The Hot Toddy

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

  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.

  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 in 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 bu
cking 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.