Chapter 8
the eighth chapter
AMOS
A little over a month later, after hosting back to back events in Hamilton and Ascot, Marco phones me from what sounds like an echoey tunnel.
“Needed to hear your voice after the day I just had,” he groans.
Since our fourth date, these after work calls have become a thing.
I look forward to them every night, no matter how late.
“Let me ease your tension,” I soothe. “Two events in a row is enough to leave anyone wrecked. Where are you?”
“In the bath,” he laughs.
“Oh.”
I fail to keep my thoughts pure.
“Oh?”
“I'd be lying if I…”
Through the phone, I can hear movement in the water.
My mind drifts to that hint of trimmed hair I saw above his…
“If you what?” Marco nudges.
“If I told you that talking to you while you're naked doesn't arouse the fuck out of me.”
“It does?” he teases. “I'm so sorry.”
“You're not sorry,” I smirk. “You want me begging for it.”
“Who me?”
He knows exactly what he’s doing.
And I submit willingly.
“You love it when my dick is hungry for you.”
For a moment neither of us speak.
But I can hear his breath grow heavier with each tick of the clock.
“And is it?” he asks. “Hungry for me?”
Always. Both day and night.
“You know it is,” I whisper.
Straddling the back of the couch, I grind myself slowly into it.
The same friction I felt between my legs when we were making out in the supply room.
A subtle moan in my ear suggests that somebody's hands have ventured beneath the bath water.
“Come for a swim with me,” Marco implores. “It's not that late. South Bank is open until midnight.”
The thought of holding him in the water, nothing but a thin piece of lycra between us, is enough to tighten my grip on the cushions.
“Meet you under the arches in thirty minutes,” I say.
◆◆◆
Warm air hovers thick, as city lights scatter reflective sparks along the river.
The pool is smooth at this end, only a few swimmers dotted along the shallows.
Plenty of shadowy corners to explore.
Marco is already there, perched casually on a low tree branch.
“Only had me waiting three minutes this time,” he says playfully. “You're getting better at this punctuality thing.”
“My motives weren't entirely pure,” I shrug.
“Neither were mine,” he admits.
His kiss lands softly as a hello.
For a moment we stand there, a little lost in each other.
Every time we’re together it feels surreal that he’s here in touchable form, more than just a notification or a voice on the phone.
“Get those clothes off, boy,” he orders.
Who am I to disobey?
We bundle our things into a locker.
Marco nods toward the curve where neon lights and dense garden edges create a jungle vibe.
Holding his hand, we ease our way into the water, a refreshing shock of cool in the humid evening.
I let my body submerge entirely, surfacing again to push my hair out of my eyes.
Marco drifts a few feet away, treading up to his chin.
Water beads along his shoulders.
I move instinctively toward him, following to the darker end of the cove.
Wrapping my arms around his waist, our kiss is illuminated by the blue fluorescent glow.
Firm hands grip my shoulders, legs curling around me beneath the surface.
I reach beneath him, cupping that luscious ass as I lift him above the water.
“I've been missing you all day,” I confess.
“Your manifestation seems to have worked,” he smiles.
With a tilt of his chin, our mouths meet in sweet reunion.
There’s that hunger again, building in slow, rising waves.
Dewy wet bodies.
Slippery torsos press against each other.
Darkness fuels every sensation, each movement amplified and deliberate.
His nipple hardens as I run a tongue across it.
Fingers trail gently down my arms.
We float apart and then together, hands clasped to anchor ourselves to one another.
I drown in his orbit, close enough to count the freckles on his nose.
We haven’t been skin to skin since the launch party.
I’ve kept my promise.
Until now.
Clothes have stayed on for weeks, even when the kisses get heavy.
But tonight, this level of intimacy feels different than before.
Our conversations and texts have unfurled layers of closeness and desire that go far beyond touch.
Every time this man reaches for me, whispers to me, holds me… something inside me blooms.
And somehow I can’t get enough.
Marco turns to hoist himself over the side of the pool, taking a sip from his water bottle.
That’s when I notice the marks.
Small round burns scattered across his back.
So many of them.
A few thin raised silver lines too.
They look like cuts, but not from any recent incident.
These scars are subtle, faded.
They tell a dark story, just as tattoos etch their silent voice upon skin.
I didn’t notice them that first night, in the studio.
Too caught up in a whirlwind of lust and urgency.
Marco had stolen my attention, guiding my hand to the heated mound inside his underwear.
The way I wanted him then was nothing compared to how I feel now.
But tonight as he turns his body away, a hint of the past emerges.
I lift a hand to brush my thumb across the ridges.
“What happened here?” I ask.
A car accident perhaps? A fire?
Marco’s body stills.
“Nothing,” he murmurs. “It's from when I was a kid.”
His voice is cautious, eyes shifting toward the skyline.
Then he changes the subject.
“Have you been here before? At night?”
I nod gently.
And then a memory surfaces.
When I was a kid, I knew a boy at school with marks like this on his arms. Small round burns.
The boy’s father had been a heavy smoker.
A bitter, angry drunk.
My chest tightens.
But Marco clearly doesn’t want to talk about it.
So I shelve the thought for now.
Moving closer, I tuck a wet curl behind his ear.
The gesture feels instinctive, protective.
Silence looms in the trees, my arms forming a shelter against an unknown ghost.
I hold him for a while, wishing I could undo the pain of whatever this man has been through.
Water laps against our skin.
“Marco,” I whisper. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…”
“It's okay.”
He rests a cheek on my shoulder, dissolving into the hug.
Light reflects in his eyes as he ponders something.
“Come back to mine,” he says. “If you’d like to. No pressure.”
My pulse quickens.
He’s opening a door.
One that I very much want to step through.
◆◆◆
Marco’s apartment looks exactly as I’d expected.
Neat. Stylish. Ordered. Very him.
Everything feels intentional.
A low charcoal couch. Soft lighting.
A tall plant catches the urban glow from the windows.
Generous rows of books are stacked precisely on shelves.
So calm and peaceful.
A safe haven for a brave soul.
We slip our shoes off near the door.
“Ginger beer?” he offers.
I thank him, standing in the corner awkwardly.
Gripping the edge of my pocket, he pulls me closer for a hug.
Our hair is still damp from the pool.
His fingers glide cautiously over the inky patterns on my forearm.
“Can I?” he ventures softly.
“Mm-hmm.”
Setting his drink on the table, he takes me by the hand.
The golden haze of the lamp adds depth to the colours on my skin.
“I've been curious to know the story behind each one,” he says, his voice a little shy.
I take a sip, then place my glass next to his.
“Ask me anything,” I offer openly.
Marco turns my wrist, admiring the curves and lines that have been curated over the years.
“Tell me about this one.”
He circles his finger over a delicate sketch of a petalled bloom.
“That’s a frangipani,” I smile. “My mum’s favourite flower.”
His eyes soften.
“It’s beautiful,” he says, kissing the inside of my wrist.
The contact is warm and sensual.
My neck begins to flush as his fingers trail higher along my arm.
A watery image rests just beneath the contour of my tricep.
“How about this one?”
The teardrop.
I look away for a moment, the pain now a distant memory.
“First time I got my heart broken.” I pause, remembering those lonely nights. “I was in a really tough place.”
He lingers for a moment, offering a second kiss to make it better.
I give him one in return, holding him tenderly.
It’s tempting to let fear win, to allow the heartache of love and loss to rob me of this newfound closeness.
The pain I’ve endured is not something I’d ever want to repeat.
And yet, I would risk that again for you.
The thought brews in my mind.
I unbutton my shirt, letting the fabric slip from my shoulders.
There, the ink begins to change.
Brooding lines sweep across my chest and collarbone.
Marco seems to have a thing about beaches and waves.
His eyes sparkle when he talks about the ocean.
Maybe he grew up there, like me?
“I saw this one the other night,” he says. “It's mesmerising.”
One of my favourites too, even though it took several long painful hours to get it done.
Detailed layers of blue and turquoise ripple across my heart and shoulder.
A living tide.
“Let me listen to the waves,” he says, pressing an ear against my ribs.
My heart surges in response.
“I grew up near the coast,” I say. “Whenever life gets heavy, I go sit by the water.”
The vulnerability of this moment is unexpected.
No one has ever taken a tour of my body with such patience and awe.
“You create a rare kind of art that moves and breathes. Art that can't be washed from a canvas.”
“Stories in motion,” I smile.
His words melt into me.
It means more than I can say.
He seems entranced by the rhythm of my pulse, content to listen for a while longer.
A third kiss lands where inky waves fade into skin.
And then his attention shifts lower, as he kneels in front of me.
I take another sip from my glass.
Desire floods through me in a way that seems impossible to control.
But I’ll wait. I promised him.
“A lollipop?”
Marco lowers the edge of my pants as far as he dares.
We share a cheeky grin.
“I usually keep that one hidden. I don’t know, it seemed funny when I was young and dumb.”
A curious tongue licks the swirl at the base of my hip.
Ohhh fuck.
We’re dangerously close to the line.
Erogenous territory.
My fingers tangle loosely in his hair.
Somebody really likes candy.
Is he messing with me?
Or does he crave this as much as I do?
“There are more on my legs and hips,” I stammer. “But that would involve me wearing... less.”
His eyes burn into me in a way that quells all restraint.
He unzips me, tugging the jeans to my ankles.
His hand strokes the inside of my thigh, and his mouth soon follows.
Are we really doing this?
I'm gonna take that as a maybe.
◆◆◆
Now I stand bathed in lamplight, wearing nothing but my boxers.
Eyes closed, I feel a blissful thickening between my legs.
Turning toward the wall, the self control ebbs from me.
His thumb outlines the shape of a feather on the back of my left thigh.
I’m so close to losing it.
The sensation almost tips me over the edge.
“That one represents freedom,” I smile faintly. “I had it done the weekend I first told my family that I...”
Marco kisses lightly along the hem of my shorts.
I turn to face him.
“Told them that I…”
My breath stutters as he moves closer.
“I told them that I like…”
“That you like what?”
He knows damn well.
Easing the boxers over my ass, his lips are smooth and wet around the head.
This boy ain’t shy.
“Marco… fuck.”
He doesn’t hold back.
Taking my cock in his mouth, he engulfs me completely.
Again and again, pleasure cresting in waves.
“Oh my god. Baby…”
His tongue caresses the shaft, so hungry between my legs.
Those hands know exactly what they’re doing.
“Yes… fuck yes…”
Marco is relentless.
That naughty twist each time he reaches the crown? Indescribable bliss.
I can barely stand.
One hand holds tight to his shoulder.
Within minutes I’m so damn close to spilling.
My stomach tenses with each wave.
“I'm gonna…”
“No, you're not,” he whispers. “Not until I say.”
Standing to his feet, he presses me against the wall.
I kiss that wicked mouth.
Passionately at first, then a light tease of his lips.
Kicking my boxers to the side, I’m now completely naked.
“It's not entirely fair,” I lament, “...that you're still wearing clothes.”
Marco takes me by the hand, pushing me onto the bed.
“That's something we shall have to remedy, isn't it?”
He peels the shirt from his body.
I lay back against the pillows, dick throbbing with want.
Soon he’s down to just his jocks, thumbs toying with the waistband as if testing how much I can take.
I’m completely under his spell.
“The other night I said… Amos, I want you to fuck me. But only if you're mine.”
And I'm his.
I have been for days.
My mind, body and soul hunger for this man, no matter how much I downplay it on the surface.
“I'm already yours, Marco. If you'll have me.”
My surrender is sweet.
“I want that more than anything,” he whispers.
“Then I'm yours,” I reply. “Not just tonight. And not just because of your kisses.”
He stands at the end of the bed, one knee denting the mattress.
“I felt that when you held me in the pool tonight. After you saw my scars.”
His underwear falls to the carpet.
“That's why you're about to get far more than kisses.”