Balls Up

by Lexxie Couper

  When Curtis had hurried from the plane—

  Hurried? Huh, don’t you mean fled?

  —Rhys’s first instincts were to follow. To chase him down, corner him somewhere away from the public eye, and demand to kiss him. Demand Curtis unzip Rhys’s fly and squeeze his cock until he came.

  For five heartbeats, he’d denied those instincts.

  Five pounding, punishing, brutal heartbeats.

  On the sixth heartbeat, he’d succumbed to them.

  And now here he was, standing in a first-class lounge shower cubicle with a man most of Australia hoped one day would run for prime minister, or president, or governor general or…or…fuck, some other exalted, illustrious position, and Rhys’s current instinct told him he wasn’t going to survive.

  Not unscathed.

  A heavy spasm claimed his cock at the thought. A hungry ache gnawed at his soul.

  I want you naked. Now.

  The words caressed him, coarse and seductive at once.

  Curtis watched him, Adam’s apple jerking up and down his throat. A throat, Rhys couldn’t help but notice, strong and muscular and tanned.

  Take him. Own him.

  Rhys moved.

  He destroyed the small distance between them, grabbed the front of Curtis’s shirt and ripped it open.

  Buttons bounced off the tiled walls. Curtis gasped, staggering backward.

  “Fuck,” he yelped, a second before Rhys balled his hand in the hair at the back of Curtis’s head and captured his lips.

  Rhys didn’t hold back. Didn’t check his lust. With an animalistic growl, he captured Curtis’s tongue with his own. Took possession of it.

  Curtis groaned into his mouth, grabbed at his hair and ground his erection to Rhys’s. Painful pleasure sheared through Rhys, a hot rush of desire following immediately in its wake.

  That. He needed more of that.

  Tearing his mouth from Curtis’s, he yanked the taller man’s head backward and laved the bristled column of his throat with his tongue, tormenting Curtis’s Adam’s apple as he did so.

  Curtis groaned again, the sound hungry. And submissive.

  Rhys shuddered at the realization. Fresh lust flooded his groin.

  Curtis Clarkson, a man feared on the cricket pitch, a man revered in the business world, a man idolized by millions of fans the world over, was submitting to him.

  Another shudder claimed Rhys. His heart smashed faster in his chest. His breath grew shallow.

  Fuck yeah.

  Fisting Curtis’s hair tighter, he reached for the man’s belt buckle with his other hand.

  Yanked at it.

  Unthreaded it.

  “Oh fuck…” Curtis ground out, hips bucking.

  Rhys bit at the base of Curtis’s throat, strengthening his grip in his hair.

  “Fuck yeah,” Curtis panted, driving his cock—a rigid pole straining against the fly of his jeans—forward.

  Without removing his mouth from Curtis’s throat, Rhys popped the button of his fly and then lowered its zipper.

  Before he finished, Curtis’s cock sprang free, jutting up from the parted denim, thick and venous and engorged.

  A hot thrill shot through Rhys, a delicious delight at the man’s arousal. And then, without warning, he released Curtis’s hair and shoved him backward.

  Hard.

  Curtis staggered, his stare fixed on Rhys, his chest heaving.

  Rhys drew a steadying breath. He hadn’t expected to be this…this…overcome with primitive, carnal lust.

  You hadn’t expected Curtis to be submissive.

  “Do you have lube?”

  At his hoarse question, Curtis shook his head. “I wasn’t planning on getting laid this trip.”

  “Then I guess I’m just going to have to fuck you with my mouth for now.”

  A low moan tore from Curtis’s throat. His eyelids fluttered closed. His jaw bunched. His stomach—the most incredible six-pack Rhys had ever seen—hitched. “For now?”

  Rhys chuckled. The sight of Curtis so shaken by pleasure filled him with a craving he couldn’t fathom. “Trust me, with the way I’m going to pound your arse later, we’re going to need lube. A lot of lube.”

  Curtis opened his eyes, regarding Rhys with dilated pupils. “Who says there’s going to be a later?”

  For an answer, Rhys hooked his fingers into the back of his T-shirt between his shoulders and pulled the item of clothing over his head.

  Curtis groaned, his stomach hitching again as Rhys dropped his shirt onto the tiled floor.

  “I do,” Rhys answered, closing the small distance between them to grab at the waistband of Curtis’s jeans. “There are going to be quite a few laters, in fact.”

  He hauled him close and captured his lips once more.

  Plundered his mouth with brutal greed.

  The feel of Curtis’s chest hair—course and silken at the same time—rubbing against his own smooth chest sent ribbons of impatient need unfurling through him.

  He moaned, sliding his body against Curtis’s as he deepened their kiss. At the feel of the other man’s nipples—as hard as his cock—rubbing over his own, his knees trembled.

  Fuck, he hadn’t been prepared for such sensory overload.

  Already addicted to the sensation, he dragged his chest back in the other direction, whimpering as Curtis’s nipples slid over his again.

  Oh yeah. Oh yeah…

  Strong fingers dug into his hips a second before Curtis tore his mouth away. “Pl-please, Rhys…” Curtis groaned, staring into his eyes even as he reached for Rhys’s still-contained cock. “I don’t…I don’t think I can take any more without—”

  “Strip.”

  Rhys saw Curtis’s Adam’s apple jerk up and down his throat.

  He chuckled. “You want to walk out of here in wet clothes?”

  Curtis frowned. “Wet clothes?”

  With another chuckle, Rhys popped the button of his jeans. “What? You think I’m going to pass up the opportunity of blowing you in a shower without turning on the water?”

  Curtis’s lips twitched. “I guess not.”

  Rhys grinned. “Now fucking strip, Clarkson. Before I teach you not to make me wait and hit the water any—”

  Curtis toed off his boots and shoved his jeans down his hips.

  Rhys laughed. “That’s my perfect little cricket player.”

  Curtis cocked an eyebrow, holding his arms out to his sides. “Little?”

  Rhys dropped his gaze to Curtis’s now completely revealed erection, his mouth filling with saliva and his gut knotting at the sight.

  Fuck. The guy was hung.

  And built. Jesus.

  Licking at his lips Rhys lifted his stare back up to Curtis’s face. “Not bad for an old dude.”

  Curtis snorted. Rhys couldn’t miss the way his sublime pecs moved with the sound. “I’m not that fucking old.”

  “You’re eight years older than me.”

  “Oh, well, in that case I better get a walking frame before we do—”

  Curtis’s smirking retort died on his lips as Rhys lowered his owns zipper.

  “Fuck me,” Curtis whispered, his stare fixed on Rhys’s cock as it sprang free.

  “I told you.” Rhys kicked off his boots. “Later.”

  Before Curtis could say another word, he stripped the rest of his clothes from his body.

  “Now,” he said, stepping into the shower to reach for the tap at Curtis’s hip, “you have until I count to four to get the rest of your gear off. One.”

  Curtis stripped his shirt from his body and threw it past Rhys’s head.

  Rhys grinned. “Two.”

  Curtis’s socks and jeans followed.

  “Three.”

  With a smile, Rhys pressed his naked body against Curtis’s, his head swimming as their rigid dicks collided, and flipped on the shower. “Four.”

  The second the warm stream of water flowed over them both, Rhys dropped to his knees and took Curtis’s cock i
n his mouth.

  Sucked the entire engorged length past his lips.

  Devoured it until its crown pressed at the back of his throat.

  “Fuck,” Curtis groaned above him, tangling a hand in Rhys’s wet hair. “Fuck, that’s good.”

  Sucking harder on Curtis’s flesh, Rhys slowly moved his head upward.

  A ragged laugh fell from Curtis, part dismay, part pleasure.

  Rhys plunged back down again, taking Curtis even deeper into his mouth, his throat. Cupping Curtis’s sac with a firm grip as he did so. Giving the swollen globes a gentle tug.

  “Fuck!” Curtis burst out, slamming his hips forward. His cock drove hard into Rhys’s mouth, a gagging penetration Rhys reveled in.

  With increasing suction, he dragged his lips up the man’s length again. Flicked his tongue over the tiny slit at the tip of his cock, and then sank down to his balls once more.

  Curtis bucked.

  Water streamed over Rhys’s head, flowed down his back. Between the crack of his arse. It was a wicked caress; one he imagined to be Curtis’s tongue.

  Giving the man a look, he hummed around his length as he once again withdrew up to the distended rim of his cock head.

  The guy was a fucking sexy god. Water dripped from his nose, his chin. Ran down his chest, his abs. His wet hair clung to his forehead, his temples.

  Closing his eyes on the sensual vision, Rhys teased the tip of Curtis’s cock with his tongue again.

  Salty muskiness greeted his taste buds. Curtis’s pre-come.

  Rhys’s head spun again.

  His balls throbbed. His heart raced.

  He plunged down Curtis’s shaft. Up. Down.

  With every punishing suck, he kneaded Curtis’s balls. With every kneading caress, he moved his index finger closer to Curtis anus.

  Closer and closer, until the tip of his finger found that amazing puckered ring of muscle, now wet with water from the shower.

  Wet and exposed to his touch.

  He pressed on the entry once. A wordless question asked while his mouth was full of Curtis’s hard flesh.

  The hand in his hair balled tighter. The cock filling his mouth, pressed to his tongue, twitched.

  Above him, Curtis let out a shaky moan. “I’ll blow in your mouth if you do that a—”

  He pressed on Curtis’s anus again, with more pressure this time. As he took his own dick in his free hand and pumped.

  Pushed at Curtis’s hole. Penetrated it.

  Sucked harder on his cock.

  With a strangled roar and a violent bucking of hips, Curtis came.

  Flooding Rhys’s mouth with his thick release.

  And it wasn’t until Rhys swallowed the last drop—his hand roaming Curtis’s hips, thighs and arse, his stare locked on Curtis’s pleasure-contorted face, his own release pumping from him in white, ropey wads—that he realized he hadn’t once imagined it was Josh Blackthorne’s cock he was sucking.

  Something he’d done every time he’d given another man head since he could remember.

  Fuck.

  Chapter Three

  “Dreadlock Holiday” began playing from the shower’s tiled floor.

  Curtis flinched, the sudden burst of 10cc’s classic reggae hit shattering both the silence filling the cubicle and his pleasure-fogged stupor.

  At his feet, Rhys chuckled. “That’s your ringtone?”

  “I don’t like cricket” reverberated around the small space, lyrics that normally made Curtis smile no matter where he was or what situation he was in.

  Of course, he’d never been in this kind of situation—getting head from a world-famous soccer player in the Heathrow Qantas first-class lounge amenities.

  And those are the reasons for your current state? The fame of the man blowing you and the location of the deed? Yeah. Sure. Don’t you think it has more to do with just how fucking right the whole thing feels? How intense? How perfect?

  Shutting down the ambiguous mental rebuke without pondering its question, he stepped backward, killing the shower stream as his spent cock slipped from Rhys’s loose grip.

  From the floor, 10cc continued to sing about a holiday in Jamaica and their opinion on cricket.

  Lips twitching, eyes dancing with an emotion Curtis couldn’t quite pinpoint, Rhys grinned. “You wanna get that? Or shall I?”

  Curtis shot him a scowl.

  Rhys shrugged. “What? I’m already down here.”

  With a chuckle, Curtis shook the excess water from his hands and then moved past Rhys and snatched his discarded jeans from the floor.

  Of course, Rhys took that opportunity to slide his palm up the inside of Curtis’s thigh and cup his balls, giving them a gentle knead that made Curtis’s head spin and his groin tighten.

  Damn it, how could he be hot to trot already after the orgasm he’d just had?

  By the time Curtis retrieved his mobile phone from his hip pocket, the thing had fallen silent.

  Looking at the Missed Call number, he frowned. He didn’t recognise it.

  A few seconds later, the shower cubicle filled with the sounds of the rock band Synergy’s chart topper “Chase Me Down”.

  The hand on Curtis’s thigh stilled. “Fuck.”

  Curtis didn’t miss the haunted torment in Rhys’s voice. Nor the way the soccer player’s body tensed as he swung an unreadable gaze towards his crumpled jeans on the floor near the cubicle door.

  “I really need to change that ringtone,” Rhys muttered as he crawled to the pile of denim that was his jeans and dug out his phone.

  A hot lump formed in Curtis’s throat. Something about Rhys’s response to the ringtone unsettled him.

  Why?

  Knowing he should turn his back on the man as he took the call, he started to do so. And stopped when Rhys wrapped his ankle in a loose grip.

  Curtis looked down at him. Watched as Rhys connected the call with a swipe of his thumb and raised it to his ear, all without lifting his gaze to Curtis. “Shoot.”

  Curtis didn’t move. Something deep inside him submitted to Rhys’s desire for him to stay where he was.

  It both unnerved him…and turned the blood in his groin hot.

  Fuck. He needed to get the situation back under control. He’d never considered himself gay, but the way every fibre in his body responded to Rhys…the way he felt so attuned to the guy already—

  “In twenty minutes? Awesome. No. It’s no problem. I’ll let Curtis Clarkson know as well. I’m with him now.”

  Curtis stiffened.

  “Thanks,” Rhys continued into the phone, still without looking up at him. “Yeah. Understand. No worries, it happens to the best of us.”

  With a chuckle, he ended the call.

  For a moment—little more than a split second—his grip on Curtis’s ankle grew tighter, and then, with a ragged breath, he removed his hand.

  Before Curtis could ask what was going on, he bounced to his feet. If Curtis hadn’t been so confused by the situation, he would have been impressed with his agility.

  Instead, he frowned, the sudden wired energy radiating off Rhys disarming.

  “We gotta go,” Rhys declared, flinging his gaze around the floor of the shower cubicle. “Our flight is back on track for takeoff. We’ve got fifteen minutes to get back onboard.”

  Without making eye contact with Curtis, he snatched up his clothes and started yanking them on his still-damp body.

  “Was that the airline?”

  Rhys nodded, his focus fixed on his fly. “Yep. Apparently our original pilot got slammed with a migraine. A big one. But they’ve got a new one now, so we’re good to go.”

  Before he could stop himself, Curtis reached out for Rhys’s arm. “What’s going on?”

  The soccer player jerked his head up, locking his stare on Curtis’s. His gut twisted at the torment in Rhys’s eyes. “Are you…”

  With a short, sharp shake of his head, Rhys grinned. “Okay? Yeah, I’m good. Just bummed we didn’t get to spend more time in h
ere. There were things I wanted to do to you…” He trailed off with a very sardonic shrug. “Ah well. Another time, perhaps.”

  He scooped up his shoes and satchel and dropped Curtis a wink. “See you on the plane, Clarkson.”

  And with those parting words, he exited the cubicle, leaving Curtis standing naked and wet and alone.

  And confused.

  Bloody confused.

  “What the hell?” he muttered, watching the frosted glass door slowly close.

  His phone beeped in his hand, a high-pitched tone that made him flinched.

  Scowling, he turned his attention to the screen and read the message on it, telling him he had one new voice mail.

  It would be Qantas, no doubt telling him about the new flight-departure time.

  Nothing else.

  So why the hell was he so jumpy?

  Because you just experienced the best blowjob of your life, and the man responsible for it didn’t just blindside you with his attention, he also blindsided you with his rapid disappearance.

  “Fuck.”

  His grumbled curse sounded like a shout in the silent cubicle. Or maybe that was his frazzled state of mind playing tricks with him.

  Whatever it was, he couldn’t stand around dripping wet.

  He had a plane to catch.

  And a man to see again?

  Drying his wet body with brutal haste, he refused to let himself think of Rhys. They’d done what needed to be done. They’d both acknowledged the combustible sexual tension between them; they’d acted on it. Now it was time to move on. Get on with it.

  It took him exactly seventy-five seconds to get dressed. He knew that for a fact, given he counted off the seconds as a way to keep his mind from turning back to the soccer player.

  On the seventy-sixth second, he hoisted his bag up onto his shoulder and opened the door.

  He’d just crossed the threshold when he remembered he hadn’t left a tip.

  Shoving his hand in his pocket for whatever coins were in there, he turned back to the now-closed door.

  “It’s okay, mister,” a female voice came from his left. “No tip required. The other gentleman fixed it up.”

  Heat prickled its way up the back of his head and over Curtis scalp. He gave the woman, dressed in the uniform of a shower attendant, a smile. Inside, he was a churned-up ball of nerves. “Thanks,” he said with a nod.