No one looked at him as he made his way through the lounge. Nor did anyone bother him as he strode through the main terminal, heading for his gate.
A part of him kept waiting for the shouted, “Hey, is it true you and Rhys McDowell just had a shower together?” Of course it never came. Why would it? No one but he and Rhys knew.
Curtis, however, was used to his damn near every action being scrutinized by the public. And here, in the UK, it was even worse. The Brits took great delight in rubbishing the Aussies in any way they could. The fact Curtis lead the Australian cricket team in the worst Ashes defeat the Brits had ever experienced only made him more of a target.
But not a damning word or innuendo was uttered as he crossed the terminal. By the time he boarded the plane again, the knot in his gut had begun to loosen.
He was good. It was all good. Nothing to stress or worry about.
“Welcome back, Mr. Clarkson.” The flight attendant smiled at him as he entered the first-class section. “Sorry for the inconvenience. Is there anything I can get you before we take off?”
He shook his head. “No, I’m—”
His gaze fell on Rhys, already settled in his seat, his damp hair a tousled mess, his focus fixed on the paperback in his hand, and every fibre in Curtis’s body reacted. Every molecule.
His stomach clenched. His heart quickened. His throat tightened. His balls throbbed. His goddamn cock stiffened.
Great. Just what he needed. To fall in lust with Rhys McDowell.
What the hell did he do now?
Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him. Don’t look at—
Ah shit, you moron, you looked at him.
Rhys watched Curtis lower himself into his seat on the other side of the plane.
Watched him settle into the spacious private suite. Waited for him to look over at him.
Curtis didn’t.
Rhys’s heart slammed faster in his throat.
He tried to drag his stare from the cricket player. He tried to return his attention back to the Joe Hill novel.
Instead, he ran his gaze over Curtis’s profile, cataloguing every seam at the edge of his eye, every bristle on the man’s jaw. He replayed in his mind the way those bristles felt against his lips, remembered the way those seams creased deeper when Curtis smiled.
Swiping at his mouth, Rhys shifted in his seat. Fuck this. He wanted the guy, big time. And Curtis had been more than receptive to his attention back in the shower.
He’d also been shocked when you buggered off. You saw the stunned confusion in his face as you left him. Make it up to him now. Let him know you want to—
Angel Waters lowered herself into her seat between them.
Rhys straightened, suddenly aware he’d been leaning in his seat towards Curtis.
Angel studied him, her drilling gaze sliding up to his damp hair and back down to his face. “Your hair is wet as well?”
Before he could stop himself, Rhys flicked a glance at Curtis.
“Oh this is so good,” Angel crowed on a murmur, smug delight in her voice. “I can’t wait for the Australian public’s response to this.”
Rhys jerked his stare back to Angel. “What this?”
Inching a little closer towards him, she curled her glossed-lips in a smirk. “Rhys and Curtis sitting in a tree,” she sing-songed on a husky whisper. “K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”
“Angel Waters sitting on a plane,” Rhys sang back, holding her gaze. “A consonant away from being sued again.”
Contempt flashed in Angel’s eyes. Her lips pursed. “I don’t like you, McDowell.”
Rhys pouted. “And here I was picking out curtain material.”
With a sniff, Angel turned her back to him. “Care to comment on the shower, Clarkson?”
Rhys stiffened. He snapped his focus to Curtis. Sucked in a breath as the man slowly swung his attention to Angel.
“It was long and hot and entirely satisfying.”
Rhys choked.
Angel gasped.
Curtis smiled, leaning towards the reporter as he did so. “And if you even think about writing anything about the damp state of my hair, the damp state of McDowell’s hair, or what I choose to do in private in my own time while waiting for a flight, you’ll discover just how many connections the ex-captain of the Australian cricket team has. How many friends in high places. And by friends, I mean every owner of every publication you’d try to flog your story to. And by connections I mean every politician and judge who’ll make your life miserable.” His smile stretched wider. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I see the Fasten Seatbelt sign has come on and I’m done speaking to you.”
Three things happened at once: Angel gasped again, Curtis settled back into his seat with a grin, and Rhys burst out laughing.
No, four things. If the way Rhys’s cock hardened almost straight away at Curtis’s exquisite dismissal could be counted.
Hardened and throbbed and thoroughly let his brain know just how much he liked the guy.
Liked? Huh. That’s an understatement.
Incapable of doing anything else but, he studied Curtis’s profile. Ached for the man to look at him.
And damn near whimpered with joy when Curtis did.
Their eyes met across the distance.
Rhys’s throat constricted. His pulse hammered.
There was a promise in Curtis’s gaze. A promise and a question.
One Rhys was more than eager to answer.
“Nothing will stop me reporting this.”
Angel’s murmured declaration—directed at Rhys—drew his attention away from Curtis. “Report what? Two Australian sporting heroes on the same flight? Wow, that’s…shocking. Scandalous, even.”
She narrowed her eyes. For the first time, it dawned on Rhys how much makeup and grooming went into her looking like the sexy vixen she so effectively conveyed. “You may as well hold up a sign saying I fucked Curtis Clarkson, McDowell. You’re damn near stripping him with your eyes now.”
Rhys grinned. “Jealous?”
Angel sneered, her glare venomous. Contemptuous. “As if.”
“Aw. And I thought I was the best sex of your life and you couldn’t be satisfied with any man other than me.” He raised an eyebrow. “That is what you told me after we did it, right? Or words to the affect? I’m sure I’ve still got the message you left on my voice mail.” He shifted in his seat, digging around in his hip pocket for his mobile phone. “Want me to see? Hope I don’t fuck up and accidently tweet the recording. I’m all thumbs when it comes to these new phones. Something my forty-two million Twitter followers find quite entertaining.”
Angel curled her lip at him, picked up her earbuds and shoved them in her ears.
Rhys chuckled. “No?”
She ignored him, stabbing at the screen of her iPad instead.
Once again, he flicked a look over to where Curtis sat.
Once again, his pulse turned to a swinging sledgehammer when their gazes connected. “You know she’s not letting this go, right?”
Curtis snorted. “I do. But she’s got nothing to report on. Whatever she thinks is going on is all in her head.”
The words, uttered on a casual chuckle, stung.
Rhys blinked, an icy finger sinking deep into his heart.
All in her head.
Was it all in his head as well? The sexual energy between him and Curtis?
His gut said no. His gut said there was something powerful going on here. But his head, his brain, knew Curtis was heterosexual. His brain—an organ Rhys didn’t normally listen to, admittedly—told him whatever happened in the shower was a one-off.
Rhys ground his teeth. His brain was stupid.
Shifting in his seat, Rhys frowned at the man on the other side of his plane.
From his seat, Curtis studied him back.
The sound of the flight attendant clearing her throat jerked Rhys’s stare away from him.
“I’m sorry, Mr. McDowell,” the woman said with an apologetic smile
, “but we’re about to take off. You’ll have to put your seatbelt on.”
By the time Rhys had done so, clipping the buckle together, Curtis was no longer looking at him. Was instead focused on his phone, tapping something out on the screen with his thumb.
Rhys swallowed.
Okay, so that was that then. Done.
Finished.
Sure.
Fine.
“Attention passengers,” a deep male voice sounded throughout the plane, “this is your captain, Rick Capshaw. Sorry about the earlier situation, but we’re now good to go. I’m going to do my best to get us to Australia ASAP but for now, I ask that you switch off all electronic devices, settle yourself in and get ready for takeoff.”
Fighting the urge to look over at Curtis again, Rhys reached for his phone, opened the settings and prepared to switch it to Flight Mode.
And let out a rather embarrassing, startled “fuck” when it chirped in his hand with an incoming message.
For some reason, I really want to have a shower right now. CC
Rhys stared at the screen. At the initials after the message.
CC.
Incapable of doing anything else but, he flicked Curtis a quick look.
The man wasn’t looking at him. But he was grinning. Even from the other side of the plane, Rhys could see the slight upturn of the corners of his mouth.
And at the sight, Rhys let out the whimper he’d been holding in since re-boarding the plane.
Holy fucking Christ, this was going to be an interesting trip.
Chapter Four
He didn’t sleep.
He didn’t watch the movies playing on his personal screen.
He could barely eat.
When the flight attendant came with his post-dinner wine, he took it with a distant “ta, love”, placed it on his table and continued to fight the urge to fidget in his seat.
He didn’t look at Rhys McDowell once. Not once. Not since sending the text message.
What he did do was keep a close eye on Angel Waters.
And now, finally, five hours and twenty-six minutes into the long flight back to Australia, the reporter was asleep.
He’d damn near cut the air with a relieved breath when she’d pulled a leopard-print sleeping mask from her carry-on.
Had come close to doing the same thing when she’d popped what looked like a sleeping pill a few minutes later.
When she’d reclined her seat all the way back, covering herself in the plush plane-supplied blanket and switching off her light, he’d forced himself to stare at his screen and the movie—Chris Huntley’s latest Dead Even film—playing on it.
Had forced himself to watch it until the end credits rolled.
It was fucking hard.
But not as hard as his dick. His dick had been in such a state for what felt like forever.
He needed to do something about it.
He needed to find some privacy and jerk the unexpected response to Rhys McDowell out of his system.
Now.
While the rest of first class, and especially Angel Waters, was asleep.
Movement from the corner of his eyes made him swing his stare from his screen and the list of names and jobs scrolling on it.
His heart quickened.
It seemed he wasn’t the only one awake after all.
The cause of his painful, inconvenient erection was heading for the toilet.
Curtis sat frozen, watching the soccer player move towards the lockable cubicle, the only place on a plane that afforded true privacy.
Privacy. The kind of privacy required to deal with a need that wouldn’t go away.
Are you serious?
Rhys stopped at the toilet door. Turned to look towards where Curtis sat, shrouded in shadows.
Curtis swallowed.
Without any visible indication of actually seeing him, Rhys turned back to the door, opened it and stepped into the cubicle.
Curtis watched the sudden muted light from within the small space vanish as Rhys closed the door.
His heart raced.
His gut knotted.
His throat thickened.
His cock throbbed.
Well? Are you going to—
He rose to his feet. Walked the dark distance to the toilet door.
He had to deal with this. Now.
Not a single passenger stirred in their private seats. No one looked at him.
Mouth dry, he turned his burning stare to the door.
And drew a slow, shaky breath at the sight of the green Vacant light above the opener.
He swallowed.
Drew another breath, and opened the door.
For a split second, the white light from inside blinded him, made him squint, and then his vision adjusted and he stared at the sight awaiting him.
Rhys stood just inside the door, watching him.
Operating on elemental need and rational acceptance, he reached into the cubicle, fisted his hand in the front of Rhys’s shirt and stepped forward.
He met him just inside the small space, capturing Rhys’s soft gasp of surprise with a crushing kiss.
Rhys didn’t resist. Nor did he surrender.
He buried his hand in the hair at Curtis’s nape and raided Curtis’s mouth with his tongue.
The possession—both dominating and hungry—sent liquid heat into Curtis’s already engorged dick. As did the determined way Rhys tried to pull him farther into the toilet cubicle.
With a raw groan, Curtis dragged his lips from Rhys’s mouth and released his shirt front.
“McDowell,” he began, his voice little more than a ragged breath. “I…”
Jesus, his head was spinning. He swallowed. “We can’t…”
Rhys’s nostrils flared. “Sure we can.”
The words stroked against Curtis’s resolve. Flayed at his rationality.
Shaking his head, he pressed his hand to the edge of the door and leaned closer—slightly—to the man inside the small space. “We can’t. For a variety of reasons.”
“And they are?” Rhys whispered back.
Curtis flicked his gaze around the cubicle. “We can’t both fit in there at once.”
Rhys chuckled. “Spoilsport.”
Curtis lowered his gaze. In his chest, his throat, his heart turned into a sledgehammer again. He wasn’t prepared for this, for the insane intensity of his desire for the man. It was too powerful. Too…scary. “And I’m not gay.”
The silence that greeted his murmured declaration was absolute. Suffocating.
Lifting his stare to Rhys again, he let out a wobbly breath. “I’m not denying there’s a…thing…between us, but I’m not—”
Rhys’s jaw bunched. “I gotta take a leak. If you’ll excuse me.”
Before Curtis could respond, Rhys closed the door.
The green Vacant light flicked to red.
Curtis studied it for a heartbeat, his chest tight. He balled his fist, the red light filling his vision in a blur.
“Mr. Clarkson?”
He damn near let out a shout at the soft whisper behind him.
Spinning around, he fixed his stare on the flight attendant now standing directly in front of him.
She smiled, the action not quite erasing the concern in her eyes. “Is everything okay?”
Curtis nodded. “Yeah. McDowell just beat me to it. Bloody soccer players and their perfect timing, eh?”
The flight attendant giggled; a soft hiccup of laughter he recognised as flirting. “I don’t think Mr. McDowell is the only one with perfect timing. Besides, I’ve seen you play. You know exactly what to do and when.”
He forced out a chuckle, the compliment—and its innuendo—like sandpaper against his raw nerves.
Jesus, could he have been any more blunt with Rhys?
Could he have sent any more mixed signals?
Could he have fucked that up any more than he just did?
No.
“Can I get you something?”
He blinked at the flight attendant’s question. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “It can wait.”
Her lips curled in a playful smile. “Not for too long, I hope. Not good to do that to one’s body.”
Curtis frowned, his heart thumping, and then let out a low laugh when he realized she meant relieving his bladder.
Perhaps she did mean you and Rhys bonking like rabbits? After all, Angel Waters picked up on it straight away; that charged sexual urgency between you both. Maybe it’s as clear as bloody day how much you want to surrender to the hungry way Rhys makes you—
A roaring buzz of tumultuous confusion filled his head. He wasn’t gay. He wasn’t. And he was going to prove it to himself now.
Chest tight, heart wild, he lowered his head closer to the attendant. “When it comes to my body,” he murmured, holding her gaze with his, even as he fought the urge to turn back to the closed toilet door, “I am a master. I know how to use it…and how to make the most of delayed gratification.”
The attendant’s lips parted, her breath a hitching intake. She swayed towards him, fluttering her fingertips over the neckline of his shirt.
And then jerked backward as the door swung open.
Light spilled from within the confined space, illuminating not just the attendant’s dismay at the interruption but the tormented expression on Rhys’s face.
Curtis couldn’t stop himself meeting the man’s haunted stare.
Nor could he find a word to say as the soccer player slid a look at the breathless attendant.
“Fancy hooking up for a drink when we touch down?” Rhys asked to her, his lips curling into that mischievous, wanna-have-sex-with-me grin Curtis knew was famous the world over.
The attendant flicked Curtis a glance. Licked her lips.
And then turned back to Rhys, stepping aside for him as he exited the toilet space.
“Absolutely,” she answered on a husky whisper, just as Rhys closed the door behind him, plunging the immediate area back into muted darkness again.
Curtis didn’t need to see Rhys’s face to know the man was staring hard at him. He could feel it, like a physical caress, hot and weighted. And angry.
“Excellent,” Rhys responded on a low chuckle. “I can’t wait. In fact…” He stepped closer to the attendant, the dark melding their two forms into one before Curtis’s very eyes. “If there’s somewhere we can go that’s private, I’ll show you how much.”
Balls Up Page 4
