Men of London 06 - Flying Solo (10 page)

“Why?” Gibson narrowed his eyes and huffed. He thought not for the first time how well Jack knew him. He had indeed changed his flight so he didn’t have to see the sultry and sexy Maxwell Lewis again. Like a dessert of something fluffy and light on the outside, but dark, spicy and tantalising when you bit into it, the man had pervaded his thoughts; those chocolate brown eyes and firm lips invading when they had no business doing so. Gibson still remembered the soft kiss pressed to his cheek in the nightclub, as if by doing it, Max could take the sting out of his slapped face and make it all better. Gibson wasn’t used to such tenderness. It scared him and when he was scared, he ran.

“Because he stuck up for you and did his crazy karate thing. I want to see it.” Jack’s voice brought Gibson back to the present—he’d forgotten he’d even asked a question. He’d been too busy seeing a scorpion tattoo on lean haunches and the shadowed expression on Max’s face when he’d talked about his past.

“Well, yeah, there was that,” Gibson admitted

“And I want to meet the man who’s got you all aflutter.” Jack winked.

Gibson snorted. “I think you have me mixed up with someone else who actually gives a damn. You know me. I don’t do repeats. Usually,” he amended hastily, because he had with Max.
Damn
. And he wanted to do it again.

“You tell yourself that.” Jack’s knowing smile irked Gibson no end. He ignored his friend and polished off the rest of his beer. He’d had nothing to eat so it gave him a pleasant buzz.

“I’m going to shower and change then I’m going to get stuck into some work. And I’m not going to talk about him again, so there.” Gibson did the adult thing and stuck his tongue out at Jack as he brushed past him to get to the bathroom. “We’ve got a game to get ready because next year, we’re going to win the award. I don’t need any permanent distractions.”

Jack nodded sagely. “I hear you. Enjoy your shower.” He smirked.

Gibson flounced past him, flinging his hair back as he passed. All this talk of Max had made him horny. The memory of their frenzied frotting and the feeling of Max’s fingers in his arse as their cocks rubbed together was giving him a hard-on. The shower sounded like a safe place to take care of it, even if Jack knew what he was about to do.

When the water was warm enough and steam billowed out in opaque clouds into the spacious bathroom, Gibson ensured the door was locked and stepped into the glass enclosure. He loved the shower for both its size and the larger showerhead producing enough pressure to massage his head and shoulders to ease the tension in his body. There was also plenty of room to jerk off, and as he smoothed Imperial Leather shower gel all over his torso, he gave his cock a sly twist or two to get him started.

Closing his eyes, he recalled Max’s lips taking his in a kiss, sparking heat in his groin; his fingers deep in his arse, finding that spot that sent shivers through him and made him plead for more. Gibson stroked his cock, fingers gripping tightly, making sure he slid his thumb over the heated head, causing him to gasp in pleasure. The warmth of the water and the fragranced steam assaulted his senses until he was dizzy with the need to come.

He lifted one leg onto the small ledge than ran on one side of the shower. As his hand tightened its grip on his dick, Gibson reached down and pushed a finger inside himself. The simple fact of having his arse filled, with the memories of Max’s thrusts inside him, caused him to shudder as he worked himself faster, making one finger into two and holding back the needy groans as he synchronised his hands to both fuck himself and jerk off at the same time.

He lost his breath as water trickled into his open, panting mouth and when he finally peaked, he remembered Max’s smouldering eyes gazing into his, watching him reach orgasm. Gibson’s cock splattered its release onto wet tiles and was washed away.

Boneless, satiated and wondering what the hell was going on with him, Gibson finished his shower, turned off the water and wrapped a towel around his waist.

“I need to get a grip,” he muttered to himself as he ran a razor over his barely-there stubble. Troubled green eyes looked at him from the mirror. “This guy is messing with my head and that’s not on.” He scowled at himself. “Maybe you need to get him out of your system by hooking up with someone else.” There was the faint swelling of hope it could work. “I think later tonight I need to find me a club, dance and get laid. That’ll solve the problem of Mr Maxwell bloody Lewis.”

*****

Lying in a strange bed in a puddle of cooling semen and sweat twelve hours later, after a night of tequila and some fairly dirty dancing on the floor at The Capella Club, Gibson stared at the man snoring softly beside him. Vic had been sweet enough, blowing Gibson off in the bathroom then bringing him home to his small terraced house not far from the club, but the night hadn’t been anything earth shattering. Yes, they’d fucked; Vic eager and willing to be nailed as much as Gibson had been to do the nailing. It had gotten them both off but Gibson had this feeling of something
unfinished.
As if it hadn’t been enough to simply have a good time. He was a little uncomfortable about the fact that as Vic had been ploughing his arse, Gibson had been thinking about Phoenix’s costume design. It happened often with him when he couldn’t feel an emotional connection to the man he was in bed with, but he was pretty sure when he’d been with Max, the man had been the only thing on his mind.

After they’d both got their rocks off, Vic had smiled, said, “That was good,” and fallen asleep. Gibson now lay beside him in the wet patch wondering whether to catch a few z’s or piss off home now. He decided on the latter.

He slunk into the bathroom, did a superficial clean-up and got dressed. When he got back to the bedroom, which smelt of sex, cigarette smoke and sweat, he gathered up his satchel and left.

His flat was dark when he got home in the early hours of the morning.

Thank God I don’t have an office job to go to. Being my own boss has its perks.

He wasn’t tired so he decided he’d do some work on
Camp Queen.
He did some of his best thinking in the early hours. Getting back into the familiar tasks of sketching outlines and planning his scenes made Gibson forget everything other than the task in hand.

When he heard a cough behind him, he looked up to find Beth standing in a soft towelling robe and a wry grin on her round face. Gibson liked Beth; she was good to Jack, had a wicked sense of humour and was always willing to play
Blockshock
with him. He and Jack might have developed the game but it was still a lot of fun to play as a gamer. There were still Easter eggs in the game Jack had hidden that Gibson delighted in finding.

Beth shook her head. “Gibs, it’s six-thirty in the morning. Have you even been to bed yet?”

Gibson squinted at her and then at the clock on the wall. “Fuck, is it? I got in early this morning and got a little sucked in.” He stretched, easing the kinks in his spine. Behind his spectacles, his eyes stung.

Beth shook her head as she moved to the kitchen. “I guess you could use coffee then. Unless you’re going to try and get some sleep now?”

Gibson yawned. “Coffee first, then sleep.” He smiled at Beth gratefully. “Thanks.”

“You look knackered,” Beth remarked. “And you pong a bit too. Had a good night then?”

Gibson flapped a hand. “So-so. And yes, I’m aware I’m not as fresh as I could be. I’ll shower in a sec. I need to get some caffeine inside me first then I’ll crash.”

Beth chuckled as she pottered in the kitchen. “You’re the only guy I know who can go to sleep on caffeine and Red Bull. If it were me, I wouldn’t be able to sleep at all.”

She came over and passed Gibson a steaming cup of coffee. He took it thankfully.

“It’s a gift.” Gibson drank hot gulps of strong coffee. “It’s what keeps me going so I can get all
this
done.” He waved at ‘this,’ his laptop and various drafts of character sketches, ideas for scenes and half-crumpled balls of paper. “Creativity is a bitch.”

“I heard you had a beau,” Beth remarked, staring at him over the top of her coffee cup. “Jack told me you saw this guy and now you’re stuck on him.”

Gibson put his cup down on the side table. “Firstly, who the hell says ‘beau’ anymore?” he snorted. “And secondly, I am not hung up on anyone. It was a one-night stand and won’t be repeated.” He wondered why that thought triggered a pang in his chest. “Anyhoo, what does your gormless fellow know? He’s nothing but a big galoomp.”

Beth spat out a mouthful of coffee as she laughed. “I’ll let you repeat that when he’s awake, shall I? He’ll probably give you a wedgie.”

Gibson winced, remembering the last time he’d had his underwear driven up his crack by an unrepentant Jack. “He can try,” he muttered. “But seriously, what is all the sudden concern with my love life and the men I see? Have I missed the camera crew for
My Mad, Sad Life
lurking around and am I on air all of a sudden?”

My Mad, Sad Life
was a current reality TV show where hidden cameras recorded roommates living together and cataloguing their chats, antics and their sometimes sexual activity. Gibson had watched it once then vowed to never do it again.

“No, dufus. We’re worried about you. I mean, you flit from guy to guy like a honeybee and I guess we want to see you settled.”

Gibson rolled his eyes. “God save me from happy het couples who think they have to have their gay best friend as ‘settled’ as they are.” His tone was affectionate, and Beth sniffed.

“This guy sounded like the real deal, though. I mean, he did the Crane Kick for you.”

Gibson grinned. “He did, didn’t he? And he was sweet afterwards. He’s funny and sexy, and oh my God, his story about living on the streets made me want to hug him better, you know?” He broke off at Beth’s knowing smirk, feeling his face heat up. “What’s that for?”

“You liked him,” she said dreamily. “Our little boy is growing up.”

Gibson scowled. “Maybe I liked him better than any of the others. That doesn’t mean I want to marry him.” He sniffed regally.

Even if I do have this crazy desire to call him up and see how he is. I mean, what the hell? Since when did I become potential relationship material?

Beth giggled. “Oh, Gibson. I love you can pretend to be so damn clueless. It’s so adorable.”

Gibson threw the lounge cushion at her. “Bite me,” he snarled. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be rather than harassing me so early in the morning?”

Beth delivered her parting shot as picked up the other coffee mug, presumably Jack’s, and made her way back to their room. “The very fact you get all angsty about me teasing you is enough for me. I think you have a thing for this man.”

With a cheeky grin, she disappeared into the hallway. Gibson sat for a few minutes, finishing his coffee and trying uncomfortably to convince himself he did not have a thing for Max, and if he never saw the man again, it wouldn’t matter one jot.

Two weeks later, after not being able to stop thinking about Maxwell bloody Lewis, and having a dry spell that was driving him crazy because the men he was with weren’t doing it for him anymore, Gibson broke down and sent a text.

*****

Maxwell had given up on ever hearing from Gibson again. He hadn’t seen him on any other flight he’d attended on since the club outing, but then he supposed Gibson wasn’t some bigwig businessman who lived on aeroplanes as a second home. Also, Maxwell been working long hours and the opportunity to get together with anyone anyway had been lean. He’d even refused a blowjob in the loo a few days ago, when he’d done another flight to New York. Maxwell knew he was seriously messed up.

He was sitting with Leslie and Oliver in a bar in the middle of London when he got the text. At first Maxwell ignored it. They were deep in discussion about debating whether bare-backing was ever an option in porn scenes. Oliver ran to the belief that even if he knew the other guy’s history and had his medical results shown to him to prove he was clean, he’d still not bare-back for a scene. Leslie agreed and in all truth, so did Maxwell. In his opinion, bare-backing in porn was never an option. But it was fun riling Oliver by playing devil’s advocate and seeing him get all worked up about things. Since they were involved in a heated debate about the topic, he didn’t want to spoil the fun by checking his texts.

Leslie shook his head, black bangs falling across his face. “I think it’s two against one, Max.” He grinned. “And I’m thirsty. I think we need more drinks. Come give me a hand, baby?” He cast a heated look at Oliver who cast one back.

Maxwell rolled his eyes. “We all know what that means. The two of you are going to go get off somewhere under the pretext of buying drinks. Fine, away with you. Don’t be too damn long. I’m parched.”

His friends stood up with alacrity and were soon halfway across the floor towards the bar—and no doubt the bathroom. Maxwell sighed as he took out his phone. He was feeling the loneliness tonight. That lonely feeling was assuaged somewhat when he saw the text message.

“Oh my God. Gibson,” he murmured with growing excitement. His fingers scrabbled to open the message.