Trent had planned on a nice meal. Nothing fancy. He really didn't do the birthday thing, not since he was a kid. His family fought too much all the time; especially, for some reason, on his birthday.
Well, he knew the reason. All those toy cars and manly action figures and sports equipment that he never whooped with joy over, the way his dad wanted him to. Sport was fine, and Trent had been good at it, but he didn't play with the other stuff 'properly'.
He would race the cars, then crown the arbitrary winners with crowns he'd made himself from flowers. Or, instead of racing them, he'd put the cars into a fashion parade line-up, and use his GI Joe as the florid commentator who danced and sang to NSYNC.
He often used his nerf gun to stage an assault on his sister's bedroom and steal her massive collection of bangles to wear himself.
Then there was the birthday his mum had caught his sixth-grade classmate Braydon giving him a birthday kiss. That had been a shitty year for everyone. Lots of screaming. Braydon got moved to another school.
After enough awkward birthdays, Trent gave up celebrating much at home, avoiding parties there or even going out with friends. When he was 15 years old, he'd said 'fuck off' to the closet and birthdays and focused on just getting through high school until he could move out and get to uni.
When he finally left home, Trent kept busy studying then working his way through building and architectural firms, until now here he was on the brink of starting his own freelance company. With the workload he'd set himself, however, he'd not really had anyone special to celebrate birthdays with; he'd barely made time for even casual flings.
But now there was also Marcus Darrow. Jewellery designer by trade and sometime fashion model; good humouredly making the most of his fantastic cheekbones and coif of dark, wavy hair 'while I have them' so he could fund his art. Vibrant, smart, funny Marcus, who made everything in life seem more special simply because he chose to spend his life with Trent.
They'd known each other for a few years, having met at a mutual friend's album launch, but this was Trent's first birthday with Marcus as a couple. Trent had just thought a nice dinner at the local Thai joint, their regular haunt, would be perfect. A little pad thai, a little wine, a candle, a celebration that this birthday, his life was finally coming together - work life, social life, love life, the whole shebang. Not much to ask, surely.
Except that Marcus had gone and made other plans. Trent supposed he only had himself to blame. He should have made it clear that though he didn't plan to make the birthday dinner a big deal, he had been looking forward to spending the evening with his boyfriend.
Instead, Marcus had taken a frantic phone call from his friend Madeleine (no surname, just Madeleine, though Trent knew she was really a Joan). The model she'd booked for her big debut at a five-star fashion launch had managed to fall off the event's party boat into Sydney Harbour the previous night. They'd fished him out again before he was permanently damaged by harbour traffic, but the microbes had had a field day, and he was now folded up in bed shivering and throwing up, when he wasn't locked in the bathroom as his stomach tried to escape from the other end.
'If you love me at all, Marcus, please, oh god, please, do this for me!' Madeleine had begged him over the phone, 'I can't get someone else suitable on short notice, and you know I designed half this stuff with you in mind. You're my muse. Please!'
Perhaps, Trent thought, he shouldn't be so disgruntled about the disruption to the night. After all, his boyfriend was an artist's muse.
Marcus usually only modelled for pay - he was much more interested in creating his own wearable art - with his own long, delicate, clever fingers - than in being the frame on which other art was hung. But he and Madeleine had been in art school together, when she was simple Joan Mawson, and had flat-shared for all the starving years. Marcus had steady work as a designer now, and Madeleine was on the verge of her big break so, as Marcus explained to Trent, he couldn't let her down.
Well, Trent decided, that could be something else for him to love about Marcus. His loyalty. And Trent had said he didn't want a birthday fuss, and that was mostly true, and he did like Joan/Madeleine, despite her poor timing. So there was nothing for it but to be a good friend and not whine about the dismantling of his low-key plans when she needed their help for the fashion show.
Well, he said fashion. It wasn't really about clothes. More about accessories, and the absolutely lavish approach to bejewelling that Madeleine had created.
This 'fashion event' had invited her to show because a film starlet had recently shone on the red carpet in some of Madeleine's custom-designed bejewelling body art. The flash and dazzle of those crystals emphasising curves and hollows, confidence and flair, had caused a stir in Sydney's Beautiful People scene. Those attracted to her work were unified not by gender or orientation but by a certain peacock-ness of spirit; the desire to rise above the common herd, to literally shine.
Madeleine's body-decoration technique took the concept of vajazzling, laughed at how sweetly unambitious the notion was, and then put on the most razzle dazzle display for people who really liked to be seen. But, you know, tastefully.
The nature of the body art and the huge amount of preparation it required meant that Marcus had gone to the event hotel before lunch and Trent hadn't seen him since, though they'd traded numerous text messages. Marcus teasingly would not send Trent any pictures. Instead he texted:
You'll have to come to the show
to see the results <3 <3
Joanie left you a backstage comp at
the door.
It was a flash party, so Trent dusted off his best suit. The jacket fit well across his shoulders, sat perfectly around his hips and trim waist. Marcus had only seen him in a suit once before, but had been very appreciative. With only his eyes. Trent had no idea how appreciative someone could be without words, and just their eyes, until Marcus had looked at him like that.
Your arse looks brilliant in that, had been Marcus's exact words, when he'd recovered the power of speech, and shortly afterwards they'd both been naked.
Trent grinned at the memory. A week after that, they were dating, and here they were, ten months later, living together, and making long term plans.
Trent checked his name off at the door, got his pass and was guided to the prep room behind the main stage, where the models were running around in a controlled tizz with last minute fixes to make-up and accessories. He was left to his own devices then, and instinctively drew back against the wall to get out of everyone's way. He had a view of the rear of the catwalk from here, and down the long expanse of carpeted runway into the crowd of fashionistas, reporters and devotees.
A man clad in what looked like a black felt tube with golden turrets rising from his hips walked with unimaginable confidence to the end of the catwalk, turned and raised his arms to show off something about the cut of the thing, then sauntered back up the aisle again.
Trent cast his glance around the room, looking for Marcus amidst this backstage, glittery, silk-and-taffeta maelstrom. No sign of him yet. Probably for the best. Trent didn't want to be a distraction.
Trent grinned. He wasn't much given to vanity, but honestly, tonight he felt pretty damned smart in this suit. Better than smart. Delicious. Several models and make-up artists had stopped to admire how the suit emphasised his broad shoulders and strong legs. He didn't hold out much hope they'd still make dinner, but he hoped at least to evince that hungry look in Marcus's eyes; to render him speechless again.
Trent Springfield was about to learn a lesson in mute appreciation.
He hadn't really understood Madeleine's artisan bedazzling treatment from her description and the few black and white photographs she'd shared. He had no way to properly appreciate her art until Marcus swayed out from the wings where he'd been waiting and began to strut down the catwalk in his high heels and his… his… besparklement!
Oh. Holy. Fucking. Christ. On. A. Bicycle. I. Want. That. Want. Want. Want. Want. That. Oh. Dear. God. Dear. God. Want.
The that which Trent wanted with such a burning, single minded intensity?
Marcus's long, lovely self, standing in five-inch, open-toed silver-and-gold shoes; his long, bare legs shaved and moisturised and no doubt as soft to the touch as they looked on the eye.
Marcus, parading to the rhythm of the show's soundtrack with sass and swagger, showing off the fine curve of his hip and backside, showing off the elegant stretch of his thigh and calf muscles. The line of his belly, with its little natural curve, the swell of his pecs and the dusky rose pink of his nipples. The strength of that long back, with its delicious smattering of freckles and moles. The slight hint of make-up dusting Marcus's face to emphasise his high cheekbones, his merry eyes, his softly smiling lips.
And all that lovely long length of the barely-clad Marcus Darrow was bedecked, beglittered and bedazzled with silver and crystals.
At the end of the catwalk, Marcus paused, splayed his arms, his fingers held as elegantly as a ballet dancer's to show off the lines of crystals on his skin.
God, Trent loved Marcus's hands. They were strong, subtle, clever and supple, whether working on delicate metals or holdings pencils as he created sketches, or dancing along Trent's skin in their bed at night. Trent wanted to crawl up onto the stage and start sucking on those wonderful fingers.
The nail polish Marcus wore, dusky and embedded with stardust it seemed, led the eye to the rings clustered on Marcus's fingers. Those rings shone. Not just on one finger, and not just a single ring per finger. Four fingers and a thumb on each hand, laden with silver and jade and zircon and amethyst. Tiny chips of coral, a circle of lapis lazuli. A sliver of jasper, glowing dark in a twist of silver, accented with rose gold.
One ring sprawled elaborately down Marcus's finger and curled elegantly over the back of his hand, the tail of a dragon, forever poised in the midst of motion; in exactly the same way that Marcus would drape his body over the sofa at home - absolutely motionless, constructing jewellery in his mind's eye before jumping up to committing it to paper. Stillness captured in a moment before frantic activity. Even slack with ennui, Marcus only ever seemed be only temporarily at bay, waiting for the merest signal before firing up again.
Trent liked the dragon ring. He loved the coral and lapis and jasper. He loved the glinting silver and the amethyst. He loved how they looked against Marcus's creamy skin, and the lines of his strong muscles underneath.
But there were treats to behold once Trent could lift his gaze from Marcus's elegant, bejewelled fingers too.
The bangles. A dozen on each slender wrist. Some of them tinkled, sweet light sounds, like tiny bells, as Marcus shifted his weight and turned in a circle designed to show how the light caught the movement. Every tiny motion gave forth a bright, light, silvery song.
The line of little Swarovski crystals followed the curve of the bones under his skin, with diversions into little swirls of light and colour, like an echo of a Van Gogh starfield, only in lighter colours, on a warmer canvas.
The silver armbands: three on Marcus's left bicep, two on his right. The crystals dotted up to the points of his shoulders, across towards his neck, then down the sweep of his clavicles.
Marcus's ears had little crystals glued to them, a cascade from the top of his ear, down the rim of it to the lobe, with a few choice circles sparkling just alongside the ear and down the side of his jaw. A delicately-designed earing dropped a long line of silver and crystals which drew the eye to his long bare neck; to his Adam's apple which was a subtle line, as were the tendons of his neck.
Trent wanted to resoundingly (though platonically) kiss Madeleine for rightly deciding that part of Marcus needed no adornment; that of itself, that long neck dotted with a few dark freckles and that tiny mole, was beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.
The glittering, glorious, sparkling show did not end there, because dropping his gaze to the southernmost extreme of Marcus's body, Trent also saw and ogled the divine strappy open toed high heels which showed off Marcus's prettily painted toes, and the rings Marcus wore on the second and third of them. Slender and fine.
Whorls of crystals led his eye back up Marcus's gorgeous legs, just as Marcus turned again on the catwalk, presenting his back again for the full effect.
Down Marcus's back, a line of crystals marked the wings of his scapula; the bumps of his spine, down the swell of that fine, luscious, biteable bum. Crystals sparkled like stardust alongside his freckles, highlighting an arc more graceful and breathtaking than the Milky Way.
Marcus wore a thin chain around his waist. As a belt it was useless. As a slender demarcation of where his upper body ended and his lower body began, it was very pretty. As a curve to emphasise the swell of his hips and arse, it was perfect.
The chain's gentle arc dropped a single slender line of silver just to the very top of the fold of Marcus's naked backside. It was almost as heart-stopping as the way the front of it swooped just so - just so very so - under the slight curve of his mostly-flat belly. It hung above the carmine-red silk G-string that covered his trimmed pubic region, cupped his cock and sac, and hinted lusciously (and tastefully, and how was that even possible?) at the lines of both, and at the smattering of crystals that peeked above the silk in delicate swirls.
It was all way, way too much; and somehow, not nearly enough. It was extravagant and should have been vulgar; but the delicacy of the crystals and the extraordinary beauty of the man wearing them saved the whole display from being utterly risible.
Somehow, on Marcus, this mad treasure trove of sparkles and silver was simply - an emphasis. As Marcus strutted down the catwalk, oblivious to the audience, Trent's heart nearly stopped at the sight of him.
At last, Marcus made his return sashay to the rear of the catwalk and off to the backstage area. After a good long while, Trent recovered the ability to walk and hurried with his special pass to join him.
'Trent, baby, you made it in time.' Marcus beamed, and every motion of his body made the whole sparkle.
Trent just stared at Marcus; he couldn't for the life of him remember how to speak.
'Just the final walk-through with the other models and we can go home. Joanie says she doesn't need me here for the after party. Well, she tried to persuade me, but I told her it was your birthday so she's letting me pike.'
Trent's tongue flicked out over his lower lip. Flicked out again over his upper lip. Retreated to taste the flavour of the air that had shared a room with Marcus Darrow looking like that. It tasted of sparkles.
'That's our call,' said Marcus, grinning madly at his boyfriend's incapacity. 'Give me five.'
Trent nodded. As Marcus walked away, he glanced back over his shoulder and winked. 'Get my coat, birthday boy,' he said. 'We're leaving the minute I get off that stage.'
Trent could do nothing but obey. He fetched Marcus's overnight bag that contained his day clothes, and the long, tailored coat he favoured for Sydney autumns. He waited by the backstage steps and the moment Marcus reappeared and spread his arms, Trent draped Marcus's coat around Marcus's still bejewelled and beguiling body; buttoned up his own suit jacket and stumbled to the street to flag down a taxi.
Trent realised just how hard it was to think straight, or move with any grace, when all your blood had moved to your groin and was busy maintaining the biggest, hardest, most lustful erection any man had ever had in the history of such things. After almost falling into the taxi and gasping out their Clare Street address, Trent sat pushed against the door on his side of the cab. He was afraid to sit closer to Marcus, because he would break; he knew he would. He would break into a million pieces, all of them attached to Marcus, all of them kissing and licking and sucking on and damned well rutting into Marcus's divine, divine, divine personage.
Marcus drew his coat closer around himself demurely, despite the fact that he looked not at all demure. The parts of him still visible outside the coat were all creamy and sparkling, along the long lines of lusciousness that were his hands and neck and ankles.
They reached their little Clare Street flat 15 minutes later, and Marcus walked slowly ahead, up the stairs to their first floor door. He swayed; he rolled his hips and his long coat followed the movement beneath.
Half way up the stairs, he let the coat slither from his shoulders, down his back, over his arse to the floor, so that Trent, ascending slowly behind him, could watch that sway unimpeded.
Trent knew that Marcus had heard his sharp intake of breath, then his almost-panting, then trying not to pant. The final long breathy moan was the closest he'd come to speech in 15 minutes.
Trent stumbled into the flat after Marcus, who turned elegantly in the living room to face him. Trent slammed the door shut and then leaned on it, so he could keep looking without having to remember how to stand at the same time.
Marcus Darrow knew that Trent Springfield loved him. He knew that Trent would love him when he was old and lined and grey and no longer beautiful. After all, during the last year, Trent had loved him even through the peak of anxiety attacks over his art, foul tempered with disappointments, mean-mouthed with stress, throwing up and weeping from exhaustion and the flu.
So Marcus knew that this reaction - a Trent who was speechless with desire on seeing him decked out in silver and crystals and high heels and little red knickers - did not negate any of the love that came before; nor any of the love that would follow.
It was just that Trent had never seen Marcus dressed up like a birthday present before.
Marcus thought that it had been a fine idea to help Madeleine out with that catwalk parade, not only for the sake of his old art school friend - but because rendering Trent Springfield so hard, so brain-blank with want was an excellent idea. One of the best ideas Marcus had ever had.
Marcus stood in the centre of their little flat, one hip jutting out to emphasise the general lusciousness of his hips, and spread his arms wide. He ducked his head low and looked up through his mascaraed lashes.
'Happy birthday, Trent, my gorgeous boy. Would you care to open your gift?'
Trent's reply was a guttural, wanton growl. It was a straightening of the shoulder, a stepping away from the door and a prowling - he was goddamn prowling - towards his shiny, glittery, peacock of a lover; eyes riveted not to the beautiful body, but to his bright blue eyes.
Yes, his eyes - because Trent loved Marcus - whether peacock pretty or grouchy from overwork or gross with the Man Flu from Hell.
And Trent realised now that Marcus hadn't shunted his birthday aside at all; he had, in fact, dressed up just for him.
Trent wanted to open his present very much; very, very much. He wanted this gift every day; not just on his birthday, but every single day. Because this gift of loving someone extraordinary and being loved by him in return was not a once a year treat. And even though still incapable of speech, or even of much thought, Trent's mind knew that this gift of joy and excess and wonder came in a Marcus package.
It was exactly what he'd always longed for. In the right here and now though, it was Trent's body that knew how to best appreciate this present. It did. Oh yes, it did. And that was slowly, with care, with exquisite gentle timing. Because some things must not ever, ever be rushed.
So it was with slow deliberation, and that soft growl, Trent hovered his hands above Marcus's skin and traced every line without touching. Heat radiated from his palms to the glittering skin; from that lush body to Trent's fingertips. Trent leaned close and breathed, inhaling the heady scent of Marcus; exhaling the warm scent of Trent.
Marcus stood in his heels, hands splayed, and shivered as Trent breathed over every inch of him; held his warm hands over every part of him; radiating heat, desire, love. He quivered as Trent's tongue flickered, barely touching, as he tasted the Marcus-ness that radiated from the decorated body.
Trent took off his jacket and his shirt. He took off his shoes and socks; his trousers and pants. Bare naked, he stood close, eyes closed. He was just tall enough that his nose and mouth were close against Marcus's throat. He tilted his head up, closer to Marcus's pulse point.
He breathed in Marcus; breathed out Trent.
'You,' Trent whispered, as though it had taken him this last 20 minutes of exploration to find words and remember how to string them together, 'are so lovely.'
'Trent.' An exhale back.
'I. Want. You. Now. Always.'
'Yes.'
The index and middle fingers of Trent's left hand caressed the front of Marcus's G-string, down the elegant line of his swelling cock; then underneath, to brush against Marcus's scrotum. Slowly, Trent dipped those two fingers under the edge of the red silk, to brush against the hot skin beneath. The silk became too tight.
Trent just brushed - up and down, up and down - the shaft of Marcus's cock, the edge of his sac. Contact between their bodies was only at that point: the tips of Trent's two fingers; the line of Marcus' concealed skin.
Trent stood on his toes and pressed his lips to the underside of Marcus' jaw; his lover moaned breathily and tilted his chin down so their lips met.
The soft kiss began with lips, warm and dry, and then a tiny slide of tongue, and then lips parting and tongues meeting; and still the kiss was slow and delicate and sweet.
And then it wasn't sweet. Then it was open mouths pressing together, tongues sliding wetly together, and moans and sighs captured in the heat between them.
Trent's fingers continued their tiny, careful caress, and then hooked into the red silk, wriggled underneath where the triangle of cloth became the string; the line that disappeared into Marcus's cleft.
'Tear them,' breathed Marcus, and licked the moisture at the corner of Trent's eye that might have been the faintest bead of perspiration but wasn't.
Trent didn't; not right away. Instead he ran his fingers up Marcus's cleft, the string of the knickers against his knuckles. He ran his fingers against the soft skin, the heat, the pucker of an entrance that, Trent knew, had been made clean and perfect for this. His hand followed the curve up to the dip of his sacrum, and it was only then that he took the fine string of those panties-for-men and with a sharp twist, broke the cloth.
Trent dragged his warm hand over Marcus's hip, holding onto the string, peeling it away, until Marcus was revealed, his cock hard and upright, and wet.
Trent dropped the ruined G-string on the floor and cupped Marcus's balls in the palm of his hand. He fondled them softly and leaned close to lick and suckle Marcus's left nipple; then his right.
Marcus moaned and rolled his hips to push himself into Trent's hand. His breath hitched.
'Trent.'
'Turn, you gorgeous thing. You beautiful, beautiful man.'
Trent figured Marcus had intended to make him work harder for this, but he did as he was told and turned as though mesmerised. He held on to the edge of the table, bent from the hips and spread his legs.
Trent knelt behind, kissed first one cheek of Marcus's bare behind, then the other. He caressed the rise of that skin, from the top of his arse to the crease of the thigh.
Slowly, because bliss should not be rushed, Trent rested his palms on each plump cheek; pressed his thumbs close to the crease; spread that lovely bottom and breathed into the pink smooth skin.
Marcus whimpered, leaned over and spread his legs further, jutting out his arse.
And Trent pressed his mouth to the crease and kissed. Spread those cheeks further and pushed his face closer and flicked his tongue against the tight skin. Curled his tongue into firmness and pushed that firmness into the warm, clean pucker of flesh. And again. And again.
Marcus keened softly.
Trent kissed, then licked with the flat of his tongue. Then curled his tongue and pushed into Marcus's body, tasting musk, tasting sex, tasting Marcus. His hands were curved around Marcus's backside, holding him open, and Marcus wriggled and pushed back in tiny movements, wanting more, wanting this.
Trent licked a long line, up from Marcus's sac to the base of his spine. Three times, and then he pressed his cheek to Marcus's luscious arse and kissed the soft flesh; smiled against it.
Trent raised those two explorer fingers and slid them into Marcus's cleft, following the trail blazed by his tongue. Down again. Pausing at the damp pucker of Marcus's entrance and circling the muscle lazily.
He kept his fingers moving there as he slowly stood up and kissed the skin on either side of Marcus's crystal-encrusted spine. All the way up to the nape of Marcus's neck, fingers and lips moving constantly.
The heat of Trent's own erection pulsed against the back of Marcus' thighs, then against the sensitive flesh of his sensitised arse.
'Trent-'
'So. Very. Lovely.'
Trent used his warm, careful hands to turn Marcus. Marcus moaned as Trent's fingers withdrew from their dizzying attentions to his entrance; then again as Trent captured his mouth in a long, slow kiss, tongue exploring his mouth deeply.
Trent bent his head again, to kiss Marcus's jaw, this throat, his Adam's apple, the hollow at the base of his throat. One nipple then the other. Marcus was leaning against the table, legs spread still, barely holding himself upright on those heels. And then one of Trent's hands was on the small of his back, holding him up; the other on his balls and cock, fondling, stroking.
Trent breathed unintelligible words over Marcus's ribs, his navel, the crystal swirls rising from his pubic mound, and his cock, before Trent's mouth closed over the heat and hardness of his prick. Sucked. Licked. Sucked again.
When Trent's mouth left him, left his cock wet and slick, Marcus looked helpless - with want, with arousal, with 'for fuck's sake don't stop'.
'On the table,' Trent murmured, as his hands slid under Marcus' thighs and lifted. Marcus spread his legs still further as Trent - incredibly strong, powerfully sexily strong Trent - lifted him and to seat his arse right on the edge of the table.
'Want you. Always.'
'Always,' agreed Marcus.
Trent, now between those long bejewelled legs, began kissing Marcus again; kissing him thoroughly with absolute devotion; his lips and tongue and teeth all part of the wonderful process. Then his hands returned to the play; lifting Marcus's thighs, to wrap them around his own hips.
One warm hand was rolling the nub of Marcus's left nipple between dextrous fingers; the other hand was stroking Marcus's cock, dipping down to hold and roll his sac, up again along the shaft, thumb stroking over the crown to spread the wetness.
Trent reached for the lube, amused there was a bottle in reach on the table; vaguely aware there may have been bottles in reach of every likely surface in the living room. Marcus had clearly been planning for something this evening.
Marcus flinched at the shock of cold gel on his arse, then moved in response to the warmth of Trent rubbing it in, over, around, in, in. 'Trent-'
'Ready for me, beautiful?'
Marcus sigh-moaned and thrust his hips towards Trent. Trent kissed his mouth, then helped Marcus to lie back. He placed his strong hands on Marcus's hips and dragged him forward; arranged Marcus's still-shod feet, his smooth legs, over his shoulders. He turned his head to kiss one calf, then the other.
Trent stroked his own cock once. Twice. Held himself, positioned himself; he put his hands back onto those sparkling hips and drew Marcus close and against, while he pushed against and in.
Marcus thrust his hips and gasped at the thrill of being entered at last.
Trent groaned at the blissful sensation of entering. He curled his hands around Marcus's hips more tightly, and pulled with his hands as he pushed with his pelvis, until he was seated fully inside Marcus's body.
Then his placed his hands on the top of Marcus's thighs and began to thrust.
When Marcus opened his amazing blue eyes, the irises large and black with desire, Trent knew his own gaze returned the same passion.
Marcus pressed his calves to Trent's shoulder and spread his legs wider still, and he thrust his hips against the ones that thrust into him. And, like Trent, he seemed to have forgotten all his words too as between them there was just breathing and moaning and inarticulate declarations. And all the while the bangles at Marcus' wrists jingled and tinkled and sang a silvery cacophony of bliss.
Trent's hands slid from Marcus's thighs, over his hips, over his waist, curved under his ribs to feel the muscles of the back that flexed on the table. Then he ran his hands down again, revelling in the sensation of that movement; all of that lovely movement as Marcus engaged his whole body in the act of being fucked, and Trent rolled his hips, let his hands roam, tensed his legs and engaged his whole body in the act of fucking.
Trent's eyes fixed on his lover's closed ones; on his open mouth; on the crystals in his ears and on his body; on the silver on his arms and wrists and fingers and waist and toes. He drank in the whole shining, sparkling, extravagant, gilded, silver-toned bracelet-jingling wonder of him. He pushed his cock deliciously into that delicious body, he slid out and in, feeling the heat of Marcus against his crown and shaft, against his balls, against his thighs and shoulders and chest and palms. He felt Marcus flex against him and open himself and dear god, oh god, oh god, the wonder of it, the perfection of it, the heat and excitement and lust and joy of it.
He felt the tension in his lower back, in his feet and his pelvis and his balls and his cock, and one roaming hand wrapped around Marcus's prick and stroked, and the other held to Marcus's hip and pulled, and oh oh oh oh oh oh.
Marcus arched and came, and he pushed down onto Trent's cock and cried out, and ejaculated again; and Trent slapped into him, slammed into him, crying out, coming so hard; and a third time Marcus pulsed come over his own belly, into the crystals; and a fourth as Trent cried out again and thrust again, and then more slowly, and then more slowly still, until he stood panting, pressed in close to Marcus's body, still inside him.
Trent panted, and he grinned, and he leaned down to plant a hot kiss on Marcus's sternum.
Marcus's chest heaved as he tried to regain his normal breathing. He slipped his calves off Trent's shoulders and clamped them around Trent's waist instead; briefly.
Trent tilted his hips back, his spent prick sliding out of Marcus's pliant body. He leaned over to kiss Marcus again and hold Marcus's jaw in his steady hands.
'Happy anniversary,' Marcus murmured, obviously pleased he regained the ability to speak; especially words of more than two syllables.
'It's my birthday, you beautiful idiot.'
'Anniversary, too,' Marcus protested.
Trent laughed; warm breath huffed out over Marcus's lips. Marcus was right, of course. This was his first birthday as Marcus's lover, but they'd been three years friends.
And third anniversaries were crystal.
'Marcus Darrow, you are a romantic,' accused Trent, delighted.
'Shhh,' Marcus whispered, 'don't tell.'
'Your secret is safe with me,' Trent said, kissing him again.
'Mmm.' Marcus wound his long arms, his long legs, around Trent and hugged him close.
Trent lipped at the rings on Marcus's fingers. Kissed his arms, and his chest, and his shoulders and neck.
'Happy birthday to me,' he whispered against goosebumped skin.
'I like your birthday,' said Marcus, laughing low. 'Let's go to bed and celebrate it again.'
Marcus wrapped his legs tight around Trent's waist; Trent scooped his hands behind Marcus' back and lifted him up. Marcus slid his arms around Trent's neck as the bangles jingled, and the rings and armbands glinted in the light; and they kissed like that, the tall slender man held easily in the arms and against the body of the stockier man of infinite patience and strength.
And they went to bed, where they nuzzled and kissed until they were ready to celebrate again.
It took them four days to get all the crystals out of the bed and they never did find one of the earrings. They returned most of the jewellery to Madeleine but one of the pieces they bought; the sleeping dragon had to be theirs forever.
And Trent bought Marcus a whole range of pretty, silky lingerie, and spent many long hours dressing him up in them, and taking them off again.
Every day - always - was a birthday; an anniversary; a celebration.