn’t have it any other way. He didn’t know if he’d be a transplant match, but maybe if he willed it hard enough, begged the universe enough, he would be.

“Stay,” Marc said, both meanings intended.

Trevor shook his head. “I can’t.”

Trevor’s pants fell to the floor, and Marc ran a hand down his bare torso and below his navel. He smiled at the harsh intake of breath when he loosely gripped Trevor’s filling cock and slid down its growing length. Trevor’s eyelashes fluttered, his lips parted, but he held still, letting Marc command him at will.

With his other hand, Marc snapped open the buttons of his own fly and shimmied out of his jeans and underwear. Stepping from the pile of denim and cotton, he pulled Trevor to him, aligning their bodies and marveling at the sweet rush of the contact. This time, when he kissed Trevor, he didn’t hold anything back. He couldn’t. The restraint he’d been trying to maintain was quickly running out. Trevor answered with fervor, hands cupping Marc’s face and angling his head to deepen the kiss even more.

Marc walked backward, keeping Trevor glued to him, until they reached the bed. Only then, Marc ended their kiss once more. “Stay,” he rasped again.

“Can’t.” Trevor crawled onto the bed on his hands and knees. He looked over his shoulder at Marc, who stood at the edge watching him with lust and desire and a deeper emotion he didn’t yet know how to name. Instead, he absorbed the sight before him: this gorgeous, generous man who’d come into his life, either by design or coincidence, and tipped it on its side. He never had time for anything but work, but now he begged whoever would listen for all the time in the world to spend with Trevor.

Trevor stretched an arm behind him, hand reaching out, beckoning. Marc climbed onto the bed behind Trevor, and sliding their fingers together, brought Trevor’s hand to his mouth. He kissed Trevor’s knuckles, turned his hand over and kissed his palm, and then slid Trevor’s index finger into his mouth.

Blue fire flared in Trevor’s eyes, and he whispered, “Make love to me.”

Warmth spread throughout his chest at the words, and he nodded, because words seemed to have left him. Trevor smiled and laid his head to the pillow, one arm—the one with his dialysis access—stretched out in front of him as though he was deliberately keeping it out of the way, and the other tucked under his body. Marc draped his body on top of Trevor, hands gliding over firm shoulders and arms. He pressed a kiss to the back of Trevor’s neck, his shoulder blades, then inch by inch down his spine. Lower and lower, tasting, licking, loving . . .

Trevor jumped and moaned when Marc slid his tongue over Trevor’s hole, swirled around and in and out, teasing and coaxing him open. Marc’s body trembled, his skin flushed with heat, his nerves snapped, and just maybe he and Trevor were creating their own lightning. Trevor moaned again and rocked back against Marc’s tongue.

Loving the way this man made his body sing with joy and made him want to scream in ecstasy, he couldn’t fathom how anything could be so terminally wrong with him. Marc couldn’t wrap his mind around it, make sense of it; therefore, it couldn’t be real. In a day or two, Trevor would get his flight home to celebrate the delayed holiday with his family, and then he’d come back, and they would pick up where they left off.

And in reality, you’ll probably never see him again.

Marc crushed the voice that spoke what he knew was probably the truth—as much as he refused to believe it—and filled his hands with two well-muscled ass cheeks, kneading, pulling, and pressing, working Trevor’s body with his fingers and his tongue, until Trevor’s muffled whimpers and gasps told Marc he was on the verge of begging.

“Ready.” Trevor grunted. “Marc. Ready.”

Spitting on his thumb, Marc used it to caress Trevor’s hole, sliding in and out, not wanting to take his hands off Trevor for even the second it took to lean over to the bedside drawer with his other hand. But he did, and one-handed, he ripped open a foil packet from inside, sheathed himself in latex, and then was slicking his aching cock and Trevor’s beautiful hole with cool lube. He lined them up and stopped.

“Stay.”

“God, Marc,” Trevor whined, rocking back. “Please.”

“Yes.” Marc gripped Trevor’s hips, holding him steady while he pushed inside, stretching him wider, slowly filling him, inching deeper and deeper until his whole body shook, inside and out, and Trevor’s body clenched and relaxed around his cock.

“Jesus, Trev,” Marc growled. “You feel so fucking good.”

But if Trevor responded, the words didn’t register, all of his focus on the place where their bodies connected, where they had physically become one. Trevor whimpered when Marc pulled back, sliding almost all the way out, and then practically purred when he pushed all the way inside.

“Yes. More. Deeper, harder, faster.” Trevor panted, gasped, and chanted it over and over, and Marc would never do anything to disappoint this incredible man writhing and rocking under him.

He gave what Trevor needed—in and out, hard and fast—and the world disappeared as Marc became the eye of the storm. Trevor was the swirling mass of energy and electricity and fire surrounding him, spinning faster and faster, growing too big to be contained in the kinetic clouds. Release came in a booming, blinding burst of lightning. Once, twice, and again. His ears popped, eyes squeezed shut, sweat slicked his skin, and Trevor clamped down on him hard. Together, they collapsed to the mattress, and Marc covered Trevor’s body with his own, as though he could be the shield, protecting Trevor from the world, from the reaper who wanted to steal him away too soon.

The storm passed as they floated back down to Earth, and in its wake, it left both of their bodies boneless and quaking in the aftermath. Marc rolled off of Trevor, pulling him into his arms and wrapping his body around him. Trevor burrowed into the embrace, getting even deeper under Marc’s skin, and Marc knew this perfect moment of sated bliss was one he’d never have with anyone else.

Marc pressed his lips to Trevor’s forehead. “Stay,” he said. “Please.”

But Trevor had already drifted off and didn’t hear him. Or he heard him and chose not to answer. Before Marc could ask again, postorgasmic slumber had its claws in him too, and he followed Trevor into a dream where there was nothing wrong with his kidneys.

Eyes still closed, Marc reached across the bed knowing he’d find an empty space where Trevor’s body should have been. That he’d proven himself right didn’t do anything to lessen the debilitating disappointment that gripped him in an ice-cold fist. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the vaulted wood ceiling, watching the morning sunrays inch across the room. There was no warmth in the golden light, though, nothing that could fill the heavy emptiness that hung in the air. Had it always been like this? Was he only feeling it now because a brilliant breath of life had blown through the still corners?

He listened for any hint of sound that would tell him Trevor was still there. That right now he was in the kitchen with breakfast prepped, waiting for Marc to wake up. But he knew that was nothing more than wishful thinking. The house was as deserted as his heart felt. He sat up and looked over at a chair by the window, where Trevor’s bag had been, but was now only an empty space.

Trevor had left him. Without saying good-bye.

When he could no longer stand lying in bed, he moved through the motions of his morning rituals—bladder relief, shower and shave, dressing. He’d halfway put on his suit before he remembered it was only the day after Christmas—a Saturday—and the office was closed until Monday. Though it wasn’t uncommon for him to head to the office on weekends or even holidays, right now he just didn’t have it in him.

After swapping his work clothes for casual slacks and a cable-knit sweater—gunmetal gray to match his mood—he made his way into the kitchen. He hadn’t realized a small part of him had still been hoping he’d turn the corner and see Trevor there—bright-blue eyes twinkling with delight and a beguiling smile promising everything Marc had ignored on his quest for undeniable success—until the letdown of more empty space weighted his body.

He noticed a plate on the island with strawberries and cubed cheese on it, a glass of orange juice beside it. The gesture brought a touch of smile to his lips, even as it amplified the loss that coursed through his veins. Like a dream he didn’t want to wake from. The faster consciousness crept in, the faster the dream slipped through his fingers.

It wasn’t until he fully stepped into the kitchen that he noticed a piece of paper beside the plate. With one finger, he dragged the sheet closer to the edge of the counter. Then he carefully picked it up.

Marc,

I’m sorry to leave like this, but it’s best this way. You deserve someone whole and healthy who can offer you a full life together. That man isn’t me, but I need you to know how much I cherish having met you. I’ve had one of the best Christmases of my life with you. You’ve given me a gift to carry me through however many days remain.

I realized there is something you can do for me, though, something that would make me happier than you could possibly imagine. Be true to yourself. Follow your heart and your dreams. Start by going into your art studio and putting something on that blank canvas. Paint something for me. Please.

Always,

Trevor

P.S. Plant our tree.

Marc traced Trevor’s name with a shaky fingertip, his vision blurring. Our tree. A sob escaped him, and he had to hold on to the counter as he stumbled around the island, trying to sit in a chair before he fell to the floor.

That couldn’t be it, could it? No. It couldn’t be. He’d told Trevor he wasn’t going to let him go, and come hell or high water, he was going to keep his word.

He got up and strode across the room to the hutch where he’d put his laptop when he’d cleared the table for dinner last night. He paused. How could one person have cut through his tunnel-vision-like focus and made such a big impact on his life in so short a time?

Retrieving both his laptop and cell phone, he first searched the internet for local medical labs, only to receive the same message after calling each one: closed for the holidays.

Fuck. His shoulders slumped. Now what?

He stared at his phone, as if that would somehow give him the answers he was looking for, and began unconsciously scrolling through his contact list. He paused with his thumb hovering over his mother’s name, like he had done countless times before. Only this time was different. She’d given him life, ensured he had a roof over his head, clothes on this back, food in his belly, and an education. She’d fulfilled her parental duty, and the moment he’d reached adulthood she’d washed her hands of him. He’d spent his whole life trying to be someone she could be proud of, but somewhere along the way he’d lost sight of the fact that he never would be.

It took a snowstorm and meeting a random stranger for him to realize he’d been striving for the wrong goal his whole life. And that misguided drive had cost him so much. His mother was gone from his life forever—had been since the day she’d found out he was gay. He just hadn’t caught up to the reality. All those years he’d wasted trying to be good enough for her, he’d never been good enough for the one person who mattered all along—himself.

It was high time he did what he should have done two decades ago—wash his hands of her, too. He swiped his thumb over her number, revealing a big red box, and with far more force than was needed, pressed Delete. A surprise wave of triumph washed over him, taking with it all the weight he hadn’t realized he’d been shouldering for far too many years.

He tossed the phone on the counter—even that felt good—and his gaze fell on the letter from Trevor again. Relief at finally dropping the albatross around his neck that had been his mother dissipated as a deep sense of loss stole over him. Trevor had just been told he wouldn’t survive another year, yet he’d managed to show Marc how much more there was to life in mere days.

Rolling his shoulders back, Marc straightened his spine and walked to the stairs leading to his art studio. He hesitated at the bottom step, taking the room in. It looked different now, felt different, and he could only think that was because Trevor Morrison had left a small essence of himself behind. Marc’s gaze settled on the corner where they’d sat just the day before, painting and laughing. It had been perfect.

With newfound resolve, he strode across the room and opened a cupboard to pull out a fold-up table. He opened the legs and set it beside the easel, then went back for paints, brushes, and water. He could do this. If anything, maybe it would help bring him closer to Trevor in some odd way.

Brush in hand, fire in mind, and desire in heart, Marc laid down the first brush stroke. And so began his first painting since he was fourteen years old.