No Place That Far (13 page)

And there it went, that stutter in his chest again. “If you want to dance or fool around with anyone, you're welcome to it. I don't—”

Timur kissed him.

Still out in the open. Still in plain sight.

And maybe all his senses just checked out for a second, but he swore he felt the music skip and the whole place jolt.

Drawing back, Timur said, “I can wait.”

I can't.

Marcus gulped. “Okay. I…just don't want you to get bored.”

“Not bored.” Timur tapped his temple, and his wicked grin rivaled Kieran's. “Just thinking.”

“Thinking? About?”

Like he needed to ask. Holy fuck.

He glanced over his shoulder and caught Liam's gaze. The shift manager was leaning against the back wall, arms folded, and he chuckled as he rolled his eyes.

To Timur, Marcus said, “Be right back.”

He didn't wait for a response and made his way over to where his boss was standing.

“Let me guess,” Liam said with a smirk. “You want to cut out early?”

“Uh, well, I was actually—”

“Go.” Liam nudged him. “It's quieting down. I'll fill in at your station.”

“Are you—”

“
Go.
”

Marcus's jaw almost dropped. He'd just gone over to ask if Liam was still cool with Timur hanging around the club, not to see if he could cut out early. But, hey, when the boss says go…

“I'll see you tomorrow night, then.”

“Good.” Liam smiled. “And I'll text you sometime tomorrow about dinner. When I've had a chance to talk to Jon.”

“Perfect.”

And suddenly Marcus was off the clock, free for the rest of the evening, with that dirty-minded, green-eyed soldier waiting for him at the end of the bar.

Maybe it was just as well Timur was leaving in three weeks. Much more time than that, there'd be nothing left of Marcus but ashes and the faint scent of absinthe.

He joined Timur. “I'm off for the rest of the night.”

Timur's eyebrows jumped. “Your boss?”

“He said to take the rest of the night off.” Marcus slipped his hand into Timur's. “We've got a few hours before either of us needs to sleep. How do you think we should spend them?”

“I know.” Timur made an after-you gesture.

Chapter Ten

They
just
made it into Marcus's place before he couldn't wait another goddamned second. He grabbed on to Timur's shirt, shoved the big soldier up against the wall and kissed him.

Timur didn't resist. He gave a little grunt of surprise but didn't protest at all. He tugged Marcus's shirt free from his trousers and tried to unfasten the clasp on the cummerbund but struggled.

Still kissing him, still grinding against him, Marcus reached back and unsnapped the clasp with ease. Timur made a low near-growl sound, as if to say
thank God
, and tossed the cummerbund aside.

They tore at each other's clothes. Taking off Timur's T-shirt was more complicated than it needed to be. The buttons on Marcus's tux shirt? A royal pain in the ass. But finally, they were both shirtless, hot skin pressed against hot skin as they made out beside the door.

Marcus was dizzy. Shaking. Losing his fucking mind. He hadn't realized just how horny he was after spending almost an entire shift with Timur in the same room. Now that he had him? Shit. He could barely see straight.

Timur pushed him back a step, then led him toward the couch. Before Marcus knew what was happening, he was on his back with Timur on top of him, and…Jesus, if he was any more turned on, they'd need the fire department.

Between the two of them, they managed to get Marcus's trousers undone and partially down. Then Timur's. Marcus didn't know if he wanted to stroke Timur, suck his dick, fuck him, be fucked by him. The more clothes they pushed out of the way, the less he had a damned clue what he wanted beyond
Timur
. And he had Timur. He just didn't know what the fuck to do with him tonight.

Timur didn't have quite so much difficulty. He pinned Marcus down and thrust against him as if he were fucking him. Marcus tried to move his hips to complement what Timur was doing, but he couldn't think coherently enough, so he just let Timur take over. He lay back, held on to Timur's huge arms and completely surrendered. Much more of this, they'd need the fire department, paramedics, SWAT, Navy SEALs…

The thought nearly made him laugh, but right then, Timur nipped his earlobe, and all that escaped was a delirious moan.

“Oh God.” Marcus gripped Timur's arms tighter. “Oh God…”

Timur groaned and thrust a little harder, and Marcus didn't even try to hold back. His orgasm took over, turning the world around him white and forcing sounds from his lips that he'd never even heard before. And Timur… He just didn't stop. He kept thrusting his cock, now slick with Marcus's semen, until Marcus managed to murmur, “S-stop. Can't…”

This time, Timur did stop. “You're all right?”

Marcus laughed, sounding drunk as he did. “
Oh
yeah. Just sensitive.”

“Good.”

“I want…need to get you off.” Marcus licked his lips. “As soon as I can move.”

“No move.” Timur lifted himself up. “Just sit.” He gestured for Marcus to sit up. It was a struggle, but Marcus obeyed, and as soon as he did, Timur grabbed his hair and pushed his cock between Marcus's lips. He was forceful but controlled, fucking Marcus's mouth without choking him. If Marcus hadn't already come himself, he'd have been well on his way now—this type of controlled aggression was his catnip. A man who knew what he wanted,
took
what he wanted, but was never overbearing or inconsiderate about it.

Timur's dick seemed to get even harder as it slid back and forth along Marcus's tongue. He was getting damned close, so Marcus gave him everything he had—squeezing with his lips, teasing with his tongue. He was rewarded with a low, throaty groan. Timur's fingers twitched in Marcus's hair. He gasped. Swore in God knew what language. Moaned. His thrusts became deeper, more erratic—Marcus had goose bumps just from feeling and listening to Timur unravel with every stroke.

Somehow, Timur had the presence of mind to pull back a bit a second before he came, and his semen shot across Marcus's tongue instead of into the back of his throat. Marcus swallowed eagerly as Timur gripped his hair painfully tight and released a spine-tingling roar.

Timur let him go, and Marcus dropped back onto the couch. He just lay there for a moment, half-dressed, completely disheveled, with his own semen on his bare chest and abs as he wiped his mouth with the back of a shaking hand.

Timur sat on the edge of the cushion beside him, panting and trembling. “You're all right?”

“Yeah.” Marcus closed his eyes and exhaled, then gazed up at Timur. “Is good.”

They eventually pried themselves off each other and, after a longer-than-necessary shower, collapsed into Marcus's bed.

Now that the dust was settling, reality started closing in again. Everything that had happened at Wilde's seemed far away, but as he lay beside Timur beneath a thin sheet, Marcus couldn't help realizing it had only been, what, a couple of hours? It was weird to think that had happened so close to this.

And it was unsettling. Timur was subdued and calm now, almost drifting off next to Marcus—a million miles from the man who'd been ready to rip a belligerent drunk to pieces. Liam's concerns echoed in the back of Marcus's mind, but they didn't make sense now. Words like
possessive
and
dangerous
didn't even belong in the same dimension as Timur.

Of course, it was easy to look at a new guy through rose-colored glasses. He couldn't possibly be controlling. He couldn't possibly get violent. Him? No way! That seemed woefully naïve, especially since Timur was bigger and stronger than Marcus by a long shot. A trained soldier too.

But Marcus didn't feel even a little bit unsafe with him.

And Timur hadn't objected when that guy on the tour flirted with him. He'd noticed. He wasn't stupid—he might not have understood all the words, but that kind of blatant flirtation would've been obvious to a Martian.

“You're thinking.”

Marcus turned his head. Timur's short, terse observations—which probably wouldn't have been much more complex if he were speaking in his native tongue—were strangely endearing. “I am, yes.”

Timur's eyebrows rose a little, but he didn't press.

As long as he'd opened the door, though, they might as well talk.

Marcus turned on his side and propped himself up on his elbow. “I'm curious about something.”

“All right.”

Marcus hesitated, not sure how to say it without making an accusation or coming across all wrong thanks to the language barrier. “Tonight, at the club, that guy who threw the drink…” He paused, studying Timur's expression, searching for a flare of anger.

Timur shrugged. “He was idiot. Too much to drink.”

Marcus laughed. “Yeah, he was.” Turning serious, he met Timur's eyes again. “When you stepped in, was that because…” Shit. How to word it?

“He had no control,” Timur said flatly.

“No kidding. But…what about you?”

Timur's brow furrowed. “I don't understand.”

“Were
you
in control?” Marcus paused. “I guess what I want to know is, what would have happened if I hadn't asked you to back down?”

Timur's eyes lost focus for a moment. Then he shrugged. “What needed to be done was done.”

“Meaning?”

Another shrug. “He stopped. I stopped.”

That was true—though Timur had been angry, he
had
stopped when the drunk did. Marcus had witnessed plenty of bar fights, and most other guys would've broken off a bottle or bloodied someone's nose by the time Marcus had stepped in. But not Timur. He'd still been angry, still ready to snap the drunk in half if need be, but he wouldn't beat him to a pulp just for the hell of it

“Why do you ask?” Timur lifted himself up on his arm and held Marcus's gaze. “Was it wrong? What I did?” His eyes were wide as if he genuinely had no idea if he'd misstepped in the bar.

“No, not at all.” Marcus reached for Timur's face and ran his fingertips along the man's sharp, lightly stubbled jaw. “My boss was concerned. Not for the drunk idiot's safety.” He swallowed. “For mine.”

Timur's eyes could not possibly have gotten any bigger. He gently took Marcus's hand, dwarfing it with his own. “Yours? I don't understand.” The undercurrent of panic in his voice made Marcus's stomach flutter.

“Liam's ex-partner was abusive. Beat the shit out of him.”

“Bastard,” Timur growled.

“Seriously. And I guess that guy started out being…protective.”

“Is protective bad?” Timur cocked his head. “The man might've hurt someone.”

Marcus felt oddly relieved that Timur said “someone” rather than “you”. Maybe that meant that in the moment, Timur's focus had been on defusing the situation and preventing anyone from getting hurt, rather than keeping the dumbfuck away from
his
man.

“No, it's not bad. It's good. It's just…complicated.”

“How?”

“Well, it's easy to go from protecting someone from actual danger to, well, treating them like a possession. Owning them.”

Timur blinked as if he hadn't understood a single word Marcus said.

“It's tough to explain. Some guys start out protecting their—” He caught himself before the word
boyfriend
slipped off his tongue. “They protect someone they're with, and that can turn into…” He shook his head. “Like I said, tough to explain.”

“Protect you from drunk guy, then do same thing to you?”

“Something like that, yes. So Liam was just asking me if I felt safe with you.”

Timur studied him. “Are you safe?”

It was an odd way to word it—if Timur's English had been better, Marcus's response would've been “I don't know, you tell me”. But he was starting to understand what Timur meant when the words didn't quite line up. He could read Timur well enough now, even after this brief time together, to know that the question really meant
do you feel safe with me?

And, goddammit, the answer should've been
I don't know
. Or
it's too early to tell
. Or
it doesn't matter because you'll be gone soon, so I'll take my chances
.

But Marcus brought Timur's fingers up to his lips, kissed them gently and replied, “Yes. I'm safe.”

And he did feel safe. More than he should have with any guy who he knew wasn't going to stick around. Which meant he was getting in way too deep.

He was in way over his head, but he pulled Timur into a deep kiss and didn't let himself give a damn about how dangerous this really was.

Chapter Eleven

Jon and Liam arrived at Marcus's apartment at a little past five. Marcus knew Liam as well as anyone could know his boss after just a few months of working together, and he'd met Jon a few times, but as he brought them in and introduced them to Timur, he realized just how well he
didn't
know either of them. Not that they were strangers or people he was uncomfortable having over, but as he showed them around the apartment and exchanged small talk, it occurred to him how different his life was less than a year ago. The social circle he'd had back then was as good as gone—they'd all been Ray's friends more than his, and didn't talk to him much now. The familiar house in Medina was a distant memory. And the husband, well…

Marcus's gaze drifted toward Timur. It certainly wasn't all bad, this massive shift in his world. Just…different. Like he was an actor in a sitcom and had suddenly been transported to another show altogether—same guy, same face, same little quirks and mannerisms, entirely different world populated by people who had no clue the previous one had ever existed.

“Marcus?” Liam's voice startled him.

He looked around and realized all three of the men were staring at him. Timur seemed a bit puzzled but also amused. Jon may as well have had a giant question mark hanging above his head. And Liam was definitely concerned. And amused. Fucker.

“Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “I was just thinking about what I'm cooking. Couldn't remember if I bought enough tuna for four.”

“Is plenty,” Timur remarked. “Enough to feed entire army.”

Jon laughed. “Well, if your cooking is as good as Liam insists it is, we'll be happy to take any leftovers off your hands.”

Marcus glanced at Liam. “You've never had my cooking.”

Liam shrugged. “No, but I've seen your résumé, and people who burn mac and cheese don't get jobs at those places.” He nodded toward Timur. “That, and you have at least one devoted culinary fan.”

Timur chuckled, a hint of pink appearing in his cheeks. “Marcus cooks. Is good.”

Is good.
Shiver.

“Anyway.” Liam gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. “Timur was just telling us you have a wardrobe that still needs to be assembled. If you want, we can put it together. An extra set of hands might help.”

“Oh no. That's okay.” Marcus shook his head. “You don't have to work while you're visiting.”

“Don't argue with him.” Jon patted Liam's arm. “He sees a chance to play carpenter and put something together, you're not going to talk him out of it.”

“Hey!” Liam shot him a playful glare, but then they both laughed. He turned to Marcus again. “And anyway, I don't want you fucking up your hands. You need them to pour drinks.”

“I could help,” Jon said.

“No.” Liam kissed his cheek. “I don't want
your
hands fucked up either.”

Jon was cute to begin with, but that shade of red was absolutely adorable.

“Well, if you really want to put it together, I won't try to stop you,” Marcus said. “But I should get started in the kitchen if we want to eat before midnight.”

“I'll join you,” Jon said. “If that's okay, of course.”

“Absolutely. A little conversation helps pass the time.” To Timur, he said, “Are you sure? You've already built every piece of furniture in this house.” And had he ever—after he'd spent a few hours here one afternoon, the apartment looked like an IKEA showroom.

“Is all right,” Timur said. “I like to build.” He gestured for Liam to follow him. “This way.”

Timur and Liam disappeared into the bedroom—wouldn't
that
have been the start of a hot porno?—and Marcus led Jon into the kitchen.

Jon picked up the bottle of wine he and Liam had brought over. “Well, as long as they're busy, there's no reason
we
can't crack this open.”

Marcus laughed. “I won't tell if you won't.” He pulled a corkscrew out of a drawer and handed it to him.

Jon eyed the corkscrew. “Damn, you don't do anything halfway in the kitchen, do you?”

“Hmm?”

“I have a cheap-ass, plastic-handled corkscrew. Something tells me this”—he held up the brushed titanium one Marcus had given him—“didn't come from the dollar store.”

“No, not that one. It's the one I used to use when I still…” He hesitated, his heart sinking a little at the memory. Clearing his throat, he turned to pull the tuna steaks from the fridge. “You have to have something good and sturdy when you're doing wine presentations all night.”

“This a little souvenir from a place you used to work?” Jon asked as he worked at the cork. “Like swiping office supplies when you leave?”

Marcus laughed. “No, it wasn't like that.” He laid the tuna out on the counter. “I bought it when I was working downtown. Before my ex and I opened our place.” He glanced at the corkscrew Jon was using. “It was kind of a reward to myself for moving up to a five-star place instead of that shithole in South Seattle. I could afford a nice one, so…I bought it.”

Jon pulled the cork free, twisted it off the screw and handed the expensive piece back to Marcus. “I thought you were a chef, though. Not a server.”

“I am. But I did a little of both. And for whatever reason, my boss thought I was really good at wine presentations, so this”—he held it up just before setting it back in its drawer—“got a lot of mileage. Before I became a full-time chef, anyway.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Being a server?” Marcus wrinkled his nose. “Fuck no.”

“No, I meant being a chef.” Jon glanced around. “Glasses?”

“Oh. Right. Those would be helpful.” Marcus pulled a couple of glasses down from the cabinet. “To answer your question, I do miss being a chef. I don't…” He hesitated, not quite sure how to say it. “Let's just say I don't miss the environment of my last job.”

Jon poured them each a glass of Malbec and handed one to Marcus. They clinked the glasses together, glancing down the hall as if to make sure Liam and Timur didn't come in to polish off the freshly opened bottle.

Marcus took a sip from his glass, then set it down and started coating the tuna in black sesame seeds.

As Jon slowly swirled his wine, he said, “Is bartending a permanent thing for you, then?”

The knife stopped midchop, and Marcus hesitated.

“I'm sorry.” Jon set the glass down with a quiet clink. “I don't mean to pry. We barely know each other.”

“No, it's okay.” Marcus forced a tight smile. “You're not the first person to ask about a five-star chef downgrading to bartending.”

“I don't know if I'd call it downgrading.” Jon shrugged. “Sometimes you just have to change directions to maintain your sanity. I left a management position last year to go back into actual tech support. The paycheck is definitely smaller, but the job isn't killing me like the last one was.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “People can look down their noses all they want, but at the end of the day, you're the one who has to go to that job every morning and try not to hang yourself with a power cord by lunch.”

Marcus laughed. “Yeah, exactly.” He set the knife down and reached for his wine again. “I think I just needed a change of scenery for a little while. The last year or two at the restaurant were…” Fraught. Miserable. Excruciating. He sighed into his glass. “Should've listened to people who said working with your spouse was a bad idea.”

Jon's eyebrows lifted, but he didn't press the issue. The conversation had probably reached the line where it wouldn't be appropriate or comfortable for a couple of near strangers to dig any deeper.

In the other room, something banged. Liam swore, and Timur said something, but Marcus couldn't make out the words, only the sound of his voice.

“Okay, let's try it this way,” Liam said and something clattered.

Jon snorted. “Let's definitely keep them out of the wine until they're done.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Oh, not really.” He chuckled and then took a sip. “He actually
does
know what he's doing, but I've never heard him put something together without a little bit of cursing.”

“Well, he's working with someone who has the patience of a saint.” Marcus couldn't help smiling a little. “I swear, Timur never complains. About anything.”

“Yeah, he seems pretty mellow.”

“If he were any more mellow, I don't think he'd be conscious.”

“Is that…a good thing?”

“After the guy I was married to?” Marcus faced him. “It's a
very
good thing.”

“Gotcha.” Jon swirled his wine again. “It does a number on the stress level, doesn't it? Being with someone who's that chill.”

“Liam seems kind of intense, though.”

“Nah.” Jon shook his head. “He has his moments, but he's pretty relaxed. Compared to me, at least.”

“Seems like you two are a good match.”

Jon smiled fondly. “We are. After the d-bags we both had before? I couldn't imagine finding anyone better than Liam.”

“Good. Good for both of you.” Marcus picked up the knife again and resumed chopping his vegetables.

“Is that… I didn't step on a nerve, did I?”

You couldn't have known.

“No, it's fine. I'm just still sort of, you know, adapting. After my divorce.”

He glanced at Jon, who glanced down the hall, and Marcus could almost see the question in his eyes.

He shifted his attention to scraping shallots from the cutting board into a bowl. “Timur's leaving in a couple of weeks. Going back to the Legion.”

“Oh.”

Marcus hadn't had nearly enough wine to deal with an awkward silence, and definitely not for any conversation about Timur going away, so he glanced up and asked, “How's the new job going?”

Jon's eyebrow flicked up, as if the conspicuously abrupt subject change hadn't gone unnoticed, but he didn't press the issue. “It's going well. Though you wouldn't
believe
some of the calls we get…”

Timur and Liam had impeccable timing—they finished the wardrobe right as Marcus was pulling the coq au vin out of the oven.

“Damn, now I want to go take a look.”

Timur patted his shoulder. “Can wait. Is not going to change while we eat.”

Marcus wrapped his arm around Timur's waist. “Is that a nice way of saying you don't want to wait to eat?”

Timur just grinned.

He'd marinated the chicken well in advance, and that preparation paid off now. He hadn't been able to get his hands on the kinds of boiling fowl he normally preferred, but this organic, free-range, properly fed chicken was a decent stand-in. But first, he'd served the tuna tartare—a simple dish and a crisp, clean-tasting teaser for the palate before it got smothered in the thick, rich tastes of the main dish.

“Oh my God.” Jon tilted his wineglass toward Marcus. “This food is fucking
amazing
. I don't know who bought your soul in exchange for teaching you, but damn.”

Marcus laughed quietly. “Give me a year or so to find my footing, and maybe I'll go back to doing this for money.”

“Oh no.” Liam shook his head. “No way. Don't you dare get the people at Wilde's addicted to the drinks you make and then leave.”

Marcus rolled his eyes. “Please. If Kieran left, yeah, people might riot. But—”

“But nothing.” Liam waved a hand as if to say
end of discussion
. “We actually had to order a case of absinthe after you got everyone hooked on those Green Beasts.”

“I'll teach the other guys how to make it.”

“Mmhmm. And you'll also teach them whatever voodoo goes into your hurricanes?” Liam turned to Jon. “Don't ever try one of his Liquid Cocaines. I'm pretty sure they actually contain cocaine.”

Jon's lips quirked. “Well, now you have me intrigued.”

“No.”

Marcus pointed at the kitchen. “You know, I have everything here to make—”

“
No
.”

Marcus snickered. Across the table, he caught Timur's eye, and the man gave a quiet laugh. Marcus wasn't entirely certain if Timur was able to follow the whole conversation, but he didn't seem uncomfortable. Then again, he was also working his way through a plate of coq au vin, and no one seemed to enjoy good food the way Timur did.

In fact, Timur wasn't the kind of guy to eat while he did something else—no, he devoted most of his attention to whatever he was eating, and he also still practiced the art of chewing properly and not rushing through the courses. Few things irritated Marcus like businessmen just kind of eating while they were actually discussing something they considered far more important, giving almost no regard and even less respect to the fine ingredients or the skill and attention that had gone into transforming and enhancing them.

Considering how much food cost at Le Chien Bleu, they'd gotten quite a lot more of that type of customer than Marcus considered healthy, and during the last months of his tenure, a strong hipster contingent had muscled in on the foodies' territory, leading to too many foodies moving on in the face of such bald-faced ignorance.

Thankfully, Marcus hadn't been forced to see this deterioration from up close, sequestered away in the kitchen as he'd been, but still, it had grated on him. Ray had assured him that it didn't really matter who paid the bills, as long as they were paid, and besides, no restaurant could really choose its patrons—much of it was driven by word of mouth or reviews that nobody could control, but Marcus had dreamed of a slightly simpler way of life. Just good food for good people, with nothing to prove, no reviewer to impress and, ideally, totally different stress levels. It was probably something of a dream, and considering his own ambition and perfectionism, it was even something of an irreconcilable conflict, but that was roughly the shape of the next cooking-based job he'd be looking for. Simpler, cheaper, but by no means worse. Less dicking around with presentation, though obviously still attractive. Not all that different from whipping up something like this in his own kitchen, and Timur was the ideal customer—who appreciated it in a quiet, nonhipstery, nonfoodie kind of way and wouldn't run out there into the world and tweet photos and bite-by-bite updates on fucking social media.