Gabe’s fingers dug into the soil of the planter, the damp earth cold under his nails. He couldn't look away. The cruelty of the scene was hypnotic.
Marcus shifted his weight, leaning over Trent's massive, prone form. He placed one hand firmly on the center of Trent’s chest, his fingers matting the thick, sweat-slicked hair there. With his other hand, Marcus resumed a slow, agonizingly rhythmic pace. The wet, slapping sound of skin against skin was amplified by the silence of the terrace.
"You’re vibrating, Trent," Marcus whispered, his face so close their noses almost touched. "I can feel your heart trying to hammer its way out of your ribs. It’s so frantic. So... human."
Trent let out a high-pitched, desperate whimper. His massive thighs shook, the muscles cording and twitching with an intensity that seemed physically painful. His eyes were squeezed shut now, his head thrashing slowly from side to side against the cushion. Just as Trent reached the very precipice, his breath hitching in a jagged sob of anticipation, Marcus’s hand clamped down hard and stopped.
Trent’s body went rigid, a silent scream frozen in his throat. He looked up at Marcus, his expression one of pure, unadulterated agony and pleading. He was a man dying of thirst being shown a glass of water that was then pulled away.
"Not yet," Marcus purred. "I want you to live in this moment. I want the need to be the only thing that exists in your universe."
Marcus leaned down and captured Trent’s mouth in a deep, possessive kiss. Gabe watched, paralyzed, as Trent’s hands—large and powerful enough to crush a man’s throat—instead reached up to weakly claw at Marcus’s shoulders, pulling him closer. Trent’s mouth was wide, hungry, and entirely submissive, drinking in Marcus's control as if it were oxygen.
The hidden observer felt a terrifying heat rising in his own gut. He was horrified, yes—but he was also mesmerized. Seeing the towering, hyper-masculine Trent reduced to a shivering, pleading mess under Marcus’s calm authority was doing something to Gabe’s own composure. His pulse quickened, his eyes tracing the line of Trent’s straining abs and the heavy, pulsing length that Marcus was toyed with so casually.
"How much do you want it, Trent?" Marcus asked, breaking the kiss but staying close enough that his beard grazed Trent’s chin. "Tell me how much you need to break for me."
"Please," Trent choked out, his voice a ruined rasp. "Master... please. Now. I... I can't... please."
Marcus smiled, a look of profound, clinical satisfaction. He began to move again, his hand a blur of motion, accelerating with a sudden, violent intensity. Trent’s back arched off the lounger, his chest heaving, his entire frame a portrait of absolute, exquisite torment.
"Good," Marcus whispered. "Stay right there. Right on the edge. Don't you dare fall without my permission."