by C F White
“What?”
Mark was pretty sure he’d heard and was in no way fishing to hear it again. The question just left his mouth before he could think better of it. Maybe a little confirmation to ensure he had heard correctly wouldn’t go amiss, but he didn’t want to appear ungrateful. Or, worse, deaf.
“You.” Bradley edged closer and Mark breathed in deeply, trying to get a grip on his hammering heart and his bodily functions. “Are.” He rubbed his nose across Mark’s, trickling that sweet breath on his skin. “Beautiful.”
Mark knew he couldn’t say “what” again. So he settled for something far more worthy of his two-pound payment for the thesaurus app on his iPhone.
“Pfffffft.”
Chapter Eleven
A Helping Hand
Sleep evaded Mark. It didn’t help that he hadn’t shut his eyes yet. Bradley, however, had fluttered his eyes to a close after Mark’s frantically ridiculous reply to his beautiful comment, and settled in for the night. Mark couldn’t blame him. It wasn’t like he had offered anything in the way of pillow talk.
For once in his life, Mark had been rendered speechless. No one had ever called him beautiful before. That phrase was more fitting to icons like Audrey Hepburn or Keira Knightley. At a push, if he had to call a male member of the species beautiful, he would consider, well, probably Bradley. Especially now he was all tucked up in bed, duvet wrapped up to his chin as he faced Mark, eyes closed so his thick lashes blended together in perfect harmony, and snored.
Huh, so Bradley does snore. That was certainly something Mark would have delight in confirming to him in the morning.
Damian would be slapping Mark about now if he were here. But then again, if Damian were there, it would have ruined the moment somewhat anyway. And no doubt Damian would have elbowed Mark out of the way and nabbed Bradley for himself using his tried and tested flirting techniques. Damian was no wallflower. Damian would have given Bradley the lap dance of his life. Damian would have followed Bradley to the shower cubicle, sunk to his knees and sucked that gorgeous cock until Bradley couldn’t stand upright. Then they’d have formed the two-backed beast here in this bed until dawn. Humping each other until the chafing got all too much.
Mark nearly threw up at the thought.
But the point still stood. Mark had utterly, catastrophically missed his chance at pursuing something more than friendship with his wet dream—a sex God, a perfect specimen of male, a model, no less. A stripper, for God’s sake!
But more than any of that…a Bradley.
Sure, Bradley was easy on the eye. Mark could understand why he was picked off a roof and shoved into performance art. Is that the polite way of referring to taking your clothes off for money? He had that all-Australian surfer bod with sun-kissed skin, bright white smile and luscious pink, kissable lips. His hair shone as golden as the sand from Bondi Beach—according to the pictures Mark had seen in the brochures—and his eyes were as blue as the Pacific Ocean. He was perfect. Like the Great Barrier Reef, he was a wonder of Mark’s insignificant and boring world.
But he was also, well, just Bradley. Fun-loving, sweet, kind. He wasn’t as face-value as Mark had maybe been expecting.
It’s always the good-looking ones that rip out your heart, squeeze it between treacherous fingers and stamp on it during their hasty retreat, though.
Sighing, Mark stared up to the ceiling. The bedside lamp was still on, shimmering a mild orange glow around the room. He would turn it off, but that meant either leaning over Bradley and risk waking him up, or getting out of bed to walk around to his side and turn it off, which meant a walk back in the dark and Mark had already proved that he couldn’t be trusted without his eyesight.
Why couldn’t he just be more like Damian? Or George?
Oh, God, George. This was all his fault.
Mark shut his eyes, attempting to quell the rush of memories. For the first time in a long time, it did. Except, instead of memories, it was fantasies that came to the forefront. Beautiful, lustful, excitable fantasies. Of Bradley. Of Mark kissing him. Touching him. Licking him. Of Mark exploring that perfectly sculpted body and learning every inch of it using his tongue alone. Of Mark discovering what it was that makes Bradley squirm, that turned him to a blubbering wreck, of what made Bradley shiver, and squeal and—
Bugger!
Mark now had a raging stiffy.
He needed to think about something else. Which was a darn sight harder than it normally would have been when the source of his furious hard-on was lying in the bed next to him. Naked, for goodness sake!
Why the hell did Bradley have to be naked?
Mark whimpered. There was no reasonable way he could defuse this situation. If he even tried to think of something else, Bradley would move, snore, breathe even, and Mark would be back to square one, and he was in danger of making a tent out of the duvet with how hard his dick was right then. There was no two ways about it. He needed a wank.
As carefully as he could, he slid out from under the duvet and rolled away, falling in a heap onto the floor. Then, just because it wasn’t enough of a predicament to be found in, Mark crawled over to the bathroom. He stood and pushed the door to. He didn’t shut it completely because that might stir Bradley awake and it also let in a haze of dusky light for Mark to see what he was doing. Not that he couldn’t wank in the dark, but he was expecting this was going to hit volcanic eruption levels and he wanted to ensure he caught all remnants. The last thing he needed was a There’s Something About Mary moment.
Glancing around the bathroom, he had to decide how to do this. Get in the bath? Over the sink? Sit on the toilet? Or just stand in front of the mirror? He could feel his erection wavering the more he thought about it.
Now there was irony he could get on board with.
Right, over the sink it was. Even if he had to look himself in the mirror and be a witness to his own sex-face. Which would be a buzz killer. Still, he could just close his eyes and think about Bradley. In the next room. Naked. In bed.
The pure fucking irony!
Once free of his boxers, his dick bounced up eagerly like a puppy at the pet store that had been walked past one too many times. And like a puppy, Mark intended to stroke it to make it feel better. Wrapping his hands around the engorged flesh, he was even a little startled and how bloated his balls were. Christ, bit of back-up here, old fellow.
He stroked, easy does it, up and down. The tingles of pleasure rippled through his veins, urging him that bit faster. As soon as this is all done we can go get in bed beside an Australian hunk.
Mark grunted, gliding his hand up and down, imagining Bradley beneath him with a sheen of smooth, tight skin. This wasn’t going to take as long as he first thought. He might even have time for another brew after.
Oh, yeah, that’s it. Mmmmm…
“Mark?” Bradley’s muffled voice interrupted Mark’s rapid flow.
Mark froze. Or rather he thought he did. Unfortunately, his hand was too far gone into the moment and his dick wasn’t letting him forget about it. Resuming his harried slides, he believed the best response was that of a true Brit—Keep Calm and Carry On.
“Mark, are you okay?”
Mark heard the rustling of a duvet being scraped over a finely tuned body and perfect feet sliding along the soft fibres of a carpet but nothing could have forced him to quit what he’d started. Just get it over with!
“Are you sick?” Bradley’s voice, full of endearing concern, filtered through the gap in the door. “I can hear whimpering.”
“No, no.” Mark grunted. “Just going to the loo.” Was that a better or worse response than the truth? His boisterous grunt would only lead to Bradley assuming he had a dicky tummy.
“Oh, right.” Bradley paused at the door, not moving.
Mark could sense him. Like he was always able to tell when his mother roamed behind his bedroom door in his teenage years, making it impossible to bash one out. He swore it was why she had done it. Raised a good old Catho
lic girl, she didn’t believe in self-pleasure. Poor woman.
Although, this was hardly pleasure at the moment. Torture, more like.
Listening for Bradley’s footsteps, Mark held his breath. Bradley didn’t move. What sort of person stands behind the door of someone going to the toilet? Oh Christ, he doesn’t believe me.
There was only one thing for it. To actually go to the toilet.
Ha! More fool you, Bradley Summers!
It was debateable who the real fool here was. Mark knew that.
Staggering over to the toilet, he willed his penis to be on his side for once. But it was firmly stuck up. Just like his mother.
Would you stop thinking about Mummy at this point!
That did it. His dick deflated in his hand.
“Mark?” Bradley tapped the door and Mark’s heart leapt into his throat.
Jesus wept! He probably would, watching this comedy of errors.
“You okay, mate?” The door pushed open and in stepped Bradley.
Mark covered his meat and two veg in the palm of one hand. “Yes, fine, thank you.” His quivering voice suggested otherwise but Mark was too far gone to care.
“Right.” Bradley folded his arms. And Mark did his best not to roam his gaze southwards.
“It’s terribly off-putting having someone watch you take a piss, y’know?” Mark’s clipped tone made Bradley back off.
Mark flushed the toilet, for effect only. Then, still covering his manhood, he sauntered past Bradley and back toward the bed, all the while his face burned scarlet.
“Mark?”
Mark spun. “Yes?”
“Next time.” Bradley took one step forward and leaned into Mark’s ear. “Just ask for a helping hand.” Then, without any prior warning or written consent, Bradley pressed a kiss to the tip of Mark’s nose, slid back onto the bed and pulled the duvet around his streamlined figure. He wriggled to get comfy amongst the fluffy down and Mark stood frozen. Should he? Could he?
He’d been given the okay… It didn’t have to mean anything. Or maybe it would? It could?
He opened his mouth.
“’M’tired, Mark,” Bradley mumbled into the pillow. “So if you do want a hand, can you ask me in the morning?”
Bradley peeped one eye open, and offered a sleepy, but most definitely sassy, smile.
“You do snore,” Mark retaliated.
Bradley chucked a pillow at him.
Chapter Twelve
Breakfast Bap
The next morning sent a ray of bright sunlight across the room and woke Mark up. Not that he’d gotten much sleep. Whenever he’d made himself vaguely comfortable in the bed, Bradley had kicked out a foot or a hand and ended up touching him, which was just all too much for Mark.
It seemed Mark had woken first, or at least he thought he had. Bradley’s head was buried deep under the pillows, his breathing soft and even. Not that Mark had been watching him. That would be creepy. But Mark was convinced enough from his thorough assessment—yes, that’s a better word—that he’d be able to slip from the bed without being detected.
He held his breath while doing it anyway and rootled around the floor for his clothes. Finding his jeans first, he stepped one foot into them and realised he would be joining Bradley in going commando this morning as surely that was better than wearing last night’s boxers?
“Where are you going?”
Mid-way in pulling up his jeans, Mark spun to face Bradley emerging from under the pillow. Startled, he hopped on one leg and attempted to free his foot from being strangled by the hem. Blasted skinny variety of denim! I should’ve stuck to the boot-cut! Slipping on something nondescript, he fell with a crash the floor, his arse flailing into the air like a moon to rival the early sun.
Could I really have expected the morning to go any differently?
“Far out!” Bradley pushed up on his arms, peering over the side of the bed. “You all right?”
“Perfect, thank you.”
“Yeah.” Bradley licked his lips. “You really are.”
Mark collapsed, twisted and resumed squirming into his jeans as if nothing abnormal had happened.
With all things considered, it hadn’t.
“You in a hurry to get somewhere?” Bradley sat up, the duvet sliding down his torso to rest at his…
Oh, God, that bulge! Mark averted his eyes and searched for his shirt instead, reminding himself that it had been hard enough to get his jeans on without adding anything extra into the immovable denim.
“Breakfast.” Mark ripped his shirt from the back of the desk chair and slid each arm into it. “It’s included in the extortionate room fee, and is of the buffet variety, so I plan to get my money’s worth.”
“I see.” Bradley scooted to the end of the bed, duvet still covering his midsection, and clasped his hands on his lap. He peered up to Mark with an abashed look. One that said he wasn’t up for being a spectacle this early in the morning.
“Right, I’ll just, er…” Mark didn’t finish his sentence and trundled off into the bathroom, giving them both room to breathe. Or, more accurately, allowing Mark to take a few calming breaths.
He nearly hyperventilated until Bradley’s beckoning call cut him off.
“Are we giving this buffet a run for its money or what?”
Mark gave the affirmative by opening the door.
They traipsed through the hotel in relative silence, making their way down the creaking stairs to reach the breakfast dining hall. It was loud and busy, and if it wasn’t for the real fear of no morning cuppa, Mark would have quite liked to have left. The other early morning patrons all glared at their arrival with condemnation slapped over their haughty faces. Mark knew what they were thinking—Mark with his bed hair, his morning-after-the-night-before glad rags, and Bradley by his side looking like he’d just stepped off the cover of Attitude mag.
They’re going to think I’ve paid him.
Instead of mortification surging through him at the assumption he looked the sort of person who had to pay for sex, Mark was startled to discover that it was anger boiling his blood. Is this how people view Bradley? As nothing more than a prostitute, someone who accepts money in exchange for his delightful evening company? Damian had said as such and he hadn’t even met him. Beady, disapproving eyes glared up at Bradley in his skin-tight vest and jeans, with his tousled blond hair, and his muscles flexing as he snaked through the tables in the dining hall. If he had to squeeze past, he always added an apology, or an, “excuse me, mate,” finished off with a dashing smile.
They all tutted, with one family even going so far as to turn their child’s head away from view.
By the time he’d reached a vacant table at the back, Mark noticed the distinct slump in Bradley’s normally broad shoulders and that his head wasn’t held as high. And the smile he offered Mark as he pulled out a chair for him wasn’t as bright.
Bastards! Mark had a sudden urge to grab Bradley’s perfect face and slap a kiss to his luscious lips, tasting that sweet—hang on, did Bradley even brush his teeth? Did I?
“Can I offer you a tea or coffee, sirs?” A waitress holding two silver pots encroached on the moment.
“Tea, tea, please.” Mark sat and the sizzling pour from the pot into the cup soon rid him of tension.
“And for you, sir?” The waitress held the pot over Bradley’s cup.
“Just an OJ, please, love.”
“I’ll be right back.” She scampered away.
Bradley smiled over at Mark as he sipped. “Feel better now?”
“Indeed.” Mark added an ahhh because he couldn’t not. “Nothing like a fresh cuppa to start your day.”
The waitress returned with a glass of orange and Bradley took an immediate slurp, wiping the traces of juicy bits from his top lip with his tongue. He seemed to take his time over it too, allowing Mark to get a proper eyeball of how flexible and long Bradley’s tongue actually was.
That could wrap double around my cock. Clearing
his throat, Mark wriggled in his seat. Thank God he hadn’t uttered that out loud. The family on the next table would be covering their sprog’s ears as well as eyes.
“So.” Mark clapped his hands and pushed back his chair. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a full English.”
“Lead the way, Mark. I could be persuaded to squeeze a full English in me.” Bradley grinned.
“Perhaps you ought to rephrase that,” Mark suggested, tucking in his chair and making his way over to the hot buffet.
Bradley caught up to him. “You’re dirty, Mark Johnson.” He grabbed a plate and handed one to Mark. “But after last night, I don’t think you can shock me, anymore.”
“Ha!” Mark perused the contents overflowing from each dish and sizzling under the heated lamps. “I could put you straight there and inform you that I could well indeed shock you further.”
Why did I say that? He piled his plate with the usual ensemble that made up a decent brekkie, minus the black pudding because he still hadn’t got over the time when his mother had informed him what it actually was. He’d been eight. He hadn’t been able to look Miss Piggy in the eye since.
“I’m intrigued. Do tell.”
Giving Bradley a look that he hoped would convey that wouldn’t be happening any time soon, or ever, if he could get away with it, Mark returned to their table and filled his loose gob with breakfast.
Bradley joined him a short time after, a plate piled high of egg and beans. Protein rich. No meat.
“Do you not eat meat?” Mark asked, tucking into his.
“I do.” Bradley spoke out of the side of his mouth. “But not real fatty stuff. I got told that this body has to stay this way if I want to keep up the dancing. So I can only have chicken, yeah, bit of steak sometimes.”
“I see.” Mark shovelled his fatty meat in. “I don’t seem to have that problem. It doesn’t matter what I eat, this body remains.”
“It’s a nice body.” Bradley didn’t look up from his plate to say that, nor was there any indication that had been a joke.
Still, Mark stared across the table in wait. Bradley finally looked up and held Mark’s gaze while stabbing through the scrambled eggs on his plate. “You don’t believe me?”
