Even in the loose jeans and T-shirt, Rhys looked fit. Built.
Ripped.
A typical soccer player’s body: lean, sinewy and agile.
He shifted on his seat, the heavy pressure in his balls and cock once again making it tricky to be comfortable. Maybe he should change into a pair of tracksuit pants? Better for the long flight ahead.
When did he cut his hair?
The disconnected question whispered through Curtis’s mind as he watched Rhys open the toilet door and disappear into the cubicle.
The last time he’d seen the man, Rhys’s hair had reached the middle of his back, rather than the shaggy tumble of shoulder-length waves he sported now. Curtis had secretly wondered what the silken, dark strands would feel like flowing through his fingers, a similar heavy pressure to the one he was currently experiencing taking up residence in his groin.
Of course, he’d been half inebriated at the time, and shocked beyond hell by the unexpected thought and his body’s reaction to it. Somehow, a mere couple of hours later, he and Rhys had found themselves dropping their tux pants in the middle of the Sydney Opera House’s main ballroom.
They’d been stopped. Everyone had laughed.
Angel Waters had written an article titled Balls Up about the moment, declaring it the perfect example of the decline of the Australian sports role model. The piece had been slammed by the rest of the media as nothing more than a hack-job by a spurned woman (who knew Rhys had been brave enough—or foolish enough—to sleep with the journo?).
Still, Curtis had been more circumspect when it came to alcohol consumption during public outings since then, especially public outings where Angel Waters was present.
A prickling sensation on the side of his face drew his attention away from the locked toilet door.
Heart thumping a little faster than it should, he turned and looked out his window, glad for the fact he was still wearing his sunglasses.
Damn it, she’d caught him looking.
At what?
At Rhys. And knowing Angel’s style of journalistic integrity, she’d read something into it.
He studied the runway beyond his window, noting with detached disinterest a gathering of airport employees seemingly arguing with each other near the luggage conveyor.
Before he could stop himself, he flicked a glance at the toilet door.
Nope. Still closed.
His gut did a weird little clenching thing. Since when had he been so preoccupied with Rhys McDowell? Or any man, for that matter?
It wasn’t as though Curtis hadn’t fooled around with other guys before; some of the things his old team got up to while on tour would have shocked the country’s population. But those moments Curtis always put down to the craziness that came with international matches and days and nights spent confined to hotel rooms with free access to the minibar.
Sure, he’d found those…incidents highly pleasurable. In fact, some of the best orgasms of his life had come from them but if asked about his sexual orientation, heterosexual would be his answer.
Hell, he’d participated in a threesome only a few months ago with his best friend and not once had he contemplated touching Logan. He sure as hell hadn’t got turned on at the sight of him.
So what gives with the hard-on making itself known in your duds now, Clarkson?
The sound of the toilet door opening swung his attention back to the front of the first-class section.
Rhys stepped out into the aisle, his gaze—no longer hidden by sunglasses—connecting with Curtis’s across the seats.
A frisson of charged heat sank deep into Curtis’s groin. An equally intense spasm claimed his cock.
He held Rhys’s stare. Swallowed. Shifted on his seat.
Until, a mere heartbeat later, Rhys turned and made his way back to his seat. But not before Curtis saw his lips twitch in a smile and his head incline in an almost imperceptible nod.
Okay. So it seems it’s not just me. Fuck, eh?
Curtis let out a low, ragged chuckle and adjusted his rather engorged cock in his jeans.
“That was interesting.”
At Angel’s loaded observation, Curtis gave her a puzzled frown. “What was?”
The journalist studied him, her scrutiny silent and thorough, before she pivoted on her seat to direct her attention at Rhys. “You’re bi, aren’t you, McDowell?”
Jesus.
Rhys burst out laughing, an enigmatic light dancing in his eyes. “I’m tri, Angel. Tri.”
That strange sensation stirred in Curtis’s gut again. He frowned.
“Tri?” Angel leaned towards Rhys, looking for all the world like a hawk about to swoop.
Rhys mirrored her position, drawing his head closer to hers over the space of the aisle. “I’ll try anything once. I slept with you, didn’t I?”
Curtis snorted.
Angel sniffed, straightening in her seat to drape one leg over the other with dramatic contempt. “Don’t quit your soccer career, McDowell. You’d starve as a comedian.”
Before Rhys could respond—and by the way his lips were twitching, Curtis suspected the comeback was going to be incendiary—a smiling flight attendant stepped into the space between them.
“I’m sorry,” she said, directing her smile at Curtis as well. “The captain just wanted to let you know there’s a slight delay in taking off. It shouldn’t be that long. Is there anything I can get you while you’re waiting? Something to drink?”
Angel rolled her eyes and let out a scathing tsk, reaching for her iPad where it sat on her private side table. “I knew I should have flown with British Airlines.”
“I’ll have a mineral water,” Rhys answered, giving the attendant a grin. “And a wedge of lime. And I’m bloody well hanging for some Vegemite. Haven’t had any since I left Oz last year.”
Angel sniffed again, shaking her head as she plucked her earbuds from the table and plugged them into her ears.
Curtis watched her tune out the attendant before returning his attention to Rhys. For whatever reason, he too was suddenly craving Vegemite.
“Make that a double,” he said to the attendant.
She slid her frown back and forth between Curtis and Rhys. “Two mineral waters with lime and Vegemite? On what?”
Rhys shot Curtis a grin before offering the attendant a playful shrug. “Do you have those little catering thingies? Those little rectangley thingies that hotels and hospitals give you when you want Vegemite with your toast?”
Curtis chuckled. He knew exactly what Rhys was talking about. Any Aussie who’d spent any amount of time in a cheap hotel or public hospital would.
The attendant’s frown deepened. “We do. But we can’t make you toast, Mr. McDowell.”
Rhys waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Who needs toast? Can I have a couple of those please?” He grinned at Curtis around Angel—now ignoring them all in favour of her iPad. “Couple for you too, Clarkson?”
Curtis laughed. “Hell yeah.”
The attendant regarded them both, clearly uncertain if they were serious or joking.
Curtis offered her a smile. “C’mon, you’ve never licked Vegemite straight from the knife? It’s like that only less…couth.”
She giggled, the uncertainty in her face replaced by something else Curtis was far more familiar with—flirtatious invitation. “I’ve licked a lot of things before,” she said, her voice lowering to a husky murmur, her gaze holding Curtis’s. “Perhaps I need to be more adventurous, yes?”
On the other side of Angel, Rhys chuckled. “There’s nothing better than being adventurous, love. It makes your heart race, your blood flow and, whoa, can it make for some interesting…experiences.”
Curtis flicked him a glance.
Rhys was looking at him.
Interesting experiences, indeed…
“Let me see what I can do for you.” The suggestive declaration jerked Curtis’s focus back to the flight attendant, sliding her gaze back and forth between him
and Rhys.
Curtis had been with enough cricket groupies to know exactly what she was pondering. What were the odds of a threesome with two sports stars?
He swallowed. For some reason he couldn’t comprehend, the thought of including her in his next sexual…experience didn’t push any buttons at all.
Fuck, eh?
Chapter Two
Fifteen minutes later, Curtis accepted the fact he’d never be able to eat Vegemite again. Not without getting a hard-on. In fact, he’d never be able to look at Vegemite again without getting a boner.
The attendant had, indeed, delivered on Rhys’s request, returning to their seats with two iced mineral waters, four wedges of lime and six servings of portion-controlled, wrapped Vegemite. Curtis hadn’t missed the invitation in her eyes as she told him to “call her if he wanted anything else at all”, an invitation she also extended to Rhys as she handed him his drink.
Throughout the entire delivery, Rhys had flirted with her outrageously. And yet his eyes kept flicking to Curtis.
When the attendant left them, moving to serve the other three passengers in first class—one of them, Curtis noticed, the British wildlife cinematographer, Sir Addison Lancaster—Rhys had opened one of his Vegemites and raised the small container to his lips. “Bottoms up,” he said, his gaze holding Curtis’s, a second before he extended his tongue and licked a slow path over the surface of the salty spread.
There and then, Curtis knew his favourite breakfast—Vegemite on toast—was ruined for him.
Suppressing a groan, he grinned at the soccer player, opened his own Vegemite and ran the tip of his tongue across it.
For a frozen moment, Rhys stared at Curtis’s mouth, nostrils flaring. And then he grinned back at Curtis. “Race you,” he challenged, before slicking his tongue over his Vegemite once again.
Their thoroughly childish race was destroyed by a rather disgusted snort. “Are you serious?”
Curtis’s heart slammed into his throat. God, what had he been thinking? Here he was doing some kind of weird flirting shit more appropriate in a junior-high playground, and he’d completely forgotten who was sitting between them.
He jerked his focus to Angel, who was moving her stare between them both as if she were watching a tennis match. A tennis match, if her expression was anything to go on, that completely delighted her with its unexpectedness.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Dropping his Vegemite, he reached for his glass of mineral water. “Put your earbuds back in, Angel,” he muttered, turning to face the front of the plane.
“Oh there’s not a hope in hell, Clarkson.” She chortled, a wholly unsettling sound full of debauched pleasure. “Not when this is happ—”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Clarkson, Ms. Waters, Mr. McDowell.” The flight attendant stepped into the aisle, an apologetic frown pulling at her eyebrows as she looked at all three of them. “But the captain regrets to inform you the flight has been delayed considerably. He’s arranged for you all to return to the Qantas lounge until a new departure time can be ascertained, but unfortunately, it may not be until—”
“Why the hell,” Angel snarled, snatching up her iPad, earbuds and handbag, “did I not fly British Airlines?”
She snapped to her feet, glared at the flight attendant, and then turned her attention to Curtis. A calculated gleam shone in her eyes, turning her already hard stare sharp. “Expect a phone call from me, Mr. Clarkson. There’s so much more I want to know.”
Curtis drew in a breath.
She turned to Rhys. “And you as well, McDowell.”
Rhys smirked, lounging back in his seat as he licked at his Vegemite. “I’ve got an official response for you already, if you—”
With a sniff, she spun on her heel and strode down the aisle, vacating the first-class section.
“Why do I feel like there’s some history going on here?” The frowning attendant studied the billowing curtain left in Angel’s wake.
Rhys laughed. “If by ‘history’ you mean the scariest, most soul-scarring, psychologically traumatizing sex of my life, then yes, there’s history.”
Before Curtis could stop himself, an image of Rhys naked and sweaty and bound to a bed flashed through his head.
His body responded in kind.
Hot blood rushed to his cock—somewhat but not entirely deflated since its earlier hard-on—pumping it into a stiffened state once more.
Fuck. What the hell was going on? The intensity of his body’s reaction to McDowell was scaring the shit out of him. He had to get—
He jolted to his feet, grabbed his satchel and gave the attendant a short nod. “Thanks for the information.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. Nor did he allow himself to feel guilty for the confused surprise on her face at his abrupt dismissal. And he especially didn’t permit himself to look at Rhys.
Instead, he hurried from the first-class section, barely registering the captain’s presence at the front exit door, let along the man’s enthusiastic, “You’re the best captain Australia’s had since Bradman, Mr. Clarkson.”
What the hell was wrong with him?
Another image of Rhys McDowell bound naked and sweaty to a bed filled his head, but this Rhys wasn’t alone. This time, Curtis was with him, kneeling between Rhys’s spread legs, his tongue slowly tracing a line up Rhys’s erect—
Curtis’s feet tangled beneath him.
“Fuck,” he muttered, catching himself before he could go arse-over-tit.
This was ridiculous. He needed to get his act together.
A shower. A cold one. That’s what you need. Now.
Hitching his satchel higher up his shoulder, he all but ran through the gangway. His footfalls sounded like thunder in the narrow stretch. His heart seemed to thump in his throat with equal volume.
He didn’t slow his pace or acknowledge any recognition as he moved through the terminal in the direction of the Qantas first-class lounge. Keeping his head down, he weaved through the crowd, doing his best to kill the thought of going down on Rhys McDowell. His best, however, was woefully unsuccessful.
By the time he arrived at the lounge—striding through the entry with barely a nod at the receptionist—his stupid bloody brain had moved beyond going down on Rhys and was presenting him with vivid, wholly arousing images of Rhys bent over the edge of the bed as he, Curtis, slammed into his tight arse over and over and over again.
Shower. He needed a shower.
If for no other reason than to wank the unexpected lust for the man out of his thoroughly erect dick.
Awesome. Jerking off in an airline lounge shower cubicle? Classy.
Screw classy.
Screw Rhys.
Stopping at the amenities desk, he fixed the attendant in a stare. “Is there a shower free?”
The man flinched at his abrupt question, frowned at him with curious recognition, and then lowered his attention to the desk. “Shower number 4 is free, Mr. Clarkson. Clean towels and toiletries have just been placed in there.”
With a grunt, Curtis nodded at the attendant. “Thanks.”
“You’re—”
Turning on his heel, Curtis headed for the entry to the shower section. Behind him, the attendant said something, most likely “welcome”, but Curtis couldn’t be sure, nor was he going to turn around.
A thick finger of guilt sank into his gut. He wasn’t normally this rude.
You’re also not normally trying to outrun a hard-on.
An image of Rhys writhing in pleasure, eyes closed, mouth open, flashed through his head, causing the hard-on he was trying to outrun to throb with eager interest.
Hell, he really needed to regain control of his body and his mind.
With another grunt, Curtis shoved open the door to shower cubicle number 4, stepped into the small area and then turned to lock the door behind him.
Just as a long-fingered hand pressed flat to the brushed-steel surface, halting its movement.
/> Curtis’s throat constricted. His balls rose up. His gut knotted. He stared at the man on the other side of the cubicle’s threshold. “McDowell.”
There was no question in his voice. Just a raw acceptance. An equally raw want.
Rhys met his stare. His jaw bunched and, without uttering a word, he stepped into the cubicle and closed the door behind him.
Curtis stepped back, seared by the close proximity. In his jeans, his cock throbbed. Grew stiffer. Harder.
“McDowell…” he said again, although this time it was more a groan of submission.
“I tried not to follow you.” Rhys’s voice was husky. For the first time, Curtis noticed a slight British tinge in his Australian accent. How many years had the soccer player been living in the UK now?
Who the fuck cares, Clarkson? He’s standing in a shower cubicle with you and you’re thinking about his accent?
“I tried to outrun you,” Curtis responded, his voice barely a whisper.
Rhys’s nostrils flared. Tormented desire burned in his eyes. “You want me to go?”
Curtis shook his head. “No. I want you naked. Now.”
Rhys had dedicated his life to acting solely and completely on first instincts.
Most of those instincts had been firmly planted in experiencing pleasure and fun. Rhys was renowned for never taking anything seriously, not even his soccer. That he was such a talented player—one who commanded millions a year—only made Rhys a bigger threat on the field. His most common first instinct—to act on anything that felt right—meant he was an unpredictable striker. And a highly entertaining one to watch.
Acting on first instincts ruled his approach to life.
Except when it came to Josh Blackthorne. With Josh, Rhys knew—even when he was only fifteen and desperately in love with his best friend—his instinct to grab the guy and kiss him senseless would have ended with a broken nose and a broken friendship.
But up until boarding the plane bound for Sydney, Josh had been the exception to the rule.
And then Rhys had been hit by a sexual desire for Curtis Clarkson more powerful than any he’d ever experienced before. Had fought against it on the plane. Had argued with himself against it in the plane’s loo. Had questioned his sanity even as he craved to feel the ex-cricket captain’s lips move against his own.
Balls Up Page 2
