Men of London 06 - Flying Solo (7 page)

He could live with that.

He could always start his search for true love again tomorrow.

Gibson was both thankful and nervous when they got back to Maxwell’s home at close to midnight. The taxi ride home had been a quiet one, neither man sharing much or talking. Once or twice Maxwell had smiled at him then turned to look absently out of the window. He looked to be regretting his decision and Gibson wasn’t sure if he should call it a night. But he’d already texted Jack to let him know there was a possibility he’d only be home in the morning so he may as well see how the night played out.

Maxwell’s flat was in a fairly dodgy part of the city, but it was small, cosy and looked as if a crazy Tasmanian devil had whirled through it and dislodged everything either onto the floor, or onto the top of any available surface. Gibson hung up his coat then stared around at the room, trying not to cringe over the discarded clothing, empty pizza boxes, half-filled cool-drink glasses, book stacks, piles of clothing stacked high and remnants of what looked like a nursery of dead plants and pots in the corner of the room.

Maxwell saw him looking and he chuckled. “Yeah, I’m a bit of a slob. Sorry. I don’t get much time off, and I’m flying around so much I tend to leave the housekeeping for when I’m in the mood. Which is never.”

“What’s with the dead foliage?” Gibson waved towards the poor dried-out sticks. “It looks like a graveyard.”

Maxwell laughed. “I have a tendency to kill anything green. I’ve been toying with the idea of getting a fish to keep me company but I’m scared it’ll die too.”

He walked over to the open plan area serving as a kitchen with a small cooker, hotplate and under-counter fridge. Utensils littered the countertops, and in the corner there was a random, mismatched set of crockery. On top of the cooker sat a frying pan and one small saucepan. It looked as if most of what Maxwell owned was actually out on display. Gibson hoped he wasn’t some crazy hoarder person who might keep him locked up somewhere. His nerve endings tingled at that thought.

Maxwell turned to him. “Do you want anything to drink? I think I have a bottle of wine somewhere in here.”

Gibson nodded. “If you have some, I’ll have a glass. Thanks.”

He sat down gingerly on the two-seater couch, after moving half a dozen tatty books and a box set of
Dexter
DVDs, something which made his skin prickle even more, into a neat pile on the floor. Gibson carefully laid out the pieces of Maxwell’s airline uniform, currently draped across the back of the couch he wasn’t sitting at.

Maxwell came over and handed him his drink. “Sorry, I don’t have wine glasses, so the tumbler will have to do.”

He sat down next to Gibson, leaning back against the clothing, and placed his own drink onto the side table, which was no mean feat as it was filled with
Men’s Health
magazines and a snow globe of London Bridge.

For a minute there was an uncomfortable silence.

“You like your stuff around you, I see.” Gibson waved a hand around the room. “It makes sense having it all to hand. You never have to wonder where you put it.” He’d meant it as a joke. His own place was pristine, orderly with everything in its place, and to him this screamed chaos—but he appreciated others might not be the same.

Maxwell’s face shadowed. “Sorry. I know it looks messy, but I’m not good at being tidy. You’re right. I do like to see my stuff around rather than packed away.”

“That wasn’t a criticism, Maxwell. Only an observation.” He stretched lazily, rejoicing when he saw Maxwell’s eyes darken. Maxwell’s heated gaze dropped to Gibson’s legs, eye fucking them downwards then back upwards to Gibson’s groin. The hunger on his face turned Gibson’s insides to soft mush and his dick began rising in his tight shorts. A slight smile formed on Maxwell’s face.

“God, you are so sexy,” he murmured as he reached out and brushed the back of his hand down Gibson’s smooth thigh. “The first time I saw you I knew you were going to be a handful.”

“More than a handful, I hope,” Gibson whispered as he set his drink down, took off his glasses and watched through blurry eyes as Maxwell’s hand trailed up and down his skin. He burned with that sensual touch and wanted to get out of his shorts post haste. He had visions of his dick ripping through the fabric like one of the monsters in
Alien
.

When Maxwell’s hand brushed his groin, he hissed, his breath quickening, and he couldn’t help the involuntary push of his hips towards Maxwell’s hand. That hand reached down and unzipped him as sienna-brown eyes focused on his. Maxwell drew a hitchy breath, realising Gibson wore nothing underneath the shorts. His tongue came out to lick his lips and Gibson lost his breath at the erotic sight.

“I couldn’t wear anything under these,” he whispered, throat dry. “Hey me, easy access.”

Maxwell’s fingers stroked his cock, rubbing his thumb over the head, and Gibson let out a soft exhale of breath as he closed his eyes and focused on the slow strokes across his sensitive skin. When something hot and wet licked at him, he moaned and opened his eyes to see Maxwell’s tongue swiping slow licks up and down his cock.

“Oh…” he was breathless with the teasing assault of his most sensitive bits.

Maxwell chuckled huskily. “You taste good…I love that you shaved here.” He took Gibson in, tongue slicking up and down, his mouth hollowing as he sucked Gibson’s brains out. Gibson didn’t want to push or be rude, but he so badly wanted to fuck Maxwell’s mouth until he came.

He was no stranger to blowjobs, but the way Maxwell treated him, as if he were something precious, sent thrills down his spine and a tingling hum across his skin. Gentle fingers cradled his balls as Maxwell pleasured him, rubbing his taint, and Gibson slid further down on the couch, opening his legs and allowing his partner access to that most hidden of places. He wanted to feel a finger or two in his arse and his current position prevented it. He tugged at Maxwell’s hair, urging him upwards, and the man currently feasting on him looked up. His pupils were blown, his mouth wet with pre-come and saliva. Gibson nearly came from the debauched sight.

“I need to get these off,” Gibson gasped, as he stood up and pushed his shorts down his legs. For good measure he removed the rest of his clothing and stood naked before Maxwell.

“That’s better,” Gibson purred and pulled Maxwell to his feet. His lips found Maxwell’s and he thrust his tongue inside his mouth, tasting himself on Maxwell’s lips. Hands gripped his arse, and Gibson wrapped his legs around the man holding him.

“You need to get naked too,” Gibson murmured as his teeth grazed Maxwell’s shoulder and bit down softly. “I’m not fucking a man in a dress.”

The low laugh in his ear made Gibson’s groin ache.

“I’m going to have trouble doing that while you’re wrapped around me like a damn octopus.” Maxwell set Gibson down on the floor. “Let me get this off then. And there’ll be no fucking tonight.”

Gibson gasped in horror. “No fucking?” His lips formed a pout. “Don’t you want me?” He’d never been refused a fuck before.

Maxwell shrugged off the tunic and slid his briefs down his legs to land on the floor. “I think
this
proves I want you.” ‘
This
’ was an impressive erection: an uncut, beautiful, upright cock Gibson drooled over. “Let’s take things easy first.”

He sat back on the couch and motioned to Gibson. “Get over here. On my lap.”

Gibson was still a little miffed but he wasn’t going to argue. He straddled Maxwell, pressing and grinding against him. Maxwell’s groan of pleasure and the fact his cock was velvet-wrapped steel as they frotted like teenagers made Gibson’s hole ache to be filled.

He knelt up, leveraging himself down so they were still joined but Maxwell had access to his arse. “Put your fingers in me, Max.” Maxwell’s pupils blackened at Gibson’s use of the diminutive.

Note to self. Maxwell likes that name.

Gibson moved Max’s hand to his arse. “Please, Max. I want to feel you inside me while we do this.”

Max moaned. “I need lube, Gibson. I’m not doing you dry. I have some somewhere…” His hand groped around the sofa and finally he found what he was looking for.

Gibson chuckled. “There’s a definite bonus to you having your stuff all over the place.” He watched as Max opened the tube and squirted its contents into his hand. “Now do me. I want to see you get off like this while you have your fingers inside me.”

Max stared at him, eyes unfocused. “God, the things you say…”

They kept up the momentum of rubbing against each other as Max slid cold lube against the crease of Gibson’s hole. Staring into each other’s eyes, Gibson cried out softly as a finger pushed into him. Every forward stroke he took in their sensual play made his senses swim and every downward movement pushed Max’s finger deeper inside him. One finger became two, two became three and soon Gibson was riding those fingers like a man possessed while his cock threatened to burst.

“Oh, fuck.” His movements became frenzied as Max thrust upwards harder, biting his lip as their cocks rubbed together. His fingers sparked something inside Gibson, making him cry out in pleasure. A tingle in his backside and groin heralded his orgasm.

“God, you are gorgeous,” Max whispered as he found Gibson’s lips and a greedy tongue filled his mouth.

With a sputtered cry and a surrendering of his body to the tremors giving him release, Gibson came all over Max’s stomach and chest, fronds of come hitting his lover’s jaw and lips. Max gave a deep groan and warmth flooded Gibson’s nether regions in a sticky and musky-scented explosion.

Gibson collapsed against Max, aware there were still fingers up his arse. He liked the sensation of being claimed and owned by this man. This man who’d stood up for him a crowded club against another man who could have pulverised him. It was something he didn’t want to analyse too much right now, as it was a little scary. He wasn’t used to feeling this way.

He winced as the fingers slid out of him and Max caressed Gibson’s flank with hands still sticky from lube and Gibson’s own fluids. The soft stroking soothed Gibson and he closed his eyes as he lay sandwiched against Max’s sticky and faintly hairy chest.

“That was epic,” Max sighed. He shifted and leaned down to kiss Gibson’s belly, lips lingering on his belly bar. “This is so damn sexy. So damn you.”

Gibson nodded drowsily then shivered. “I’m cold…is there something wrong with your heating?”

Max scowled. “It’s probably gone off again. I can’t get the hang of the bloody thermostat. Budge off me, baby, let me get you warmed up.”

Gibson raised an eyebrow at the ‘baby’ but let it go. Reluctantly he rolled onto the couch and watched Max push himself up and walk over to the control on the wall. The man had a very nice arse himself, round and tight, and…

“Oh my God, you have a tattoo!” The sight of the scorpion on Max’s right hip, about three inches in length and one wide, was unexpected. Sexy, but not something he’d expect from this man who was mostly snark and witty repartee. He’d expected butterflies or God forbid, a
Kung Fu Panda
.

Max didn’t reply as he fiddled with the thermostat and then walked back to the couch, half-hard dick swinging before him and showing a nice set of balls. He stopped in front of Gibson.

“Yeah,” Max said, his face guarded. “A remnant from my teenage years.”

Gibson stood up and traced the tattoo. “It looks like a gang tattoo,” he mused. “Like one of those you’d see in some bad-arse street gang. Is that writing on there?” He leaned down and peered at it. A faint line of text mirrored the line of the scorpion’s upraised tail. “
Acculeum in cauda
,” he said aloud.

He stared at Maxwell. “What does it mean?”

Max opened a drawer to the side table and picked out a pack of wet wipes. He pulled the tag back, took out a handful and began wiping himself down. He handed the pack to Gibson. His eyes were distant and Gibson wondered what he’d said to cause the change in mood.

“It’s Latin. It means ‘the sting in the tail.’”

“The sting in the tail,” Gibson repeated. He frowned. “What does it mean?”

Max shrugged. “Scorpions sting with their tails. That’s about it. Nothing deeper.”

“You don’t have to tell me.” Gibson said quietly as he wiped off the spunk from his belly. “I don’t want to pry. You hardly know me well enough to share stuff.” The pang in his chest as he said that made him realise how true that was.

Something is off here. I actually want to know him better. That’s never happened before.

Max’s eyes narrowed. “It’s not that.” He looked at Gibson’s arms, which were goose bumped. “You’re cold and it’s late. Do you want to get into bed? It’s warmer there.”

Gibson was seeing another side to the man before him. Gone was the sexy, affable buffoon, and in its place was a wary-eyed, cautious stranger. But he was cold and bed sounded good. He didn’t want to make his way home this early in the morning. And the thought of sleeping next to Max was strangely appealing. Gibson didn’t do that with his pick-ups.

“I guess. Where’s the bedroom?”