1:47

It was as if the harsh, red numbers on his alarm were glaring at him. Marc couldn’t sleep. He’d lain there for a few hours, trying to settle his brain, but his thoughts kept churning in useless circles. He’d told Royce that he’d be able to save his mother, get her free of his uncle, and he did have a plan, but it was risky. Too damn risky.

What if he wasn’t good enough? What if there was a flaw to his plan that he didn’t foresee?

It would possibly get Royce killed or thrown in jail. And what did he know? He knew art. As Richard liked to put it, he liked to schmooze. He knew how to work a room, ease the fears of an artist, and get a client to crack open his wallet. Those were the useless skills he had. What the fuck did he know about breaking into someone’s house and stealing a painting? Because that was exactly what he was proposing.

He couldn’t just stand by and do nothing. He’d seen it when Royce spoke of his mother, the ever-so-gentle softening in his hard eyes. The slump in his shoulders. Royce needed his mother. She was the only family that he had left. Well, family worth anything, from the sound of it. He still couldn’t believe Royce came from the Karras family. He’d seen stories about them in the news. Frightening ones.

Sighing softly, Marc lay listening to Royce’s steady breathing, occasionally cresting into a light snore before dropping off again. For the first time, he’d stretched out next to Marc in his bed, but he’d only drifted to sleep a few minutes earlier. Royce deserved to have a few blissful moments where he wasn’t torn apart by rage and worry.

Carefully, Marc slid out from under the covers and pulled on a pair of soft sleep pants before padding soundlessly out of the room.

He needed to think, and there was only one thing that he could do that would clear his head enough to come up with a viable solution to Royce’s problem that would keep him safe, get his uncle the painting, and his mother free.

The stone floor of the kitchen was cold under his bare feet, but it didn’t slow his steps. He welcomed the cold. Let it sink straight into his bones and wrap around his heart. Maybe it would keep him from feeling anything for Royce. Or at least keep him from hurting when Royce decided to walk away from him. Dominic’s warning made it perfectly clear that Royce wouldn’t be interested in dating when their time was up. For now, he was a job and a willing body.

Very fucking willing.

Each winding step he climbed worked its magic, closing the doors in his brain, so that thoughts of Royce and his own insecurities were locked out. By the time he reached the back of the house to the one room he’d kept hidden from Royce over the past two weeks, he was burning with purpose. He hadn’t been able to even think about the room over the past few months, but tonight the contents were like a siren song, beckoning him. There was a buzzing along his muscles and a restless twitch in his fingers that kept building until he was sure he would climb out of his own skin.

A paintbrush in his fingers, colors spread across his palette, and he’d feel better. The air would flow back into his lungs, and the pressure on his thoughts would ease enough that he’d be able to come up with a viable plan.

“Fuck,” he said when he flipped on the overhead light.

The room was in total chaos.

When Lilah had asked to live in the guest house, he’d been forced to quickly move out all his supplies in one afternoon. He’d been using that building as his private studio. There he’d been able to spread his paintings, sculptures, and various supplies around.

Now it was all crammed into a single area in a haphazard manner. There wasn’t enough room to work. He wasn’t even sure which box contained his paints and brushes. There were at least a dozen prepped canvases in the room, but he suspected they were mixed in with completed paintings.

Painting would give him the answers he needed.

There was only one way to deal with it. Pressing his lips together in a hard, thin line, Marc jumped in. He quickly started sorting his finished paintings and those still waiting for his attention. He stacked other boxes filled with random supplies. Chunks of granite and softer marble he’d had shipped in from a quarry in Italy. He had boxes sealed with untouched clay.

In school, he’d never been able to settle on a single medium. They all called to him at one time or another. This need to create with his hands, to expunge the demons mocking him and clear his scattered thoughts came often.

But it all zeroed back to the blank canvas. Sometimes with paints. Sometimes with charcoal. It was always the place he started a piece before he moved on to other arts.

He didn’t know how much time passed before he finally had an easel set up with a blank white canvas staring back at him. Only when the brush was balanced between the fingers of his left hand did he feel like he could draw a breath. One color went on easily, quickly. Then another. Bold slash. And then another. He just kept painting while his mind turned over one idea after another regarding Royce’s problem.

Nothing worked.

All of it was too dangerous.

There had to be a better solution. He just wasn’t seeing it.

With a grunt, he set aside the piece he’d half created. Need a blank slate. Bigger. He had to think bigger.

Past the easel was the blank white wall. Better.

Refilling the paints on his palette, he snatched up a clean brush and marched over to the wall. The paint swirled on the wall, growing wider and wider in a circle. He let his subconscious take over the brush while his thoughts turned back to the problem.

Royce needed a painting. A painting worth up to 150 million dollars. But they couldn’t get it from a gallery. The security would be too tight. They’d need too many people to help. He wanted to limit the number of people who would be endangered by his plan.

Few private collectors kept such works in their own home. They stayed on loan to galleries, museums, and traveling shows so that the owners didn’t have to personally handle the exorbitant insurance fees. That became the job of the gallery or museum.

But there were exceptions. Those who didn’t want the world to know that they possessed these grand paintings. Not because they feared theft. But because they owned them illegally. Paintings that could never be resold through the regular channels but had to continue flowing along the current of the black market.

Marc had never dealt in art that didn’t have a clean provenance. That didn’t mean he didn’t know of owners of such art.

And there was one piece that had hung like a dark shadow over his soul because he knew where it resided, and he’d never done anything about it out of fear.

Getting the painting would be no easy task. They’d need help. But he could keep it to just one person…if he could even get ahold of him. And even then, if they were caught, they’d be killed. Not handed over to the cops. No trial. No jail. Dead.

He couldn’t risk Royce.

But he could go. Angelo would help…assuming he could get the notorious thief to answer the phone and take a break from his partying. He’d go in with Angelo, get the painting, and then Royce would be able to save his mother. He could do this for Royce.…

“This is beautiful.” Royce’s low, deep voice caused Marc to jerk away from the wall. He turned to find the bodyguard standing near the entrance, looking at a painting leaning against the far wall. It was an abstract he’d done a couple of years earlier. A grim kind of sunset laced heavily with reds and grays.

“It’s not. And you shouldn’t be in here,” Marc snapped, dragging his eyes away from Royce’s bare chest. He’d pulled on jeans before he’d come to look for his client but hadn’t paused long enough to button them or put on a shirt. But as Marc’s eyes fell back on the wall, he nearly groaned. The design he’d been painting clearly resembled the tattoo on Royce’s shoulder and bicep. He would never have thought he’d memorized it, but the intense detail was already evident. God, he prayed that Royce didn’t notice the resemblance. The poor guy had enough on his mind. He didn’t need to think his delusional client was also a stalker.

“Why are you up?” Royce asked.

Marc chanced a glance over his shoulder to find that Royce had moved deeper into the room. He was flipping slowly through the stacks of canvases, looking over each painting with a critical eye.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Painting helps?”

“Sometimes.”

“You’re tenser now than when you went to bed.”

“Look, you can go back to sleep. I’m safe in my own house. You don’t need to keep an eye on me every second of the day.”

“There were two attempts on your life in your own house.”

Royce’s reminder had Marc clenching his brush and taking a step back from the wall. “I’m fine.”

“There are no cameras in this room.”

Marc turned back toward Royce to argue when he noticed that he’d moved to a new stack of paintings on the far wall. “Don’t look at those! They’re not done.”

“Why haven’t you finished them?”

Marc growled, his temper rising. He couldn’t think with Royce touching his paintings, judging his work, seeing the evidence of his mediocre talent. His failures. “Because I haven’t. Why are you in here?”

“I want to know what’s going on with you.” His voice was so steady and even, he could have been asking if Marc wanted a drink or if the cold air in the room was bothering him.

“I’m trying to come up with a solution to your problem, but I need to paint to think. It clears my head. But I can’t paint with you looking at my work. Just go. Please. I need another hour. Maybe two. Then we can talk. I’ll have it all worked out.”

Royce shifted to face Marc, but he made no move to leave the room. “Why do you hide your work? It’s beautiful.”

Marc threw his paintbrush and palette aside, not caring how the paint splattered across the hardwood floor and surrounding boxes. “Stop saying that. They’re not beautiful. My work is mediocre. It’s a joke. I’m faced with truly beautiful work every day, but this…this…it’s embarrassing. I should stop. I should never paint again, but I can’t. It’s the only way to clear my head. To be able to think.”

“Marc.” Royce’s voice had hardened, and he took a step closer to Marc, but it was too late. It was all unraveling around him. The answer he’d grasped was slipping away.

“I need to concentrate. I was close to the answer. I can fix this.”

“You don’t have to fix anything. This isn’t your problem.”

“It is! Your uncle would never have focused on art if it hadn’t been for me. He might not have even thought about contacting you if it hadn’t been for those articles related to my case. If I’d just kept my mouth shut and dealt with my problem alone, you would not be in this mess.”

“Marc—”

“But I think I’ve got an idea. You’re going to hate it, but I can do it. I can fix this. I just need to leave the country for a couple of days to get this painting.” He started to turn to where he’d been painting Royce’s tattoos along the wall.

Strong fingers threaded through the back of his hair and clamped down, trapping Marc before he could even take a step. Little slivers of pain tugged at his scalp, but it was the sheer strength and force in Royce’s hold that brought the little whimper of need up his throat. Everything within him cried out to submit to this man, to just place his mind, body, and soul into Royce’s powerful hands. To let Royce take control…but Marc couldn’t. He needed to stay in control. To handle it.

It was weak of him to ask for Ward’s help in the first place. That weakness led to putting Royce and his mom in danger. He couldn’t…

“This isn’t on you to fix.”

“It is—”

“And this painting thing isn’t helping you tonight. That’s not what you need.” As he spoke, Royce loosened his hold on Marc’s hair and slid his hand down to knead the tense muscle in the back of Marc’s neck. There was no stopping the loud moan that tumbled from his lips. His knees nearly gave out under the delicious pressure that was massaging angry muscles.

His brain was still fighting the temptation, whispering ugly words. Royce shouldn’t be comforting him, offering to help him. This was his mess. “I should be the one…” He tried to talk, but the words drifted off as Royce moved down his back. He swore his eyes rolled up into his head.

And then Royce’s lips, with the wonderful scrape of whiskers, brushed against the underside of his jaw. Kissing, nibbling once, twice, down toward his chin. “This is about both of us getting something we need. I think I know what you need.”

“Yes…”

“Do you trust me?”

“Of course.”

“Marc, look at me.”

Marc’s eyes immediately flicked open and landed on Royce’s hard face and narrowed hazel eyes. The green seemed more vibrant with deeper tones of golden brown around the rim. He loved the intensity of Royce’s gaze. It was as if the man had the power to see through all the bullshit with those wonderful eyes.

“Do you trust me?” Royce repeated.

Marc took a breath to reply, but it caught in his throat. This was more than trusting Royce to keep him safe from some phantom killer. This was deeper, more dangerous. But even after only a heartbeat of reflection, he knew that he did trust Royce, and it shook him down to his core. It was freeing and at the same time terrifying.

“Yes,” he exhaled, hating how his voice trembled.

That painful admission won him a devouring kiss. Royce tightened his hold on the back of Marc’s neck and pulled him the last couple of inches forward so that Royce could consume his mouth, thrusting his tongue deep inside. Marc immediately melted against him, opening under the onslaught. He shook with how badly he wanted this man.

Royce bit down on Marc’s lower lip, sucking on it for a second, before pulling free. When he looked down at Royce’s eyes again, they were darker, desire stealing Marc’s breath. Blood rushed south to his cock, leaving him lightheaded and aching all at once. He shifted his hips, rubbing his hard-on against Royce’s hip for relief.

“I need…”

Royce’s husky chuckle sent wonderful prickles down his flesh. He nuzzled Marc’s neck, scratching his beard against tender flesh. “I know what you need. And I’m going to give it to you, but you’re going to do everything I say.” Running his free hand slowly down Marc’s chest, he slipped beneath the loose waistband of the sleep pants and boxers. Strong fingers wrapped around his hard cock and stroked him once. “Everything.”

“Yes!” Marc cried out on a gasp. “Oh, fuck yes! Everything you say.”

Releasing his cock, Royce slid his hand free of his pants. “Perfect.” Marc didn’t know if he was commenting on Marc’s complete willingness to follow directions or the feel of his cock. He didn’t care. When Royce spoke again, his deep voice had hardened, sending a spark of excitement along nerve endings. “Go to your bedroom. Take off all your clothes and get on your knees in the center of the room.”

Marc couldn’t hide the shiver that ran the length of his body. He wanted to ask Royce…something…say something…but the words were caught behind a lump in his throat. Old fears and insecurities were rising, threatening to choke him.

Royce wasn’t like the others. He kept repeating that refrain over and over again in his head as he left the room and quickly thumped down the winding stairs to the first floor. His heart was pounding so hard in his chest; he could practically taste it on the back of his tongue.

His gaze didn’t stray to the dining room or the warmly lit courtyard in the center of his house. By the time he crossed the kitchen to the hall leading to his bedroom, he could feel the anxiety that had consumed him just minutes ago slipping away.

As he stepped onto the soft thick carpet in the bedroom, all his plans of stealing a painting and Royce’s dilemma had faded to faint white noise in the back of his brain. With Royce demanding control, he could let everything slip away for a few minutes and just feel. Oh God, he just needed to let go. Everything in his life was about control. It all needed to stay balanced on the tips of his fingers. Family. Galleries. Artists. Clients. They all needed his attention. A smile and the right words.

But it was different with Royce. He didn’t need to figure out the right words or the right gesture. The right touch. He didn’t have to guess at being perfect because Royce was going to tell him exactly the right thing to do.

In the bedroom, he found that Royce had flipped on one of the bedside lamps so that its soft light beat back the heavy darkness. Standing in the center of the room, he pulled off both his boxers and pants in one motion and tossed them aside with a relieved sigh. He dropped to his knees and closed his eyes. Excited energy still buzzed through his body, and his cock still ached, but there was an extra layer of calm settling over him.

Royce’s footsteps echoed down the hall, and then there was only the muffled whisper of his jeans rubbing as he moved around the room. Marc opened his eyes but didn’t twist around to see what he was doing behind him as he opened drawers and dug around in what sounded like bags. Each second that ticked by had his heart rate increasing, goose bumps breaking out across his arms in anticipation of that first touch, that first kiss, the first deeply rumbled command.

He didn’t have to wait long. Fingers threaded gently through his hair from behind in a caress…like Royce was drawn to his hair again and again. A sigh slipped from Marc’s lips.

“You look so good kneeling there,” Royce growled. Lips brushed against the outer shell of Marc’s ear, and fingers tightened in his hair. “I can’t decide if you were born this perfect shade of honey or if I can see you laying stretched out on a nude beach somewhere along the Mediterranean.” There was a pause, but Marc didn’t speak because Royce hadn’t asked him a question. Royce tilted Marc’s head to the side and slowly licked up the side of his throat.

“Mmmmm…must be born this way.”

Marc shivered again. He was going to fucking come before Royce got his cock in his ass.

“I turned off the two cameras in this room. It’s just us.”

He gave a quick, jerky nod. The fucking cameras. He’d completely forgotten about the fact that cameras covered nearly every square inch of his home now. And in truth, he hadn’t cared. He might have teased Lucas just weeks ago about the porn-worthy exploits that went on in his penthouse, but he now found himself on his knees in his bedroom, practically whimpering with the need for Royce to take him.

Royce pressed a surprisingly tender kiss to the side of his head before walking around to stand in front of Marc. His eyes instantly fell on the sizeable bulge pushing against the zipper of his jeans. His mouth watered at the thought of pulling Royce free and sucking him down the back of his throat. He wanted to feel the weight of him on his tongue. Wanted to know his taste. His smell.

Royce placed two fingers under his chin and tilted Marc’s head up. A smirk lifted one corner of his mouth as if he could read his mind. “Before we start, I want to tell you that I plan to fuck you. I plan to have you suck my cock. I plan to have my mouth on every inch of your body. I want to know right now, truthfully, are you okay with my plans?”

“Yes. Please, yes.”

His smirk grew into a wide grin. “Stay.”