by C F White
“We sleep in on Sundays.” Bradley grinned.
Mark made a mental note to get Damien to stencil on his forehead that he should only drink tea made with the use of a kettle and not an array of alcoholic spirits from now on.
The room was on the fifth floor, and Mark let them both into the large suite that boasted a corridor leading from the door past a set of dark wooden double wardrobes and into the main area complete with sofa, desk and a huge king-size bed. There was enough space to home a family of four.
“So, are you a lefty or a righty?” Bradley asked, hands on hips, standing at the foot of the ridiculously large bed.
Mark tore his gaze from having been marvelling at the east London skyline. “I’m sorry?” Political viewpoints weren’t exactly high on Mark’s bedtime musings.
“Do you sleep on the left or the right?” Brad asked, pointing at each side of the bed covered in mounds of pillows and scatter cushions.
“Oh, I see.” Mark gazed down on the bed with tense concentration, even adding a scrape of his chiny chin chin. It had been so long since he’d actually shared a bed to know which side of it he preferred. He usually just got in, wrapped himself up and got on with it. Sleeping, that was. Because nothing else here was on the cards. Nothing. At. All.
“It’s okay, Mark.” Bradley launched onto the bed and threw all the cushions to the floor. “I usually sleep in the middle, too.”
“Of course you do.” Mark scanned the room and breathed a sigh of relief at the kettle and mugs perched on the dressing table. Such a sight for sore eyes. He immediately went over and did the inevitable.
“You’re having tea?” Bradley twisted on the bed, lying flat with his arms behind his head.
“Of course.” Mark stomped through to the bathroom and filled the kettle, which for some unfathomable reason did not fit under the tiny sink without contorting it at an angle, ultimately making most of the water spurt from the spout. Good job Bradley didn’t like tea—there wouldn’t be enough to make two cups.
In the main room, Mark avoided looking at Bradley relaxed on the bed and set the kettle to boil. He stood, arms folded, waiting. It seemed the saying ‘a watched kettle never boils’ was especially true on this occasion, as nothing stirred to life. After a moment, Bradley jumped up from the bed, leaning a hair’s breadth from Mark, and reached behind him to flick the electric switch. The kettle sparked to life and Bradley didn’t remove his person from invading Mark’s personal space.
“I turned you on.” Bradley’s sweet breath trickled onto Mark’s face. What was it that made Bradley’s breath so damn sweet?
“Thank you.” Christ, my sexy banter is atrocious.
“You’re welcome.” Bradley stepped away and raked his gaze over Mark. “And, Mark? That really is a nice jacket, but you can take it off inside.” He sank to perch on the edge of the bed. “I mean, if I sit over here, I’m far enough away for you not to cause me personal injury. Still extract the thing carefully, mind. I’ve got a job where having one less eye might cause me to lose earnings.”
“Ha, bloody, ha. I doubt your stripping clientele would mind though. I don’t think they were looking at your face.”
“True.” Bradley nodded. “But I’m also running a café at the moment. Serving hot drinks. Might make it difficult having stilted vision for that sorta thing.”
“I could make tea with one eye.” Mark pointed a finger at Bradley. “I could make tea blind.” God knew why he said that in a boastful tone. Although, he was pretty sure he could. In his own house, perhaps. Knowing where everything was. But still, it wasn’t exactly something that was up there in the skills department on his curriculum vitae. Nor something to brag about to a gymnastic-bending Australian Adonis in an attempt to make himself appear more, well, appealing.
Bradley stood, stepped forward and took hold of the zip clasp on Mark’s jacket. Without breaking eye contact, Bradley dragged the zip down. Each toothy grip cracked as he glided it all the way to the bottom. Tugging at the end made the jacket fall apart, and Bradley tucked his thumbs into either side, sliding it off Mark’s shoulders.
Now that is how to remove a jacket with pure seduction.
Mark held his breath. And it was only because he was aware of the leftover remnants of Long Island Iced Tea and didn’t want to waft stale alcohol breath onto Bradley’s face. He also couldn’t be sure that he wouldn’t snot over him should he choose to ever exhale again. At this point, Mark was in danger of passing out. It didn’t help that Bradley’s mere lingering presence had Mark on a knife’s edge and that every hair on his body tingled with anticipation. His lips were telling him to launch forward, to seize the moment, to be able to taste what it was that made Bradley’s breath smell so sweet.
But his rational mind told him not to be so bloody daft.
Bradley slipped his hands on Mark’s shoulders, spun him around so Mark’s back was to him then covered Mark’s eyes with warm, freshly scented fingers. Mark breathed in. Again. Asphyxiation was a real possibility.
“Go on then, Mark,” Bradley rasped into his ear. “Show me your talent.”
Delightfully warm breath trickled down Mark’s neck and danced along his spine, reigniting all those senses that had lain dormant. It had been so long. So bloody long. Why shouldn’t he? Why couldn’t he? Why couldn’t he just take this moment, act on instinct and leave it all behind in this room? There were sparks, Mark could see that even with Bradley’s hands clamped over his eyes. He could feel the energy bubbling between them, could even taste the hot, sizzling air—
The kettle clicked off. Boiled. Ah.
“Make me a cuppa,” Bradley whispered, voice so seductively low it was a wonder Mark didn’t climax along with the water. “I’ll try some of your hot stuff if you can handle that jug in the dark.”
Mark swallowed. Shit, Bradley will feel that in his calloused surfer hands. He can sense my nerves. He’ll be feeding on it forever.
So he tried to not move any facial muscles—a lot harder than he’d first thought. Everything itched. And was hot. He was sure it wasn’t Bradley’s hands over his eyes that were suddenly clammy. Do eyes sweat?
“It’s all about trust, Mark.” Bradley’s voice sounded like it was coming from far away and not right by his ear. Perhaps it was the change in tone. The teasing had gone and a seriousness had surfaced.
“Can you trust me not to let you get hurt?”
Mark exhaled sharply. His pulse quickened and he was sure Bradley would feel the pounding through Mark’s temple. Trust? What a word.
Mark had lost trust in most things some time back.
But Bradley was new. Shiny new.
Take a bleedin’ chance, Marky Mark! Mark shook his head. Shut up, Damian. Not now.
Oh, God, I’m batshit crazy!
“I’m thirsty, Mark.”
“All right, all right.” Mark scrabbled for the mugs he knew were on the tray to left of the kettle. Within them was a tea bag encased in its square packet. Easy, tear it and chuck it in. Achieved.
“Well done.” Bradley’s appraisal made Mark beam a little churlishly.
“Thank you. I have done this before.”
“Really? With your eyes closed?”
“Well, not exactly like this. But I have scrabbled around in the dark to make tea when there’s been a power cut.”
“How’d you boil the water with no electricity?”
“I used the tap.”
“Cold cuppa?” Bradley exclaimed, edging back.
“I didn’t say it was a particularly good one.”
Mark curled his hand around the kettle handle and lifted it from the holster. Bradley’s fingers loosened over his eyes, making way for some vision, albeit a little blurred.
“Careful, Mark. Your mugs are a little too close to your groin.”
“I wouldn’t worry. That area was numbed some time ago.”
“Really? That’s a real shame.” Bradley didn’t sound teasing, or annoyed, more sympathetic and it unnerved Mark somewhat.
>
“It is.” Feeling around for the mugs, Mark focused on the task and not what had made him utter those words so carelessly.
“You know, Mark, you reveal a lot more about yourself when you can’t see me.”
“Perhaps it’s because I don’t have to witness your mocking reaction to my woes.”
“I’m not that mean. You’ve got a past, that’s obvious. I don’t mock that stuff. In fact, I’d like to hear more. I’d like to get to know you. Get to understand what makes Mark so afraid to open up.”
Whilst Bradley had been speaking, Mark had manged to trickle the water into one mug, but the more he listened, he inched the kettle along to where he thought the next mug was.
Ripping his hands away, Bradley launched back. “Far out, Mark!”
Mark heard the dribble and sizzle of boiling water onto carpet fibres before his eyes adjusted and saw the burst of steam from the floor. Slapping the kettle down onto the table, he twisted. Bradley sat on the edge of the bed, holding on to his bare foot and blowing onto it.
“Oh, God, did I get you?” Mark asked.
“Yeah. No worries, mate. My fault.” He wiped over his big toe. His perfect big toe! “I’ll just go run it under the cold tap.” He stood and stretched. “Actually, I’ll go wash off all this oil. Not really a good thing between the sheets. Drink your tea, Mark.”
Mark watched as Bradley ripped off his vest, tore off his jeans and glided into the bathroom like a cat. A bulky, perfectly formed cat. Should he be referring to Bradley as something feminine? Possibly not, because from where Mark stood, with a perfect view into the frosted shower cubicle as Bradley hadn’t bothered closing the bathroom door, Bradley was all male.
Shaking himself free from any over blatant ogling, Mark finished making his tea and sat on the edge of the bed to drink it. And to give himself a stern talking-to. But before he’d got as far as calling himself a muppet, the shower stream switched off and Bradley emerged back into the bedroom, towel wrapped low around his hips.
Bradley smiled. Not smirked, or grinned, just smiled. Sweetly. And if Mark didn’t know better, a little bashfully.
Mark found himself smiling back.
Then averted his eyes when Bradley ripped the towel from his waist, scrubbed it through his hair and launched it over the soft couch. Mark took a swig of tea. It went down the wrong way and he had to cough into a balled fist.
“Careful, Mark. You’ll have me thinking you’re a spitter.” Bradley scraped back the duvet and climbed into the bed. Naked.
Mark wasn’t sure why he was so surprised. It wasn’t as if either of them had any luggage in order to change into pyjamas. And Bradley certainly didn’t look like the average pyjama-wearing type. But it was still a rather bold move.
“Do you snore, Mark?” Bradley lay on his front, ruffled the pillows around him, and draped the duvet over his pert backside.
“Not that I’m aware of,” Mark replied. “But, then, I only sleep with myself.”
“Really?” Bradley widened intrigued eyes.
“As in, I sleep alone,” Mark corrected. He wasn’t admitting that he relied on his masturbation efforts as sleeping accompaniment. Even if it was true. “Damian told me I did once, but we’d had quite a lot to drink that night and I’d been standing outside waiting for his bloody performance to end, so I was sure I had a cold. Still, not a nice thing for one to say to someone dying of influenza.”
“Who’s Damian?” Bradley twisted onto his side and propped himself up on his arm.
“Oh, a friend,” Mark replied. “Lovely man. Funny. Annoying. Thinks a little too much of himself sometimes, and other times not quite enough.”
“Sounds like someone I know.”
Mark met Bradley’s gaze across the bed and Bradley returned a smile. Another genuine one. Not the playful ones he’d been brandishing around for so long. It warmed Mark a little, seeing Bradley when he was out of his persona, like when he’d first met him in the cafe. Like when he’d apologised about the kiss. Actually, Bradley hadn’t been anything but genuine. Hasn’t he?
“Do you snore?” Mark discarded the now empty mug onto the desk.
“No one’s ever told me,” Bradley replied. “I, too, sleep alone.”
“Pfft.” Mark flapped his hand. “Don’t give me that. You mean to say you don’t go home with someone after every one of those gigs of yours?” He remained perched on the edge of the bed but curled one leg under his backside to get comfy. He hadn’t quite worked up the courage to lie down yet and wondered how he ever would. “Or a hotel?”
Bradley leaned up. “No, Mark. For one, most of those gigs are heaving with Sheilas. And I’m not sure if I have made this clear or not, but I don’t really go for pink bits.”
“And the other strippers?” Mark asked, raising his eyebrows.
“Most of them do.” Bradley shrugged. “Some aren’t fussy either way for the right price, if you know what I mean.”
“You ever been tempted to do that?” Mark’s voice shook. He wasn’t sure if it was the question he was asking, or the fear of the answer, or just that it suddenly got that much colder in the room now the steam from the shower had all dissipated.
“No.” Bradley’s voice was stern with conviction. “I get offers, sure. We all do. Cash pushed into our hands, meet me outside, phone numbers with promises written on napkins. I’m not interested. You think I’d be working at Macy’s tea shop if I was? Those boys earn a ton of dollar for that sort of thing.”
Mark bit his lip, hanging his head in shame for having even asked the question, let alone thinking that the answer might be the affirmative. The fluffy duvet wrapped around the Aussie looked ever so comfy, and rather inviting. But Mark still hadn’t inched any closer, or thought how he was going to take his clothes off in front of the perfect specimen of all male.
“Bradley?” Mark croaked out the name.
“Brad.”
“Bradley.” Mark glanced up and met Bradley’s gaze.
“Mark.” Bradley slapped the bed beside him. “Take your damn clothes off and get under this bed. I’m tired. You’re tired. Whatever you want to ask, ask it under the warmth of duck feathers.”
Mark widened his eyes. Then, with an exasperated huff, Bradley flipped around on his front and covered his head with the pillow. “There, not looking.”
Well, that was what Mark thought he’d said, but considering his face was sunk into soft down feathers, it had come out muffled. But as Bradley didn’t move, Mark thought it rather cruel to let the poor fellow suffocate whilst he contemplated whether Bradley would, indeed, have a sneak peek. So, he stood, checked Bradley still wasn’t moving and peeled off his clothes, discarding most to the hotel room floor. He left on his new boxers, just, well, because…and snuck in under the covers. Bradley didn’t stir and Mark feared that he’d taken too long and Bradley had passed out. Two near fatalities in one evening would be all too much for Mark to bear.
“Are you okay?” Mark whispered.
Bradley lifted his head from the pillow, sucking in a gasp of air.
“All good, mate.” Bradley grinned.
Mark didn’t tear his gaze from Bradley across the pillows. He was entranced by him. Bradley’s hair was fuzzy from air drying after the shower and his blue-green eyes sparkled in the moonlight dripping in from the open curtains. He appeared a hell of a lot more youthful than Mark had noticed before. Boyish, perhaps. With the duvet hiding his bulky, perfectly sculpted body, he looked every bit his twenty-one years. He looked innocent. And that made Mark slightly concerned.
“How on earth did you get into stripping?”
Bradley scooted himself up the bed and tucked his arms under the pillow, like getting comfy to tell a story.
“I was fixing this roof, back in Sydney. Been labouring for a few months to get money to travel. Was gonna take me forever, but I was determined to pay for the trip myself. Turned out, the house we’re fixing up belongs to a club owner. One day it was, like, forty degrees out, so most of
us had stripped to bottoms only. The owner said I could make a hell of a lot more dollar if I took my clothes off at his club for one night compared to the three months’ pay I would get for fixing his house.”
Bradley ruffled his forehead on the pillow in what Mark would assume was slight embarrassment of the admittance to what happened. It warmed Mark more than the duck feathers. And tea.
“So I said I’d go try it out. First night I made over two thousand dollars. Some of that was the flat wage. The rest in tips. After that, well, it’s a no-brainer, right? I could pay for my trip in no time. The bloke set me up on YouTube, posted my videos, and I got a following. Offers poured in from around the globe to dance at various nightclubs. It meant I could travel and work.”
“Do you like it?”
“Sure.” Bradley shrugged. “I like dancing. I like having fun. One day I won’t have this body, so why not use it while I can, right?”
“Ha,” Mark replied. “I wouldn’t really know about that. I’ve never had that body.”
Bradley winked. “You can have it if you want.”
“That would take years of solid hard training and probably a complete change in diet, not to mention DNA.”
Bradley slipped closer and whispered in Mark’s ear. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
Mark swallowed, hard. Bradley noticed and so slipped away across the bed to his own side, leaving Mark cold.
“Can I tell you something without you getting cranky?”
“Yes,” Mark croaked out. “Of course, there is no guarantee. I have no idea what you are about to say. I mean, I cannot completely say for sure that my inner toddler might not burst free if you were to tell me that you’ve, say, decided to turn Macy’s into a drop-in stripping workshop. That might cause a little unexpected outburst on my part.”
“I won’t be changing Macy’s into a stripper workshop.”
“Good,” Mark replied with a firm nod. “That would seriously downgrade the town and I’m just not sure that the old dears who come in for their daily cuppa would appreciate your hairless balls replacing their sponge fingers—”
“You’re beautiful,” Bradley cut in, face serious, as he smiled through Mark’s babble.
