The Hot Toddy

by George, G. R. ; George, Renee;

  Curtis shot the waiting attendants standing at the entry to the gangway a quick look over his shoulder. “Mine too.”

  He turned back to Rhys, and for a split second they both seemed frozen. Staring at each other.

  Shaking himself, feeling more flustered than he had in a long time, Rhys let out a laugh. “See you in there then.”

  Before Curtis could reply, Rhys damn near sprinted for the gangway.

  He was completely settled in his window suite, paperback on his lap, doing his absolute best to absorb the luxury of first class, when movement from the corner of his eye told him the passenger assigned to Seat 4F had arrived.

  “Why, if it isn’t Man U’s party boy.”

  A husky feminine whisper scraped at his unsettled nerves. He snapped his stare to the woman buckling into her seat, his heart thumping faster.

  Angel Waters, tabloid reporter for one of Australia’s most notorious newspapers, smirked back at him, leaning towards him in such a way he couldn’t help but notice the rather exquisite perfection of her cleavage peeking out at him from the plunging neckline of her T-shirt.

  Of course, Angel being Angel, she would be very aware of the amount of flesh exposed by such a position before she even moved. She was that kind of reporter: calculating, manipulative and sneaky. She was also—Rhys knew from personal experience—that way in bed as well. It made for incredibly wild, borderline-insane sex. It also made for scathing articles about your “on-field sporting prowess and over-inflated ego” when you didn’t agree to a follow-up session between the sheets.

  Affecting a wide, goofy grin, Rhys wriggled his eyebrows at her. “Well, if it isn’t the worst sex I’ve ever had in my life.”

  Angel’s red-glossed lips compressed. A finely plucked eyebrow arched. “Surely not. What with the menagerie of people you’ve slept with?”

  Rhys flashed her a toothy smile. “Angel, as always, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  She sniffed, ran her gaze over him from head to toe, and then traced the tips of her fingers along the deep cleft that was her cleavage. “You’re looking tired, McDowell. Frazzled even. Too much partying? Or has someone finally broken that shallow heart of yours?”

  “I hear the Walkley Award for Best Journalism was announced last week.” Josh pulled a pout of mock pity. “And you didn’t win it?”

  Angel hissed at him, literally hissed at him, the sound as venomous as the anger in her eyes.

  He laughed as he began to settle back into his seat. “Good to see you again, Angel. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to pretend you don’t ex—”

  At the sight of Curtis Clarkson lowering himself into the seat on the other side of the aisle next to Angel, Rhys forgot how to talk.

  He stared at the man, his pulse a thumping canon in his throat.

  His balls joined in the throb. His gut churned in harmony. His cock, completely independent of the tumultuous reaction to the sight of the ex-cricket captain, flooded with liquid heat.

  Holy crap, he was getting a hard-on just at the sight of the man? What the fuck?

  Movement at the edge of his vision jerked him out of his ridiculous stupor. He snapped his focus back to Angel, and bit back a groan.

  The journalist studied him, eyes narrow, contemplative, before—with deliberately exaggerated action—she turned to look behind her.

  Angel regarded Curtis for a silent moment and then turned back to Rhys. Her lips danced. “Still lusting after the unobtainable, McDowell?” she murmured.

  Fuck.

  Biting back a growl, Rhys sat back into his seat, snatched his sunglasses from the side table, shoved them onto his face and opened his Joe Hill.

  Beside him, separated by the narrow aisle, Angel chuckled. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

  Getting comfortable seemed out of the question.

  Shifting in his seat for the umpteenth time, Curtis fought the urge to flick a glance at Rhys.

  For one, he didn’t think his balls could take any more surreptitious glances at the guy. For another, there was no way in hell he wanted to inadvertently engage the attention of Angel Waters.

  Thank god the flight attendants kept making their way back and forth along the strip of emptiness between him and the journalist or he’d be forced to interact with her.

  The last time he’d come face-to-face with Angel Waters, during the last Ashes tour in the UK where he’d been comparing the match for Channel Eight, she’d blindsided him with a muck-digging expedition.

  She’d been trying to rattle him into responding to the rumours he’d had a threesome with his best friend, Logan, and Logan’s now wife.

  He’d responded by telling her that if she wanted to discover what it was like to piss off the man who owned and controlled most of the internet-connected technology she used daily, then to go ahead and print whatever the hell she wanted.

  The fact those rumours were…

  Fuck.

  Rhys McDowell was moving.

  Before he could stop himself, he tracked Rhys’s progress to the first-class loo.

  Damn, the man looked good.

  There was a wired energy about the soccer player Curtis had never really noticed before, as if the man was on the cusp of exploding with…what?

  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 th
e 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 2

  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.