A Marked Man

by Jane Davitt

He watches from a bench as Jim works out, sweat, a salted sheen of it, covering Jim's body, the vivid blue of his eyes startling in his flushed face. And because he's looking, bold in the shadows, he can see that Jim's half-hard, just how he likes him, riding an edge of arousal Blair can turn to aching, screaming lust if he wants to.

He usually does.

He sips constantly at his water as if he's the one out there exercising, his hand shaking slightly with the need to touch that hard, long body, to own it. Too many people for him to engineer even a casual touch on the sizzling skin or the damply clinging T-shirt Jim's wearing.

Too many people… and some are watching Jim, too, avid, speculative gazes, smearing Jim's skin, making it grubby, used.

He feels his lips tighten and wants to snarl a warning, stake a claim. Under that T-shirt, hell, under the shorts, Jim's wearing his marks, but only they know that they're there, dug into smooth skin with Blair's teeth and nails. He remembers making them and shifts on the bench, his cock filling with a slow, sweet surge.

Jim turns his head sharply and meets his look. Even in the miasma of sweat and testosterone of the gym, Jim can tell when Blair's hungry for him. Blair thinks that deserves a reward, but that will have to wait, too.

He closes his eyes for a moment and when he looks again, Jim's leaning against a wall opposite Blair, the session over, drinking water in slow gulps. Blair watches him, anticipating what's to come and knowing that they won't be able to wait until they get home. He wants Jim in the truck, Jim's hot, tired hands working him urgently, his head bending to catch the spurt and spill of Blair's come. Wants to make Jim drive, his cock like iron under the light brush of Blair's teasing touch.

His view's blocked abruptly and he frowns. A man, all muscle, taller than Jim, his shoulders a freaking yard across, is chatting to Jim, whose face, as the man moves to let someone pass by, is uneasy, trapped. The man isn't touching, but he's leaning in close, his hand planted on the wall beside Jim's head, his mouth whispering words Jim clearly doesn't want to hear.

Blair can't rescue Jim Not from this. He squeezes his hand into a fist and breathes, shallow and fast.

And Jim rescues him. Caps and drops his water bottle. Peels off his T-shirt. Runs an idle, casual hand over the ragged red mark above his nipple where Blair sucked and bit and lapped until his mouth was full of the tang of Jim's skin and his ears were crammed full with Jim's hoarse whimpers. Looks past the man, who hesitates, uncertain now, and smiles at Blair, just at Blair, as if nothing else exists for him.

The man turns his head to see who Jim's smiling at and his gaze passes over Blair and then jerks back to him, because Blair's smiling, too, a match for Jim's grin.

Blair stands and walks out. He doesn't look back to see if Jim's following him.

He knows he is.

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