Men of London 06 - Flying Solo (21 page)

Once he’d been strong enough, he’d gone back on the streets, trying to find the dealer who sold the bad shit to Levi—to no avail. It was probably best because Maxwell didn’t know what he would have done had he found the bastard. Back then his values had been skewed, his psyche fucked up and his ethics dubious. Beating some low-life dealer to death in a back alley as retribution for the death of the man he’d loved might not have been a stretch.

“And that is the one thing I
never
want to tell Gibson,” he murmured as he stuck a lasagne ready meal in the microwave. “It’s too much. I don’t want him to feel he has to sleep with one eye open in case the psycho side of me comes calling.”

When his phone rang four days later with a familiar number, Maxwell closed his eyes and hoped it was good news.

“Maxwell? It’s Benjamin here. How are you?”

He crossed his fingers. “Fine, thank you. It’s good to hear from you.”

Benjamin gave a great belly laugh. “Of course it is. Especially when you hear my news. You are on the team, my friend. Your personal references checked out, and Grant says he’ll be unhappy to lose you but I couldn’t get a better employee.”

Maxwell had been ready to do his personal Gilda Gray shimmy when he’d heard ‘you are on the team’ but hearing his future boss say his last boss thought he was worth it made him want to add a little break dancing into his moves. “Oh that’s awesome news, thank you so much. You won’t be sorry.”

“I’d better not be,” Benjamin growled. “Everyone wants to work on my team because we are the best and look after each other. I turned down a lot of applications to give you this job, so I will expect you to work hard and be part of the family.”

Maxwell grinned. “Not a problem. I think I can do that. I’m truly pleased.” And he was. He knew he’d miss flying but being with Gibson more than made up for it. As long as Gibson thought so too.

After he put the phone down and did his little dance around the room, he fell onto the couch in a contemplative mood. He started his new job in a month’s time, with a generous increase in salary and benefits. He might even be able to start that savings account he’d always wanted if he was clever; then perhaps next year he and Gibson could go on holiday somewhere.

“Beach, sea, blue skies, cocktails, sex and more sex,” he sighed as he dreamed about the future. “Gibson in a speedo, a white one, all wet…” That thought was leading to sensations he’d have to deal with, but right now his stomach was rumbling and he needed to eat. Warding off a hard-on at the thought of his beautiful man in wet beachwear, Maxwell took himself off to the Turkish diner down the road for a celebratory meal. After a plate of alinazik, a bellyful of sweet syrupy baklava and more than a few of small glasses of raki, Maxwell was merry and satiated. He staggered back to his flat inebriated and happy, where he continued to think of Gibson in his wet Speedos. He fell asleep contented, spent and eager for Gibson to come home so he could share the news and have the real thing in his bed.

*****

Coming home a few days after the funeral was bittersweet. One part of Gibson wanted to stay with his mother and brother as the closest links he had to his dad; the other half was eager to see Max again, to crawl into bed beside him and be held as if he was precious. Gibson always knew he could count on Max to make him feel that way. He’d done a lot of thinking while standing watching his father’s coffin enter the flaming furnace consigning him to ashes.

He’d resigned himself to the fact Max was more than a passing phase. The past two weeks, not seeing him and needing him, had brought that home. Seeing the vulnerability when Max told him about his past had near broken Gibson’s heart.

After Gibson got home that evening, he unpacked his bags and put his laptop away, thankful he’d managed to get a little work done while he’d been gone. He showered then changed into some of his sexiest clothing—his favourite Andrew Christian thong, tight black jeans making his arse perky and a soft, loose-fitting silk shirt that clung to his body—and made his way to Max’s flat.

Max wasn’t there; his flight was apparently on its way back from Venice and would be landing within the next hour. Gibson let himself into the flat with the ravish key and settled down to wait for Max’s return.

His phone rang and he answered it. “Jack, hi. Sorry, you weren’t home when I got in and I’ve come straight out to see Max.”

Jack’s voice always lifted Gibson’s spirits. “No worries, munchkin. I was over at Beth’s, her dog’s been ill and he needed to go the vet again. I helped her get him there and it took bloody ages.” His voice softened. “You okay? It was a grand funeral, Gibson. You gave your dad a real send off. Beth and I were glad we were there.”

“Me too,” Gibson said quietly. “It made things easier. Thanks.”

“Always, sport, you know that.” Jack’s tone grew aggrieved. “The flight home the day after was shit though. We hit some damn thunderstorm and the plane was shaking side to side like a rag doll in a terrier’s mouth. Beth was petrified, and I have to say I needed new knickers too.”

Gibson snickered. Jack wasn’t fond of flying. “Aww, diddums. You big baby. It was a bit of turbulence.”

“Turbulence?” Jack’s voice rose. “I was thrown about like a damn piece of ice in a cocktail shaker. I don’t know how Maxwell does it all the time.”

Gibson snorted. “He told me once about this time a passenger had an epileptic fit in the middle of a huge storm, and there was some old woman who kept standing up and telling everyone the world was ending and they were all going to die. She was trying to drive the devil out of the poor guy jerking in the aisle. They had to forcibly restrain her and belt her into another seat with an air steward holding onto her while they dealt with it all. The other passengers were getting pretty scared.”

Jack gasped. “Oh hell, that sounds awful. I guess you need your wits about you to manage that sort of thing. Maxwell strikes me as someone who’s pretty put together though.”

Gibson smiled.
Unless he has a bad hair day.
“Yeah, he’s a rock. I’m sitting waiting for him to get home.”

There was a grin in Jack’s voice when he spoke. “No doubt you’re going to jump his bones the minute he walks in the door? I smelt the cologne in your room. It was your getting laid one.”

Gibson sniffed haughtily. “Are you referring to my Paco Rabanne
Invictus
? Any man would want to bone another one after smelling it.”

Jack cackled. “Sorry, not me. I’m immune to your charms. Now give me a lady dressed in
Paris
and I could say the same thing. I love the scent.”

Gibson groaned. He knew Jack sprung a hard-on for the fragrance. He’d been with him last Christmas when they’d trawled every department store in the world looking for the right perfume to buy Beth.
Paris
had eventually made the grade.

Jack chuckled. “Anyway, let me go and let you get it on with your man. I assume this means you won’t be home tonight?”

Gibson nodded smugly. “You assume correctly. It’s been a while and if I don’t have sex tonight, my balls will explode and paint the walls.”

There was silence on the other side. “Nice…thanks for sharing that image.”

Gibson giggled and was mortified at the sound. He never giggled. “Pleasure. Oh and when I get home tomorrow we can have a catch up on where we are with the game and speak to Emmett and the others. I’m done my side but it will be good to have a pow-wow. I know I’ve been a bit distracted lately.”

“You got it. And stop beating yourself up about not being around. We’ll get
Camp Queen
finished in time, I promise. See you tomorrow, Gib. Say hello to Maxwell for me.”

Jack rang off and Gibson put the phone down in a spare space on one of the crowded side tables. He’d managed to get Max to start packing some stuff away but some areas he didn’t like to see touched. This side table was one. It currently held an old lamp, shining refracted light through a crinkled lamp shade, a battered copy of the book
Moby Dick
, a leather belt rolled into a ball, a tarnished silver chain with a grinning skull, which Gibson knew had been Levi’s, and an old gold locket containing pictures of Max’s family—his mum, dad and brother. Max wore the silver chain sometimes, normally when he went out but not at work.

Max had gone into a total panic one time when the jewellery items had disappeared. Gibson still felt guilty about putting them away in the side drawer thinking the small items would be safer there and hadn’t wanted to tell Max what he’d done. When he’d had the chance, he’d retrieved the items and placed them on the floor under the sofa. When he’d
found
them triumphantly a few minutes later, he’d thought Max was going to cry with relief. Since then, this table stayed strictly untouched. It was obvious these things held great personal value.

He sat, texting Cruz to find out what was new. He and Craig were still travelling somewhere in South America, currently on a private island, having the time of their lives and it looked like they’d be there for a while still. Gibson was happy for his friend but he missed his vibrant personality and warm hugs. And when he heard the front door open nearly two hours later, after the over indulgence of some Ferrero Rochers and a half a pint of strawberry cider he’d found in the kitchen, Gibson was more than ready to welcome Max home. He was tired of watching endless episodes of
CSI
, which was all there was on the television worth watching as Max didn’t have Sky, Now TV or Netflix. Max was frugal with his money, not surprising given his past.

Gibson launched himself into Max’s arms as he came into the lounge. Gibson wrapped his legs around Max, latched onto his neck and proceeded to kiss him to death. Max appeared startled at first but soon got into the mood and before long, they were both panting, gasping messes on the couch, half dressed and more than ready to take it further.

“This is some welcome,” Max managed to get out in between evading Gibson’s tongue. “Did ya miss me then?”

Gibson sunk his teeth into Max’s throat, eliciting a cry of pain. “Can’t you tell? Plus I’m high on chocolate and cider—never a good combination.”

“Oh I think I like this combination,” Max gasped as he fumbled with Gibson’s jeans. “I can’t say the same about this damn zipper though.”

Gibson flung himself back on the couch as he unzipped and pushed his jeans down his legs. He smiled slyly at the heat appearing in Max’s eyes and the sultry gaze down at his groin. Soon Gibson was naked apart from the clingy white thong he wore.

“You…” Max’s voice choked up. “I can’t believe you’re wearing that.”

Gibson frowned. “Why, don’t you like it?”

Max was having trouble breathing. “Oh I like it very much. I had this fantasy of you a while ago in a white Speedo, coming out the pool all wet, and I could see everything…and here you are now, dressed in that. It’s a dream come true.”

“Not quite true,” Gibson smirked. He leapt up and went to the kitchen. Taking a large bottle of water from the fridge—not too cold as the fridge didn’t work well—he unscrewed the cap and took a long swig of water, letting it dribble down his chin onto his bare chest. Max’s dark eyes stared at him in lust.

Gibson gave the bottle to Max and lay back on the couch. “First, you get your clothes off,” Gibson murmured. “Then you pour this all over me, right here…” He palmed his cock and groin suggestively and a frisson of delight sprinkled his skin like a warm breeze at the look of greed on Max’s face.

“God,” Max said faintly as he stood up and divested himself of all his clothes. “You are such a fucking tease.” His brow furrowed. “Shouldn’t we put a towel or something down though, so the couch doesn’t get too wet? I mean we have to sleep on it tonight.”

Gibson made an impatient gesture. “God, babe, whatever. Wet me so you can fuck me please. I’m dying here.” Trust his anal-retentive partner—he sniggered—to think about something clean-freaky at a time like this.

Max scowled and went over to the sideboard. He opened the door and took out a spare towel then came back. “Lift up,” he instructed. Gibson rolled his eyes but did what he was told. Once the towel was down, Max knelt before him with the open bottle and leaned in.

“And for the record, I’m not
fucking
you,” he whispered.

Gibson’s mouth opened in an indignant protest—hadn’t they been here before, what was wrong with the man?—but was muffled by the soft press of lips against his.

Max released his mouth, leaned back and positioned the water above Gibson. “I’m making
love
to you.”

The first drops of water fell onto Gibson’s groin and he took in a breath. The water was cool, thank God, or his cock might have shrivelled to nothing. Although from the intense expression on Max’s face, the quickening of his breath and the dilation of his pupils, Gibson had a feeling he’d have no problem getting to full mast again. And when Max filled his mouth with water and leaned down to douse it on Gibson’s cock at the same time he mouthed it through the wet fabric, Gibson knew he’d have no problem sustaining his erection. God, he could come from this sensuous water play alone.