Men of London 06 - Flying Solo (8 page)

“You’re looking at it,” Max remarked drily, with a hint of the man he’d been before. “This is a poor man’s flat. I’m a lowly flight attendant after all, not a dot-com geek.”

Gibson frowned. “I’m a character artist, not a dot-com geek. I design computer games, do the animation and such.”

Max’s ears seemed to prick up as he pushed everything off the couch onto a pile on the floor and set about opening the bed out. Gibson wanted to huff in protest after all the trouble he’d taken to try and keep things neat.

“Oh? What, like
Mass Effect Three
? That’s my game. James Vega kicks ass. He should be in charge of the team, not Commander Shepard.”

Gibson was further confused as Max took his time organising the sheet and bed cover, throwing it on, then straightening it out carefully before fluffing the pillows. The man was a contrast to say the least. A slob in one way, and completely nitpicky another.

Gibson stifled a yawn. “The Shepard fans will kill you if they hear you say that. Mine’s also third-person RPG but it’s a bit different to
Mass Effect
. My guys are all assassins. The concept is a superhero squad with drag queens, gays and lesbians.” He slid into the bed, wincing at the lumpiness of the mattress, and snuggled in under the duvet with a sigh of relief at being warmer. The flat was chilly. Max watched him, a faint smile on his face.

“Sounds riveting. I’d play it.” He watched Gibson squirming to get comfy. “I know it’s a crap bed,” he murmured as he turned off the table lamp and slid in beside him. “One day I’ll be able to afford a better one.”

Gibson face-planted into his pillow. “Uh-huh,” he said sleepily. Post-orgasmic doze was setting in. “You have to have something to aspire to, I guess.”

A pair of soft lips pressed against his hair and Gibson smiled.

This is nice. I don’t stay over at a guy’s place ever. What does this mean?

“’Night, Gibson. Sleep tight.” The bed rocked as Max got settled and Gibson shuffled back so he was the little spoon.

An arm draped over his waist and warm breath huffed against his shoulder. “’Night,”

Gibson murmured. “Thanks for letting me stay.”

Soft lips kissed his shoulder. “Thanks for staying,” was the whispered reply. “Now go to sleep.”

“’Kay.” And with that one last word, Gibson fell asleep.

The ringing of his phone and its loud rendition of Madonna’s ‘Like a Virgin’ took Maxwell out of a dream featuring him, Gibson and a bowl of cream and catapulted him into the early morning. The warm body wrapped around his was incentive enough not to answer and let it go to voice mail.

Something hard pressed against his stomach and Maxwell wanted to take the tour to discover what it might be. He pushed a strand of fair hair off Gibson’s face, his heart clenching at the sight of Gibson’s sleeping visage, long eyelashes against pale cheeks and lips that were slightly opened. The man sleeping beside him was beautiful. A quick peek under the covers confirmed Maxwell’s suspicions—yep, one lovely, cut pink cock currently prodded him, attached to a lean, tight little body that Maxwell wanted to touch, hold and never let go. The little piercing in Gibson’s belly button winked at him, inviting his mouth to taste it.

Maxwell clapped a hand against his forehead as he lay back, picking up his phone to see who had called.

“You knew this was a bad idea, arsehole,” he muttered to himself. “He told you he doesn’t do commitments but no, you had to take him home. And now you want to keep him.”

The phone call had been from his boss, Grant. Maxwell had a horrible feeling he was going to be asked to cut short his days off and take over someone’s flight. He wasn’t happy to do that when he had Gibson in his bed so he declined to check his voice mail yet. It was only nine am after all. Grant could go fuck himself if he thought Maxwell was getting up earlier to go to work. Although he could use the money the extra shift would bring. Maybe then he could buy a new damned bed.

Last night had been memorable. And the ‘not fucking?’ Maxwell didn’t think he had it in him to be inside this man and not want to own him and have his metaphorical babies. It was a level of intimacy that with anyone else might be a fuck, but with Gibson would seem to be much more. Maxwell couldn’t explain it, and it pissed him off. He had no idea why he was so invested. It had been best to not go that far.

Gibson snuffled and pressed himself closer. Maxwell took a deep breath. His own morning woody was getting stiffer by the minute with the feel of the insistent press against his belly. Gibson blinked and then unfocused green eyes looked into his.

“Morning.” Like a kitten, Gibson stretched and gave a deep moan of pleasure as the kinks in his body straightened out.

Maxwell wanted to moan but for an entirely different reason. “Morning.” He cleared his throat because his word had come out sounding like he smoked a pack of cigarettes a day.

“I heard the phone. Do you need me to go home?” Gibson sat up, the covers pooling around his waist. Maxwell’s eyes were drawn to his tight nipples and morning woody.

“No, no rush. It’s my boss. I’ll phone him in a little while.” He needed to get out of bed. Now. Before he lunged at Gibson and pinned him down, slid inside him with all the lust and need in his being and lost his soul to a forest-eyed pixie with a belly bar.

Maxwell swung his legs out of bed and stood up. He found his underwear on the floor, slid into it and was better equipped to face the day.

“I like your tattoo,” Gibson murmured as he squinted, sat back against the couch and stretched. “I know you don’t like talking about it but it’s awesome. Maybe I should get one,” he mused thoughtfully. “A dragon, or a phoenix or something. Right here.” He drew back the covers, turned onto his stomach and waved a hand at his arse. “On the small of my back. What do you think?”

Maxwell was still trying to process the round backside with its tempting pucker perched high in the air, looking as perfect as an arse could be. He cleared his throat again.

“I think it’s a personal decision. I only have the one tattoo, and I wouldn’t get any more. I think your skin is perfect the way it is. But, yeah, a dragon might look good if that’s what you wanted. I’m going to go shower. I won’t be long then you can do the same if you want.”

Maxwell made his way into the tiny bathroom off his lounge-cum-bedroom-cum-kitchen and closed the door. It contained the rudimentary items, including a bath with a shower. He started the water running and pulled the faded blue curtain across. For the first time, the shabbiness of his flat hit him. As for his possessions spread all over the place, he liked to see them. Years of living on the streets and having to hide what little he’d had made him want to display them, know they were there as affirmation he’d got
stuff
. He’d never wanted to impress anyone before; no one he’d brought home had made him evaluate where he lived and what he had.

He stepped into the bath and picked up the soap as he began washing. A rush of air wafted through the room, making the curtain ripple. “Stop worrying about your place,” he muttered. “It’s better than sleeping in a fucking cardboard box. Better than scrounging in dumpsters trying to find food, sleeping in shop doorways or running away from guys who want to make you their bitch. You should be proud of what you have, Mooch. You made it here.” He hated his street name but it reminded him of where he’d come from. He’d earned his name through his unfailing persistence trying to cajole shopkeepers and restaurant owners into giving him food that hadn’t been thrown out. It had earned him a lot of slaps around the ear. He didn’t want to think about the other things he’d done for food.

He finished washing, conditioned his hair, checked his pubes—he liked to keep them neat—and switched off the shower. He opened the curtain and stopped short at seeing a naked Gibson sitting on the toilet, his face pale, lips set.

“How long have you been there?” Maxwell stepped out of the shower onto the ragged bathmat and plucked a towel off the rail, wrapping it around his waist. He was glad now he hadn’t beaten off in the shower. That could have been embarrassing.

“Long enough. I badly needed a pee so I didn’t think you’d mind. You were so busy talking to yourself I don’t think you heard me come in and take a leak.” Gibson’s eyes were shadowed. “You did sleep on the streets, didn’t you?”

Maxwell took a smaller towel off the rail and dried his hair. A direct question deserved the direct answer. “Yes. For about eighteen months until I was sixteen. I was homeless and I lived wherever I could find a place to sleep.” He’d only ever told this story to Oliver and even then not in much detail. Only the fact he’d been homeless for a while.

Gibson stared at the scorpion. “Is that when you got that?”

“No. I got it after.”

“After what?”

Maxwell stared at Gibson in frustration. “After I got off the streets. To remind me.” He wasn’t going to say it had been done in memory of his dead boyfriend. Levi had had a fascination with scorpions.

Gibson’s mouth opened and Maxwell knew he was about to ask ‘remind him of what.’ He huffed and rolled his eyes.

“To remind me I’m not the same person I was then. That I still carry a bite even though I might be different now, and life can still sting like a fucking scorpion.”

That
was the other reason for the tattoo. One he needed to remind him about where he’d come from.

“Oh.” Gibson stood up. Maxwell’s eyes were drawn to his semi-erect cock, the shaven groin, the pink balls hanging between his legs. There was the faint sheen down there where he’d missed a bit. Gibson was beautiful and damn sexy, and Maxwell’s whole body ached with want.

Underneath the towel, he grew hard. He needed to get dressed. “Did you want to get in the shower? There’s plenty of hot water still.”

“Why were you on the streets in the first place?” Gibson wasn’t giving up. Maxwell took a deep breath and hung the hair towel back on the rail.

“Because I ran away from the foster home I was in after I lost my family. I didn’t like it. The boy I was friends with said we’d be better on the streets and I believed him. For a while, we were. He died and I was on my own.”

Maxwell didn’t want to think about the wasted body in their cardboard home. Holding the cold, dead body of your best friend and lover was a memory he tried to forget.

“God, Max. I’m so sorry.” Gibson stroked his arm and stepped closer, his hand gripping Maxwell’s arm.

Maxwell shrugged. “It was a long time ago. I got off the streets, went back to school and started over. I reinvented myself so I didn’t end up like Levi.”

“Levi was your friend’s name?”

Maxwell nodded. “Yes. He was a bit older than me. He was a drug addict and it got the better of him.”

Gibson nodded. “Was he your lover?” His green eyes searched Maxwell’s face as his hand tightened.

Maxwell’s throat clenched. “No.”
Liar
. He wasn’t sure why he’d lied about that bit. It was just too personal to admit yet. “Now can we leave this topic alone please? I’m not partial to bearing my soul so early in the morning. I haven’t even had coffee yet.”

Maxwell stormed out of the bathroom. He heard the shower start and heaved a sigh of relief. “God, he’s a nosy little bastard.” He pulled on a pair of grey sweatpants, a black tank top and went into the kitchen to put the kettle on for coffee. He had no idea how Gibson liked his—or if he even liked the stuff.

Fifteen minutes later Gibson came into the lounge, towel wrapped around his waist. He dropped it and started dressing in the clothes he’d had on the previous night. Those silver shorts slid over his pert butt and Maxwell averted his eyes. He was still half hard under his towel.

“Do you take sugar in your coffee?”

Gibson nodded. “One please. No milk, just black.” The black mesh tee shirt was pulled over his head and he finger-dried his hair while Maxwell stirred the coffee.

“I’m sorry if I upset you,” Gibson said as he put on his glasses and searched for his bag. “I wanted to know a bit more about you. I mean, you seem like this put-together guy—funny, cute, sexy—yet you lived rough. It’s not what you’d expect.”

Maxwell sighed as he came over and handed Gibson his mug. It looked like he wasn’t going to get away with not telling his story. Perhaps he should get it over and done with.

“I worked hard to leave the old me—Mooch—behind. When Levi died I realised I didn’t have to be on the streets anymore, so I went to a shelter. It so happened they’d been awarded a huge grant by this rich woman called Beryl Carnegie. She put a load of money into rescuing street kids. I was one of the lucky ones who managed to get help.”

Gibson stared at him in wonder. “Wow, that’s awesome. She must have been an incredible lady.” He cupped his hands around the mug and took a sip of coffee.

Maxwell smiled sadly. “She was. Eighty years old and wanting to change the world. I met her a couple of times. She
was
awesome. That money paid for me to be checked out by a doctor, it paid to fix my teeth…they weren’t good, because of my bad diet and the fact they’d been knocked out a couple of times. She even enrolled me in an evening class so I could finish my schooling.”