Date: Thu, 6 Feb 2020 21:44:32 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads part 45: Winter Sun 1

Part forty-five: Winter Sun 1


The comfortable heat of the training complex felt a million miles from the
damp mists of South London. The sky was a blue stretch and the steady
sunlight was only fragmented by the high-sprouting palm trees around the
training pitch where Ross Barkley was doing some relaxed keep-ups, working
the ball from knee to knee to foot to knee.

It was a long winter break for the Chelsea boys, the first year of this new
idea by the League: in total the lads had an over two-week gap between
their disappointing Leicester draw at the weekend, and their next match,
facing Manchester United in the middle of the month. And so of course,
Lampard had relaxed his regime and followed the initiative. Training would
resume next week at some point, but for now, they were free.

Of course, for a lot of the blokes, that meant family time, but for a few
of the restless youngsters, a working holiday had been settled on, and
Dubai's warm-weather training centres had beckoned. Ross was glad of it,
though he was quite looking forward to a more relaxed weekend once he got
back to London and his bird. But for now, he was enjoying the intense
training sessions, the sun-soaked afternoons off, the chilling on the beach
with a small bunch of teammates.

He cricked his neck and rested the ball beneath one foot, checking the time
on his sports watch before lobbing the ball aside to rest with some other
spares along the edge of this smaller training court. It was pretty much
time to rest up, thankfully. Dubai was hardly at its blazing peak in
February, but the heat started to get to you after a four-hour session
working in it. Barkley pulled a little on the chest of his Nike training
shirt and lumbered across the training ground, looking over to the resident
coach who was leading them. A whistle blew, time was called on the session;
the last session, actually, of their stay.

One by one, the sweaty, slightly sun-dazed young Chelsea players turned to
make their way indoors, to the air-conditioning and a hearty lunch. Ross
lagged behind a little, spotting his young pal Mason Mount in the middle of
finishing up some 1-to-1 time with another coach. Everybody had been
impressed with Mount's energy and skill here, it had been the hot topic of
the week, actually.

The slightly goofy 21-year-old turned cheerily Barkley's way as he passed,
and waved a hand before jogging over to join him at his side. `Hey,' Mason
said, excitedly, `you see the pics of you training that I popped on my
Insta story? You were looking good.'

Ross turned to him with a slightly grim smile, and raised an
eyebrow. `Mase, pal, I think we've had enough of your photographs of me
getting shared, ain't we?' he asked in his heavy Scouse accent, giving the
younger player a meaningful stare. Mason burst into embarrassed laughter,
nodding quickly, and flexing his arms and shoulders as they walked.

`Oh, shit, that,' Mason mumbled, `I thought that was...'

`It is,' Ross said, quickly. `Forgotten, forgiven.'

`Right,' Mount said, sounding unsure.

`But yeah,' Ross added, `I did see the pic, I posted it on mine too,
hah. Thanks.' He reached over and threw a bare arm about the slender
shoulders of his fellow midfielder, pulling him into a slightly sweaty hug
as they lingered behind the handful of other Chelsea players who had formed
this little working holiday in Dubai. They were a good bunch of lads,
overall, but Ross felt no close bond with any of them compared to his
growing friendship with Mason.

Inside, they passed under the cool blast of the air-con and, like the
others, skipped showers in favour of their appetites. The training complex
had a refectory that felt more like a 3-star restaurant, and the two lads,
still in their shorts and short-sleeved training tops, picked up trays and
joined the queue. There were other athletes and sportsmen here, though none
that Ross particularly recognised. He was vaguely aware that other
Premiership blokes were out in Dubai too, at various similar centres or
just on their holidays, but he hadn't given much attention to that surreal
prospect. First Mason and then he were eventually served by the attractive,
heavily made-up young women behind the counter, and left to find seats with
trays of colourful and varied salads between them. The others had filled
one of the bigger tables, and Ross felt like it would be a real pain trying
to drag a chair up to join them, so he moved on across the refectory to a
smaller table by the windows, looking out on the sports complex's lush
gardens.

He sat down, and Mason joined him.

`It's been a great few days here,' Mount said as he took his seat. `I'm
glad you came, too. I don't know what chat I would have had with some of
them. Don't know if I get on so well with anybody here but you, you know?'

Ross smiled vaguely at the 21-year-old's chat, and looked across at the
sight of their teammates, feeling his rough agreement with the sentiment,
but less keen to express it. He just nodded and made a vague noise, and
stuffed his face with the centre's tasty lunch food. He picked up his
napkin to dab the beading sweat from his temples, still feeling the effects
of the sun out there, knowing his tan would be glowing by the time he
touched down in London.

`You heard much from the gaffer?' Mason asked, innocently enough. Ross
paused and looked at him. Given their shared experience last week, the
innocence was very superficial.

`A bit,' Barkley grunted. Well, how best to answer that? It could go a
couple of days with nothing, and then he would get one of two types of
messages. The first would go something like `Ross, we need 2 speak' or
`Barkley, this needs 2 stop now, plz dnt mssg me', amusingly empty
statements that made it sound like HE was the obsessive one here. Or,
sporadically, there were the other messages, like `cant stop thinking bout
u 2day, send pic' or `need ur hole xx'. In all honesty, Ross wasn't sure
which messages bothered or roused him more. But this was the strange
dynamic he'd put himself in when he visited Frank's office all those weeks
ago, and so he accepted the uncomfortable ebb and flow of it. Lampard
seemed to need him, but was utterly ashamed of that need.

Mason was watching him think. `I keep thinking about that day, buddy,' he
said quietly.

Barkley coughed, wiped his mouth, poked at his salad. `Yeh?' he murmured.

`It was intense.'

`It was.' Ross chewed thoughtfully. `You're okay, though, right?' For a
couple of days after, he'd noticed Mason almost limping a bit, or sitting
uncomfortably, and had worried for what he'd put his young pal through. But
every time he had enquired, he'd been reassured that the lad was totally
okay, just needed a little recovery.

`I'm great,' Mason told him, yet again. `You're sweet to worry, though.'

Ross just scowled a little at this twee comment, poking some fruit about
his plate idly. `Well, you need someone to look out for you,' he said,
after a few moments, then gave his friend a teasing frown. `Naïve little
munchkin that you are.' They both tittered stupidly. `I brought you into a
mad situation there, so... you know, I feel like I need to look out for
you. I was probably a shit friend to you when you got mugged and the pics
were stole, and... you know, I do like you, Mase. You're a great friend.'
This was an almost epic speech of poetry by Ross's uncommunicative
standards, he knew, and he could see Mount was pleased to hear it.

`But I enjoyed myself,' Mason pointed out with a cheeky glint in his
eyes. `I really did.'

`Well, good,' Ross mumbled. He was kinda glad Loftus-Cheek wasn't out here
with them, come to think of it. He liked Ruben, quite a lot, and had been
glad to have him back around, but... the big man's confidence and
intervention in their antics had been a shock, and since then, he felt a
little on edge around him, unsure of himself. He didn't like what Ruben
knew about his own behaviour, and he didn't like how little he suddenly
knew about Ruben.

They ate in silence for a couple of minutes.

`Do you remember what you said to me, though?' Mason asked, a little
abruptly.

Ross looked at him, slurping the last of his freshly pressed fruit juice,
and casting his mind back to the sweaty session on the manager's desk. Yes,
he remembered, and he'd known it would be held onto by this fresh-faced
eager beaver. He nodded, slowly.

`I do owe you one,' he agreed softly. `Any favour you need, owt I can do to
help, just...'

`Yeah, yeah,' Mason said, beaming. `I just thought I'd check you remembered
the offer!'

`I keep my promises,' Ross grunted, a bit defensively. He looked back over
in the direction of the other table, where some of their teammates were
getting up from their lunch. The last formal training session was over,
though Ross was thinking he might hit the gym this afternoon, work on his
muscle definition, ready to impress his lady when he flew home tomorrow. He
turned his head again and found Mason staring at him a bit. The youngster
looked flustered and silly at being caught doing so, and immediately stared
down at his leftover food. Ross just chuckled gently, and grabbed at the
sides of his tray.

`You don't have to stare at me, you've taken plenty of fucking pictures
this week,' he remarked half-jokingly, and got up to leave. Mason laughed a
little anxiously, and Ross left him to it, off to hit the gym and work on
his athletic body.



When he eventually hit his hotel room late in the afternoon, he took a long
cool shower, and chatted on the phone to first his mum, then a good mate of
his back in Liverpool, and then his girlfriend. He felt a bit frisky,
talking to her, making rough plans of their chilled weekend together, and
struggled to resist touching himself as they spoke and flirted. He let his
fingers edge at the fresh white briefs he'd pulled on, but didn't let them
stray past the Armani waistband, wanting to save his energies for her, as
he had been all week.

When the call eventually ended, after a string of sickly loved up goodbyes
between the two of them, Ross lay back on the cool white cotton of his
bedding and watched the ceiling fan whirr its blades in rotation, feeling
sluggish and content. His near-naked body ached a little from the week's
training and from his bulking session in the gym just now, but he also felt
good, revitalised by the heat and freshness of this place. He felt
confident he would turn up to the formal Chelsea training next week ready
to fight hard: ready to really EARN his prominence in the team, through
strength and skill rather than... Frank's sporadic and slightly
schizophrenic messages spun through his thoughts. He didn't want to have to
rely on the obsessive needs of a married 41-year-old!

His phone, resting on the bedding beside his six-pack, pinged to life, and
he reached lazily for it. He had dreaded a strange cryptic message from the
gaffer, but instead it was the other bloke who seemed to be lovesick for
him (Ross was becoming more comfortable with admitting to himself the
impact he was having on these admirers): Mason. Drinks tonight, he was
suggesting. Well, of course, Ross thought. It was their last night, after
all.

He thumbed in his response, and a few messages later, a plan had been
outlined. They weren't bothering with the others, who apparently had
already made some arrangements, but would go for a quiet few together in
some hip cocktail bar that Mount had read about online. Ross, a man of
simple tastes, wasn't so excited, but he wanted to hang out with Mase,
feeling an almost brotherly companionship with the cheeky lad.

He rested a little longer then went about his simple business, squirting on
some aftershave against his thick neck and swollen chest, and then pulling
on a thin blue linen shirt over his toned bulk, and some fairly
loose-fitting dark chinos. Soon, he was meeting Mason in the reception area
and hopping into the pre-ordered taxi.

In the car journey, Mount spoke about his own weekend plans, a visit back
down to Portsmouth to hang out with his old school crowd, who were largely
just starting their first graduate jobs. For Barkley, most of his old
Liverpool mates were married with at least two kids, and he chuckled at the
different worlds they hailed from.

The bar was as extravagant as he had anticipated. A fiery sunset was
melting in the skies above, adding to the souk aesthetic of the bar, which
was striving for Middle Eastern authenticity even though it was largely
full of white European tourists. Half-admiring and half-repulsed by the
showy Instagram world of it, he followed Mason through its tiled interiors
and along a balcony above its big central courtyard. Ross leant his elbows
on the stone balustrade and looked across the crowd of posers, whilst Mason
chose them drinks from a menu.

`This place is sick,' the younger player decided, joining him at his
vantage point. He was wearing a showier short-sleeved shirt, baggy about
his slim defined body and denim shorts. Ross just laughed at his
vernacular. `I've been thinking,' Mason added, after a long moment of
watching the crowd below.

`Dangerous,' joked Barkley.

`Hah. I mean, I've been thinking about... that favour.'

`Oh?' Ross turned and looked at him, framed against the pinks and oranges
of the Dubai sunset. He wondered idly what Mason had in mind, what minor
drama needed resolving, or what help was going to be expected of him. The
lad looked nervous now, and that put Ross on edge: what was his mate
building up to asking him?

`You know what was a first time for me, that day,' Mason said ambiguously.

Ross didn't have to guess hard at what was meant. `Of course,' he muttered
quietly, `I hardly thought it was a weekly business for ya, lad, but...'

`Well, yeah, it was pretty new and crazy.' Mason went quiet, fiddling with
the top button of his colourful shirt, looking from Ross to the view of the
gently lamplit courtyard. `But I mean... it was cool, and... well, I wanna
try it more, I think, so...' He leaned in, suddenly, and Ross tensed up,
almost knowing word for word the question that came next. `Will you do it
to me, Barks?' They stared eye to eye then, and the air was thick with
their tension. This intensity was brief, though, as their waitress was soon
interrupting them with two matching daiquiris on a tray. Mason, flustered
but charming, turned to thank her and take them, whilst Ross rubbed a hand
over his mouth and leaned away a little, not sure what to say.

He took his drink from Mount's hand, sipped it, and lowered his voice as
much as he could whilst still being heard over the vaguely Persian music
and the hubbub below. `Mate,' he hissed, `you know I'm not really into
that...' He saw how crestfallen Mount was, but went on. `It's just... I
have this kinda, deal thing, I guess, with the gaffer, so...' He struggled
around for the right words. `An arrangement, that's all. I'm straight,
buddy, I don't want to...'

`But,' grumbled Mason quietly, `that time, in the showers, we...'

`I was letting off steam,' Ross groaned awkwardly, and apologetically. He
clinked his glass to Mason's and eyed him seriously. `You're a fucking
great friend, Mase. Please don't let's ruin it.' Mason stared at him, his
disappointment palpable, but he sighed and nodded.

`Right,' he said with forced cheer, `I hear you. Forget I said
anything. Let's drink to Dubai.'



The cocktails turned out to be pretty fucking tasty, Ross concluded, on his
fourth, all selected by Mount, since he didn't really know his way around a
wanky cocktail menu with stupid names and lists of ingredients he wasn't
sure of. There was an enjoyable freedom in letting the younger lad pick,
anyway, a bit like being out for dinner with his missus and watching her
survey the wine menu. As the rippled sunset gave way to inky night, Barkley
felt more and more of an alcoholic buzz, relaxing into the atmosphere of
the place.

It was somewhere between cocktails number two and three that they'd bumped
into the others. Muscling their way along a bar downstairs at the edge of
the courtyard, Barkley had been waving one muscular arm about to catch
attention, when he'd caught eyes with first one and then another two of his
infrequent England teammates.

Now here they were, seated in a loose huddle of basket chairs by the
fountains at the centre of the courtyard, drinks in hand, some of them
sucking on a shisha pipe, chatting the night away. Ross was sat between
Leicester lads James Maddison and Ben Chilwell, both sound lads: bright,
funny, cheery. Ross had often liked the idea of a transfer to Leicester,
where the team banter seemed so strong, much more so than the rather
serious mood he found dominated at Chelsea. Shame about the fashion though,
he thought drunkenly, looking from the lads outlandish t-shirts and
blinging chains to Maddison's literal rose-tinted glasses. Fucking young
southerners, wannabe gangsters and fashionistas, the lot of them.

There were a couple of other Leicester kids and, a bit oddly, a couple of
the Aston Villa bunch. Chilwell's close mate Jack Grealish, a bit of a
legend in Ross's eyes, a heroic captain of his boyhood team, was sat
opposite on the edge of the fountains, cracking up laughing at some story
Mason Mount was telling him. Ross eyed the two together, only
half-listening to Chilly and Madders' banter either side of him. These
cocktails really were quite strong.

`Oi, Barks, earth to Ross,' chuckled Ben to his right. He realised Madders
had got up to go to the bar for them, and twisted in his seat to give a
relaxed grin to the 23-year-old Milton Keynes lad, who was a little glossy
with sweat in the flickering lamplight of the bar, his hair hanging in
styled curtains like some boyband heart-throb of another decade. `I was
just saying,' Ben continued, `Mase has really come out his fucking shell,
hasn't he?'

`Huh? Oh, yeh.'

`I mean, he used to be right quiet,' Chilly continued. `What's he been up
to lately?!'

Ross could hardly contain a smirk at this question, but he just shrugged
his muscular shoulders at the lad other lad and laughed, and drained the
dregs of his fourth (fifth) cocktail before putting the glass down on the
low table in front of them. `Oh, I dunno, he's just growing up, or summat,'
he told Ben.

`True, true,' Chilwell said. `Happens to us all.'

`Aye,' Ross agreed, relaxing into his buzz.

`And you're looking good,' Ben commented idly. Ross glanced at him, seeing
the lad's eyes rove up the definition of his arms, where the light linen
clung to his physique. Oh for fuck's sake, another footballer bloke
developing a thing for him? But then he just laughed to himself, realising
his own silly ego here: not EVERY footballer was secretly bi and secretly
craving him, he reminded himself, chiding his swollen self-esteem as a
result of his `arrangement' with the gaffer.

`Er, thanks,' was all he said to Ben. `Been working on it.'

`Well, whatever you're doing,' Ben said, with an odd laugh, `keep doing
it.' Ross could almost see a flirty edge to the Leicester defender's smile,
but again, he dismissed it, and laughed openly at his own imagination.

When Maddison returned, with drinks for himself and Chilly, Ross realised
he hadn't actually been included in their round, and got up to go and buy
some more cocktails for himself and Mount instead. He picked his way
through the relaxed crowd, enjoying a few more admiring looks from the
ladies, and a couple of guys (although it was hard to tell if their
admiration was competitive or lusting), and found his way to the bar. He
picked up and scanned a cocktail menu: what a load of tosh. Surely Mase was
picking these ridiculously named drinks at random and pretending to know
what the fuck he was on about?

He found himself next to the towering figure of Tyrone Mings, the Villa
giant who had been drinking with them a little earlier before seeming to
head off with a hot girl: Ross had been unable to tell if it was his
girlfriend, out here with them, or some bird he'd just met. The two lads
registered each other and Ross grunted a renewed greeting.

`You having a good night?' he asked whilst trying to make eye contact with
the barman.

`Yeah, I guess,' big Mings said in an almost yawning voice. `That lass
fucked off though. Probably head back to my hotel soon, or something.'

`Oh right,' Ross said distractedly, then gave his tall neighbour a funny
look. `You not gonna head back for another bevvy with your Villa pals, Jack
and them?'

Ty scoffed, rolled his eyes, and waved a rolled up banknote at the passing
barman, trying and failing to get any attention. `Nah, I've had enough of
them the past couple of days,' he said, `Jack more than any of them. Bloody
melt.'

Ross creased his brows and stared at the tall black lad, a bit
bewildered. `What you saying, mate?' he asked, having never heard a bad
word said about cheeky chappy Jack the Lad before. `Something going wrong
up at Aston Villa, is it?' He was more curious about Grealish's usual
golden boy reputation than any professional rivalry with the Birmingham
team. Ty scoffed again and Ross watched his little snarling expression come
and go.

`Oh nothing,' Mings said, and put his money away. `Forget this. I'm gonna
get a cab. Enjoy your night, Barks – but watch out for grabby Grealish,
eh.' And with that he was gone, Ross blinking after him in mild intrigue,
then turning back to the bar just in time to catch the guy's attention. He
was not, however, ready to choose a drink, and almost lost the moment, but
he just loudly demanded two of the most overpriced and ridiculously strong
cocktail going. The barman laughed and obliged, and Barkley leant at the
bar, flexing his arms in a moment of vanity to watch his shirt tighten
about his biceps.

By the time he was returning to the fountain, he'd largely forgotten
Tyrone's funny behaviour and comments about Jack, especially when he found
their seats empty and the group of off-duty footballers dissipated into the
social mixer of the courtyard. He sighed and took greedy sips from the
cocktail in each hand, screwed up his face a little at its sour strength,
then aimlessly circled the fancy bar in search of a familiar face.

This seemed to go on for a while. Eventually, feeling a little
uncomfortable on his own, Ross settled back by the bar, alternating between
the paper straws of his own and Mason's unclaimed drink, resting his weight
against the marble surface, and eyeing the passing crowd for one of his
fellow Premiership players. He almost jumped in shock when eventually he
felt a warm hand against his clammy shoulderblade.

`Ross,' chirped Mason excitably, `there you are!'

`Where the fuck have you been?' Barkly asked him, irritated but also
incredibly relieved. He pushed Mason's half-finished tumbler of the sour
mix towards him, pretending he hadn't touched it, then sipped from his
own. `I've been on my own like a right lemon, for fuck's sake.'

`Sorry,' Mount pleaded, squeezing his shoulder a bit more, and gladly
taking the half-empty drink to sip on. `Was doing some shisha then, er,
chatting up some girls, and... Ah, glad to find you again.' He grabbed Ross
suddenly in a tight hug and Ross grabbed back, loosened up by drink and
genuinely relieved to be back in the easy company of his young
teammate. He'd enjoyed bumping into the others, but he had found them
flashy and showy, all posed photos and empty talk. Barkley often reflected
that other footballers just weren't his scene.

`Yeh yeh,' Ross said, pulling away from the hug. `Good to have you back.'
He clapped a hand to Mason's arm, gave it a squeeze, then pulled his finger
up over his shoulder idly, to adjust the lad's messed up collar. Mason
smiled back at him with twinkling eyes, butter-wouldn't-melt. But Ross knew
what that mouth could do, no innocent expression was fooling him. And what
that mouth could do, he remembered with sudden urgency, well... couldn't be
described. He broke the lingering look between them and stared at his
cocktail, a little bewildered to find he'd finished it. `Another?' he
suggested, hearing his voice slur a bit.

Mason shrugged. `Whatever. Or we could call it a night.'

`Hmm,' Ross thought aloud. Maybe that was for the best. He was getting that
funny numbness in his limbs, and remembering that he had to travel back to
the UK tomorrow. A hangover felt inevitable now, but its extent was
probably within control! `Aye,' he said eventually, `let's get out of here,
shall we?'

He let Mason lead the way, honestly a little unsure of which way they
needed to go. The place was so crowded and confusing that he felt Mount
take him by the wrist halfway out, and he enjoyed the reassuring pull of
the eager young guy's hand against his as they exited the busy Dubai bar
and out onto the confusing neon jungle of the street.

`This way, I think,' Mount said, turning the corner.

Ross threw his arm about Mason's shoulders again, like earlier, but pulled
him a little tighter. `Good night, huh?' he grunted.

`Great, really,' Mason agreed, `was so cool meeting up with the others,
right? Fucking cool lads, sick outfits, right? Grealish was telling me
about...'

Gropey Grealish, Ross remembered in a slight blur. `He didn't do anything
funny to ya, did he?' he asked sharply, as the pair ambled down the
pavement away from the noise of the bar, pulled close together. Mason
pulled away a little and stared at him, baffled.

`What you on about, Barks?' he cackled. `Do anything...?'

`Oh, just erm, something I heard, or...'

`God, you're so protective, big bro,' quipped Mount.

Ross laughed and smiled, glad to hear Mason thought of him in a similar
way. He slowed their walk and threw his strong arms back around the younger
guy in a cuddle, and rested his head down against the fluffy spikes of
Mason's hair. `Well, someone has to look after ya,' he teased, swaying them
a little in this hold. Beyond Mason, through the buildings opposite, he
could see a lane that led down to the beach. You could just make out the
blackness of the sea against the inky blue sky. A walk on the sands was
suddenly tempting.

Mason was rubbing both hands gently against his sides, feeling the ridges
of his abs through the linen. Ross chuckled at these strokes and nuzzled
Mason's forehead with his nose. `What are you playing at, silly bugger?' he
demanded quietly.

`Nothing,' giggled Mason `just... enjoying this hug.'

`Yeah yeah,' Barkley groaned, `like you'll settle for a... hug.'

Mason hissed out a breath and pulled closer, resting his head on the firm
platform of Barkley's pecs for a moment. Ross swayed a little more, held
his arms about Mount, and then let go. `Come on,' he said sharply, `shall
we walk down to the beach...?' There was a firm nod of agreement from the
other lad, and they crossed the quiet road, moving away from the bassy
music of the bar, which actually sounded like it was just kicking off for
the night, rather than winding down. Ahead of them, a sloping lane between
some more shut business led down towards the broad sandy expanse of the
deserted beach. Twinkling city lights were visible along the sweep of this
coast, the skyscrapers of Dubai rising up along the strip, reflected in the
sea. It was a fucking romantic sight, really, Ross decided.

He reached an arm down Mason's back, arm to flesh, and let his hand rest at
the upper end of that curving young bottom, held in his denim shorts. He
gave it a slight squeeze, and felt Mason lean into him as they strolled
onto the sands. He laughed to himself, and thought of their short, tense
conversation earlier tonight.

`You really do owe me, bro,' Mase told him in a quiet, slightly shaky
voice.

Ross groaned evasively, squeezed that pert backside, and kicked his white
trainers through the fine sands. `You're persistent,' he muttered.

`YOUR hand is on my... arse...'

Ross spanked him gently, laughed, and pulled away, swaggering ahead. He
turned his back on the view, his back on the sea, and looked affectionately
at the smirking, boyish face of the young midfielder in front of him.

`You did take one for me,' Ross said in a low, purring voice. He thumbed at
the top button of his shirt and took a step closer to Mason. The beach felt
truly deserted around them, lost in its darkness, though the rising
buildings were actually so close. He grabbed Mason by the arm and pulled
him back with him a little, closer to the water's edge, the sand getting
softer beneath their trainers.

`I did,' Mount said in a giggling voice, drunk and excited. `In fact... I
took... two.'

`Fucking hell,' Ross drawled, remembering that detail, picturing
overexcited Frank and masterful Ruben. `Fucking hell... you brave thing...'
He pulled Mason into him in another cuddle, and reached round with both
hands, pawing at that firm behind in the denim.

`Come on,' Mount whispered. `Please, Barks. Please.' Mason was reaching
down and fondling Ross's package through the thin chinos, touching up the
big bulge. Days of abstinence had rendered Barkley's cock
uber-sensitive. He'd been saving it for HER, but... His mind spun. Around
them danced the lights of Dubai, and behind them was the empty erotic
blackness of the sea. Fucking hell. He cuddled Mason to him and nuzzled his
brow again, and moaned out as Mason's hand slid inside his trousers. Oh,
fuck...

And then they were tumbling down onto the sand. Mason was yanking open
buttons on Ross's linen shirt, and Barkley was leaning in and stroking a
strong hand against the lad's neck, and under his shirt, feeling at the
firmness of his six-pack. Fuck, fuck. Ross was wasted and horny, and high
on the thought of how much this lad had been wanting him for so many
weeks. He took over the buttons and practically ripped open his shirt,
letting Mase paw up at his tight abs and up to his firm bullet
nipples. Ross reached down to tug at his chinos, pulling them over to
expose the white of his bulging briefs. He pressed down with his body,
pushing Mason into the sand. He could feel his own prick getting rock hard
down there, Mason's fingers finding and squeezing it through the
fabric. Ross felt dizzy but the desires were burning him up.

`I want you so bad,' Mason moaned. `I really need it, buddy, I really
do...'

`I'm not gay,' Ross grunted needlessly, `I just...'

`I don't care,' Mason told him quickly, `just give it to me, please...' The
youngster really grabbed at his hard-on through the briefs and reached
up. Ross felt his tender lips kiss his adam's apple and then along the side
of his neck, so gentle and teasing. He groaned and arched his back,
planting his hands into the slightly damp side on either side of the boy
beneath him...

And then, suddenly, voices, carrying on the still warm air. Ross jerked his
neck and looked up. Oh holy shit. Figures against the hazy dark, and a
flash of moving light, coming towards them – was that a torch? He pulled
himself up as quickly as he could, but he already knew it was too
late. Three figures coming their way, each of them with a light in their
hand. Ross was pissed and horny and out of control, but a dreadful thought
hit him through all that blur: here he was, stripping off with a boner in
his pants and a lad between his strong legs, in a country where people went
to prison for accidentally touching a guy's leg in a bar. Beneath him, he
heard Mason make a cry of dismay and reach desperately for the comfort of
his hands, wriggling upright against him in fear.

They'd been caught.


*TO BE CONTINUED...*