by Max Walker
But that was okay. Jamison or not, this guy was pulling me in. There was an air about him. Like he didn’t care, even though I could see through a couple of thin cracks in his facade. He was funny and smart, and he was fit with a capital F.
“So no Taco Bell for me ever again,” I said, finishing the story.
“I mean… after that, I don’t think I’d even look at a taco or ring a doorbell the same way ever again.”
We both laughed, neither of us realizing the place was beginning to clear until we were the last two left on the patio, our empty drink cups sitting on the bannister.
“Oh shoot, we’re about to get kicked out.”
“My flat is only a short walk away,” I said. Suddenly, my heart pounded hard in my chest. I flashed back to earlier in the night, when that young douchebag called me out for being older. It had left a mark. “You don’t have to if—”
“Let’s go,” Jamison (or Fred or Brad or Jason) said.
Okay, okay, good. I could breathe properly again.
We walked through the patio, into the pub. The lights had been flicked on, throwing the scene into stark reality, making me wish I’d put on beer goggles just to walk through the filthy space. I was pretty sure I saw five different puddles that could be considered as hazardous waste by government officials.
Outside, the London air was fresh. It was early October, so the temperature wasn’t blistering cold yet. We could get by with light jackets, although I’d been underneath the Miami sun for so long that even seventeen degrees Celsius started to feel like the dead of winter to me.
“So how are you liking London?” I asked as we walk down a quiet street, rows of homes on either side of us, blinds closed and residents fast asleep.
“I love it! I really didn’t think I would, just because I’m not a big industrial city kinda gal, you get me? I didn’t much like New York when I visited, and I heard London was a similar. But it’s not—it feels like a storybook over here.”
“That’ll start wearing off after a few months and a couple rides on the Tube.”
“Oh, I’ve gotten a taste of the subway over here.” He shrugged. “Still better than NYC. I once saw a woman on the subway back in New York, and no lie, she had a pet rat dressed in a pink tutu and wearing a top hat, and the rat would just sit on her shoulder, nibbling on her hair.”
“Okay, yeah, that is a little weird.”
We laughed, the sound of his happiness lifting my mood.
The street turned, the houses feeling more cramped as we got closer to the river. Ahead, the lampposts were all out, plunging our path into darkness. I was walking, still chuckling, and not realizing Jamison had stopped cold behind me.
“What’s wrong?” I turned to him, seeing his expression painfully twist before he forced his smile back on.
“I, uhm, mind if we take another road? I… the, uhm.”
“Sure, we can take the street over. We’ll see the river better that way, anyway.”
Something had affected him. It happened quickly and seemed to have been visceral. I felt a pang of sadness hit me. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and hold him until he felt safe again, and I didn’t really know why…
We turned and went down the street with the lampposts lighting our way. It took a few minutes for the conversation to return and for the mood to lift again, but it did. Soon, we were back to laughing and joking, walking alongside the River Thames, its gentle water spotlighted by the full moon that floated above us. There were anchored boats, most of them multitiered tourist boats that bobbed up and down, the sound of their docks creaking gently. Buildings lined the other side of the street, some of them modern apartment buildings with glass and red bricks, and other buildings holding on to their historic facades, some of them I still even remembered.
As we talked, I noticed both of us couldn’t keep our hands off the other. Not in a groping-about-to-snog-you-on-the-street kind of way. It was more of a flirting dance kind of way. He would laugh and put a hand on my forearm. I would occasionally reach over and touch his elbow, his lower back, even the nape of his neck. Every time our skin touched skin, I could feel the sparks fly. The same kind of sparks that happened the moment I met this guy.
“Jesus, Jamison, you are one of the funniest guys I’ve ever met, you know that?” I had to say it after a particularly gut-busting joke.
“Ugh, okay.” He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I’m not really named after a hard liquor—that was just a dumb moment. I wanted to be someon—”
I kissed him. I couldn’t hold myself back. His lips locked with mine, and I could feel the entire bloody planet rock underneath my feet. I’d never been so struck by a snog before. This was unexpected. I shut my eyes and parted his lips with my tongue, entering his mouth, gliding and probing and tasting. His hands moved to my hips, and he tugged me against him. I could practically feel the moan rise up through his small frame. I swallowed it hungrily, letting my hands roam up and down his back, slipping underneath his shirt, feeling his soft skin under my palms. Heat blasted through me like I’d just opened a furnace.
There was no denying it, no running from it. The two of us had a raw chemistry that made my bones simmer with heat and my cock throb with need. Who gave a fuck about names?
“How far is your flat from here?” Jamison asked, breathless, lips lit up by the orange light from the lamppost above us.
“That building right there.”
“Why aren’t we running? You’re not even wearing heels.”
He was already speed-walking down the street toward the building I had pointed out.
I laughed, following behind him, my hand in my pocket holding down my stiffy so that I didn’t look like I was offering a home for any displaced gnomes.
We could barely climb the stairs up to my place. Our kisses and gropes and grinds made climbing stairs a difficult but quite enjoyable process.
By the time we had entered the living room, our shirts were already off and pants were beginning to get unzipped. I left my father’s letter on a table next to my door. I didn’t even have time to flick on the light, which was fine since the blinds were wide open and let in plenty of street light melded with moonlight.
The darkness also helped in keeping my affectionately dubbed “dad bod” a little more concealed. I wasn’t going to lie—plus there was zero way I could lie—but I didn’t really go to the gym that often. I was blessed with good genes and had stayed relatively fit throughout most of my life with minimum amount of effort. Age, though, had different plans. It was taking a little more work and a little more attention to what I ate so that I didn’t balloon, but I also wasn’t walking around with a washboard six-pack.
Was Jamison used to that kind of body? Did he think he was getting that with me? And would the disappointment drive him away like the other guy?
“Fuck, you’re so sexy.” His words struck as the truth. He wasn’t saying it just to say it. He was a few steps away from me. He openly admired my chest, my stomach, the obvious bulge in my slacks.
It burned away some of the self-consciousness. I grabbed my hard cock and stroked for him, seeing the embers light up in that expressive, stunning pair of eyes.
He was a catch. In the dim light, I could see Jamison didn’t have a six-pack either, and he certainly didn’t need one in the slightest. His body was smooth and lithe, his small nipples already hard, his chest bare of any hair—plenty of space for me to mark with my teeth.
Our lips collided together. Our bare chests finally pressed together. I had met this guy only hours earlier, and yet I felt like I’d been craving this skin-on-skin contact since I was born.
We moved through the dark of the living room, toward the couch. I guided us, moving while our tongues battled for space, for a taste.
At the couch, I was pushed backward. I fell onto the couch with an exhale of air. The light from outside gleamed on Jamison’s skin, making those sky-blue eyes pop even in the dark.
“So fucki
ng sexy.”
He had said it almost to himself, but I heard it. I spread my legs open wider.
“Take those pants off, come over here, and sit on my lap.”
He didn’t waste much time. The zip of his jeans filled the room, followed by the rustle of pants falling down in a puddle at his ankles. The light-pink briefs he had on were already darkened where the head of his cock pushed against the fabric.
It was an absolutely tantalizing sight. Drove me wild, it did.
And yet my gaze still drifted up, toward the sky-blue orbs that changed the entire course of the night for me.
In a moment of equal clarity and insanity, I felt like those eyes had changed the course of more than this night alone.
It was a thought I quickly set aside. I focused on the drool-worthy body I was set to devour. No need to complicate the night with rubbish thoughts of “soul mate” and “destiny.” Tonight was meant to be as least complicated as possible. I didn’t even know this guy’s real name. He was set to leave the country, and so was I, never to cross paths again. That was how tonight would go, and I was fine with that. Completely and utterly fine with it.
I was fine with it, all right?
But if we miraculously bumped into each other at the supermarket back in Florida, then hey, I wouldn’t exactly complain.
4 Oliver Brightly
Oh Holy Mother, Cher. This man was beyond hot. This man was the type of man who made me think about every single insecurity I had and magnified it by a thousand. I simultaneously wanted to shrink from his steaming gaze and peacock for him, he made me that crazy. I didn’t even know how I was getting words out, much less jokes, which he had seemed to be eating up from the second we left the bar. I didn’t think I’d ever been with someone who laughed so hard at the smallest little things I said.
And hey, I wasn’t hating it, that was for sure.
What I was hating, though? My freaking anxiety, which had reared its nasty head back on that dark street, and which hadn’t really let go since then. I was comfortable around Beckham. Like really, really comfortable. And I felt really safe around him, too. It was one of the reasons why I felt okay going to his apartment once the lights had come on at the bar. Another reason was William having my location on that Find My Friends app. I told him that if he noticed any suspicious and sustained stops at any local ditches, then call the police stat.
But seeing that dark street, regardless of who knew our location, walking alongside someone I was having such an incredible time with… it brought me straight back to the darkest night of my life.
Beckham had been great in handling my sudden bout of fear. He didn’t even ask a question. He simply listened and readjusted our route, like the handsome British knight he was. Because this man had to be a gallant knight, saving princes and princesses from dragons and evil sorcerers. He had to be, just had to.
Well, actually, with the way he was sitting right now on the leather couch, legs spread so that his thighs strained the black slacks and bare-chested on the leather couch, he looked more like James Bond. And with how wet my briefs felt, I knew I could easily pretend to be a Bond Guy, coming out of the ocean toward him in slow motion.
I moved toward those open legs. My heart thumped hard. I was nervous. Not only because of the earlier scare, but because Beckham stared me down like a hungry lion, and I wanted to make sure he enjoyed his feast.
But what if he didn’t… He was clearly experienced in life; was he the same with men? I certainly wasn’t. This whole sex-pot thing I was trying on was just that: a costume. As I sauntered over to him, I started to feel a little ridiculous. Like he could see right through this facade I’d put on to impress him.
He reached forward and his hands closed on my hips. He pulled me closer and started to kiss my hip bones, up over my belly, around my belly button. The nerves simmered down, another kind of heat beginning to take over.
His kisses traveled downward, over the thin fabric of my briefs. I could feel his warm breath on me. He palmed my ass as his lips wrapped around my bulge.
This was intense. Insane.
It was sooo incredibly hot.
“Lean back,” I whispered, looking down at the most beautiful man I’d ever seen in my life.
He listened, sitting back into the light brown cushions. It was dark, but I could still see everything I wanted to. From his juicy lips to his lickable chest, down to the thighs I wanted to crush me like a Coke can.
I moved to straddle him, sitting down on his lap. I could feel his hard length pushing against me, throbbing upward. My entire body turned into bundles of live wire. All my nerves were frayed and sparking.
Our lips met again in a breathless kiss. I couldn’t get enough of his taste. Of his feel, his scent, his everything.
Why the hell does this have to be an overseas thing?
Nope. See? There I was, getting carried away on a current of dumb and naïve bliss. What did I expect? For this night to turn into something bigger, something better? All because of what? Our incredible and explosive chemistry and intense sexual attraction?
Well… when you put it like that…
Beckham’s hand slipped under my briefs and time froze. The warmth of his fingers massaging my balls was heavenly. I gasped, his fingers closing and tugging, as he looked up at me, overflowing with lust and admiration and—
“Holy shit!” he shouted.
“Fuck!” I shouted.
“What the fuck?” someone else shouted.
A stranger had opened the apartment door. He was stumbling back, forearm over his eyes, a half-empty bottle of vodka in his hand.
I was on the couch, a pillow covering my crotch, my pulse pounding hard in my head. I could practically hear it like drumbeats between my ears.
“Get the hell out of here, you drunken twit.” Beckham sounded furious. He was up and storming toward the door, his frame an imposing six-foot something. The drunken intruder mumbled “sorrys” and “wrong flat” before Beckham slammed the door shut. He locked it this time and turned back to me, his face clearly spelling out the apology before he even said a word.
“I am so, so sorry.”
I shook my head. “Don’t even worry about it.”
I’m just like four seconds away from passing out, don’t even stress.
“I swear I locked that thing. Didn’t think the neighbors here were all drunken bloody idiots.”
He flicked on the light before sitting back down on the couch, the soft leather sinking with his added weight.
The room was washed in a warm yellow light. It was empty of any personal things and really only held the couch we were sitting on and a television on a stand that was way too small for it.
“You sure you’re okay? You look a little pale.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Do you, uhm, have anything to drink? Like water. Lemonade maybe? A virgin piña colada if I’m being really extra.”
Beckham stared at me for a moment.
“Totally joking about that. I don’t expect you to make me a piña colada, and I’m certainly not a virgin. But I can be extra sometimes. Okay, now I’m just blabbing. I really think I need that water.”
He laughed and I felt, inexplicably, a little better.
But only a little.
Beckham got up, the black slacks hanging dangerously off his hips. I watched him go to the kitchen. The way his back moved was mesmerizing. I would have been dying to dig my fingers into it if I wasn’t on the verge of a panic attack.
He returned with a cool glass of water, the ice clinking against each other as he walked.
“Thank you.” I grabbed the glass and gulped. It was something I had learned from therapy. To get an icy cold drink and focus on the path it takes, focus on the sensations around the tip of the tongue, around the back of the mouth, down the throat, follow it down into the belly. It helped center myself when my feet felt unmoored from the ground.
“You know,” I said, setting the glass down on a coaster, “if I knew we
were putting on a show, I would have charged the guy.”
More laughs, each one settling over my chest like a blanket.
“Wouldn’t be a bad gig,” he said, his British accent making his words sound like a song.
“Nope. Especially not if you were my costar.”
Beckham’s smile tilted back into that smolder I had melted for moments earlier. The fear had effectively killed my boner, but I certainly wasn’t opposed to getting things back up and running.
I leaned into his neck, kissing him, my hand back on his chest. His hand closed around my wrist. It felt good—it felt as grounding as the water had.
It wasn’t enough. My breathing was out of control, and I could still feel my heart beating hard, too hard. It didn’t help that I was nervous to be with such a stud of a man. That added to the nerves. It made things worse.
“You’re so amazingly sexy.” Beckham’s voice was like honey, and it dripped over my body as his hands trailed lines of electricity down my sides. His cock was already rock hard and pushing up against me.
I wanted him. I wanted him bad.
And yet, when his hands moved downward, over my bulge, he wasn’t met with the same. I was soft, and nothing was happening. All the blood rushed everywhere in my body but to my dick.
Come on. Relax. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.
I put a hand on his face, feeling the soft stubble of a beard, and brought his lips to mine. I hoped he couldn’t feel the thumping of my heart through my kiss.
This was the absolute worst-case scenario. My head was all “yes, yes, holy mother of gay balls, yes please put your dick on his and have the time of your life” and yet my dick was saying “nope, can’t right now, check back in a few hours.” It was a disconnect that lit a flame underneath my cheeks. I was beyond embarrassed. How could I let this happen right now? This man turned me on to no end, and yet I couldn’t get it up. I couldn’t stop my heart from ramming against my rib cage. I couldn’t stop my thoughts from being pure venom, turning this situation into an even bigger deal in my head.