Russian Heat

by Rhyll Biest

  About The Author

  A weasel-word-addicted, passive-sentence-loving public servant by day, Rhyll Biest mutates at night, moulting her shoulder-padded power suit to sprout neologisms and metaphors. She lives in the Australian penal colony of Canberra, and when not writing about horse gizzards or frog fungi at work, she can be found steaming up the keyboard with erotic romance.

  Website: http://www.beestfiction.com

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  Boys of Summer Anthology

  an anthology of seven hot erotic romance stories

  (two novellas are menages and one is a M/M romance)

  Release Date: 07/05/2012

  ISBN# 978-1-938257-17-9

  Cover Art by Winterheart Design

  http://pinkpetalbooks.com/Boys-of-Summer-Anthology.html

  Personal Best by Rhyll Biest

  What do cocky Olympic water polo players have in common with cranky equine surgeons? Nothing, thank heaven, as recently-divorced vet, Eve Ransom, would say. But when she decides to teach hunky athlete, Cain Nadeau, a lesson about chatting up strangers on planes, she thinks to trick him into backing off by offering a week of handyman duties. Before she knows it, he's stripping more than just her house paint—he's stripping away her resistance to him one kiss at a time...

  Excerpt

  She snuggled into the vinyl cushion of her front row window seat and breathed in the silence of the nearly empty business class cabin. Ahhhh. After a night spent elbows-deep in a million-dollar racehorse repairing an almost fatally twisted bowel, she deserved some comfort. And sleep. A bit of luxury before she came home to her leaky roof, peeling house paint, and lonely bed. Yes, the life of Eve Ransom, internationally renowned equine surgeon, was all glamour. No doubt that was why she felt like a soggy ball of shrink-wrap.

  She shook the negative thought off to focus on her pre-take-off ritual: daypack stowed above, shoes slipped off, neck pillow at correct height, earplugs stuffed deep, light coat draped over her front like a blanket against the chill of the air conditioning. Everything was in order. She drifted.

  “That’s my seat, loser.”

  “You’ve been snorting too much cocaine, Nadeau, this is mine. Look—two-A.”

  “Yeah, but this is row one, dip-shit.”

  Voices. Fuck. Why the fuck can I hear voices ? She opened one reluctant eye and followed the progress of invading mountain-sized men built to haul fridges. Booming baritones rumbled through her earplugs and the clumsy hips and butts of passing giants fumbling with bags and overhead lockers collided with her seat rest. As they laughed at each other’s sallies, the formerly Zen-like cabin morphed into a mosh pit for honking testosterone, and the urge to grind her teeth gripped her with jaw-aching intensity.

  Weren’t air stewards or air marshals meant to arrest noisy people on planes? Or shoot them? The two stewards she could see, a short, fussy man and a heavily made-up brunette, looked excited and lustful rather than disapproving.

  The men around her weren’t tall enough to be basketball players or thick-set enough for footballers, but whatever their team sport, they would soon be dead sporting heroes if they didn’t shut up and let her sleep.

  Late boarders sucked. None of these late-boarding losers had better sit next to her and disturb her rest or she’d sharpen her claws on them. Clenching both eyes shut, she willed sleep.

  Her seat jerked with whiplash violence as something heavy hit the adjoining seat and forced it to sag. Holy fuck, was it her imagination or did she hear the metal groan through her earplugs? Don't look. She resisted the urge to rub her maltreated neck and squeezed her lids shut tighter. It was one of the giants, she knew it. Don’t open your eyes, Eve, don’t do it.

  A flurry of vibrations shook her. What the fuck is he doing? No. She would not open her eyes. She was a general holding the strategic bridge of sleep against a horde of sleep-depriving enemies, and all was lost if she raised even one lid.

  The scent of pool chlorine teased her nostrils, enticing her to look, but she tightened her jaw and breathed deep, resolute breaths. Victory was hers—as long as she stood firm.

  A warm, heavy weight fell on her shoulder, and she cracked a lid open to slide it a sideways glance.

  A tanned cinder block of a hand rested there, its friend a ridiculously large bicep at eye-level, the bicep partying with a thick shoulder, sturdy neck and chiseled jaw. That jaw…and the sexy little cleft in the chin. Far too sexy. Midnight stubble painted both chin and cheek with dark, manly hotness. From below raven brows and lashes, a piercing gaze of electric blue seared her vision.

  Holy hydatids, she was looking at God's gift to selling men's cologne and expensive watches. There was probably some reproductive bylaw requiring her to hand over her ovaries on the spot. Too bad her innate rudeness trumped such bylaws and she wasn’t on speaking terms with the males of her species right now.

  Mr Advertising Wet-dream’s lips were moving, and she took out her earplugs, bracing herself for the inevitable disappointment of a jockey’s high-pitched voice or bovine speech patterns. “What?”

  Azure eyes narrowed at the fluorescent pink earplugs squeezed between her fingers then shifted to meet her gaze.

  “Excuse me, I think you might be sitting on my seat belt.”

  Thick, deep, and rich, with the hint of an American twang, his voice rubbed her ears the right way. But her still-sulky libido and self-esteem registered the seductive baritone with resentment. Sour acid rose in her stomach as her body reminded her he was an XY chromosom-er, a card-carrying foot soldier of the army of bastards that included her ex-husband. She didn’t need her stomach’s reminder. Her memory worked just fine. Without a word, she lifted one cheek and scrabbled around under her rump. Her hand snagged on a seat belt, and she fished it out to thrust it at him.

  He looked at it, her unsmiling face, and blinked. Savage joy burned an acid path in her veins at having nonplussed the enemy by refusing to pay homage to his looks.

  “Thanks.”

  She nodded, re-arranging her light coat around herself and fluffing her inflatable pillow pointedly. About to squeeze her eyes shut, she saw him look at his watch. Before she could stuff her earplugs back in, he raised a dark brow at her. “Rough night?”

  She gave him what she hoped was an inscrutable look. Out of all the seats on the plane, she had to get the one next to unbearably handsome Chatty Kathy. If she didn't sleep soon, she would die; the first equine surgeon ever to die of surgery-related fatigue.

  “The downside of a successful career in table-top dancing,” she snapped, stuffed her earplugs back in, and closed her eyes.

  ~* * *~

  Cain Nadeau grinned and tried to place his seat companion’s accent while he fastened his seat belt. A Queenslander? Probably. They were departing Brisbane airport, and her face had a definite tan. Her hair was gorgeous, a silky tumble of pale blonde he wanted to fist, preferably while he planted a hard one on her plump, pink lips. The mental image sent a rush of blood to his cock, and he shifted, jeans suddenly too tight.

  Easy, Tiger .

  The title on her book in the front seat pocket was large and bold: Equine Bowel Surgery Secrets. If she was a table-top dancer, she had unusual reading tastes. He severely doubted she’d ever donned a g-string and pasties, though. Dancers were fun party-people, and Miss Tired-and-Grumpy didn’t qualify.

  “What you got to read, Nadeau?”<
br />
  Fuck . He hadn’t even opened his magazine, and one of his teamies was already harassing him for it. With a ferocious mono-brow, pointy chin and gap-toothed smile, Metzger had a face that frightened small children, but to steal Cain's magazine he wore his saddest, puppy-dog expression.

  “You can’t have it, screw off,” Cain said. Keeping his sanity as a member of the US Olympic Water Polo team was all about setting boundaries. Firm boundaries. Otherwise, before he knew it, his teamies would be wearing his socks, eating his snacks, and fucking his groupies.

  After six weeks of non-stop team touring, he was ready for some alone time. Well, maybe not completely alone—a busty blonde or two were welcome, but no teamies. The fortnight stay in Hobart was meant to be a training break and team-bonding thing with hiking, sailing, and other such happy shit, but he didn’t think he could bear to be any closer to his teammates. He liked a challenge, but the human mind came with some limits of endurance.

  “Please, Nadeau, no one else will swap mags with me.”

  “That’s ‘cause no one likes you.”

  Untrue, but he hated it when people asked nicely. He didn’t have any defense against nice, and Metzger, that crafty fucker, knew it. But he could sympathize with his teamie’s boredom. Flying sucked a big, fat hairy one.

  “Hey, how come you get to sit next to a hot chick?”

  His sympathy for Metzger evaporated. “Take the magazine and fuck off.” His prior steely resolve not to give up Inside Sports took backseat to his need to get Metzger’s lustful gaze away from his seat companion. He held out Inside Sports and Metzger snatched it with gap-toothed glee, thrusting a rolled-up mystery mag at him in return.

  Left nursing a copy of Australian Bridal and a sense of violation, Cain stared at the snooty-looking bride on the cover. Where or when Metzger had bought Australian Bride he had no idea, but he suspected it was part of a cunning ploy to study Australian women for stalking purposes. He hoped Australian women were smart enough to just run if they saw Metzger approaching with US flag on his t-shirt and dark, lustful intent in his heart.

  After five minutes of reading about bridal bouquet design and summer versus winter colors, he gave up. The window view offered nothing but cloud and more cloud. Miss Table-top Dancer's coat had fallen off, and she was snoring gently.

  Without the coat he could see her neat, firm little body, and lime green underpants peeking above the waistband of her low-rise jeans. She wasn’t busty enough to be his type, but she could table dance for him any day. She could help him to develop a taste for small breasts. Literally.

  Plucking her book out of the seat pocket, he flicked through it, grimacing at the pictures of bloated and unhealthy horse organs. Depressing stuff. No wonder the woman had all the charm of a meat grinder—she spent her days playing with horse giblets.

  He’d bet the horses complained about her bedside manner. He pictured a horse complaining, Mister Ed style, and grinned. With any luck, she would wake up soon. He was bored; someone needed to entertain him.

  ~* * * ~

  Eve woke, her t-shirt falling off her shoulder, dribble on her pillow, and her mouth bone dry. Her coat was on the floor, allowing the world a view of her undies and the muffin-top of flesh exposed above her waistband. Damn. With a sideways glance, she grabbed her coat and dumped it back on her lap. Another sideways glance confirmed the jock next to her was still reading. Just so long as he hadn't been reading her underpants. She took her earplugs out, and he turned and gave her a too-innocent smile. Double damn.

  At the glint of humor in his azure eyes as he smiled down at her, a small but insistent voice horrified her by announcing she fancied him, her giant seat companion with a dark, wolfish smile. She smothered the thought before any sign of interest could leak into her eyes.

  “Have a good sleep? Ready to dance again?” He asked solicitously, gaze too bright for her liking.

  Huh? Oh. “Sure. I’d give it a crack right now if these table trays were a little sturdier.” Her jaw-cracking yawn belied the claim, and his lips twitched, dangerously close to a smile.

  “You know, I always felt the career counselors at school glossed over exotic dancing as a career choice,” he said.

  Oh, how smooth was he? “Bless them, otherwise I'd have to compete with all the other boys and girls for work.”

  He didn’t leer, but she knew what he was doing, and she refused to giggle, blush, or grow flustered while discussing the noble art of exotic dance.

  He held a bridal magazine, and she nodded at it. “So how about you? Are you a dress designer? A florist?”

  Looking like he wanted to smother her with her inflatable pillow for daring to question his manhood, he stuffed the magazine down his seat pocket. She quashed a grin. It really was just too easy to wound the male ego.

  Magazine vanquished, he turned his full attention to her. “2012 US Summer Olympic Team.”

  His gaze rested on her, pregnant with expectation. Was she meant to swoon?

  “Oh yeah? Synchronized swimming? Rhythmic gymnastics?” Ooooh, but she was mean.

  “Water polo. You Aussies qualified this year, too.”

  “Really?” She put as much zero-care-factor into her tone as possible and quelled a smirk at his dismay. “What can I say? I’m more of a motor sports girl. Crusty Demons, that sort of thing.”

  He studied her through sinfully thick, dark lashes. “A table-top dancer who likes the Crusty Demons and horse guts.” His gaze touched on her book then returned to hers. “A bit of a cliché aren’t you?”

  She yawned. “There’s probably another hundred girls just like me in Hobart, and that’s not including my thirty first-cousins.”

  “You don’t say,” he murmured, an unholy gleam in his eyes. “The team will be in Hobart a couple of weeks before we head off to London. I’d love to get to know the place better with you and your thirty cousins. Are you guys free at all the next two weeks?”

  Azure eyes locked on her with unnerving intensity, and she revised her initial “brainless but pretty” impression. He was a wolf, a wolf in handsome man clothing, no better than her cheating ex-husband. It was too late to teach her ex a lesson but perhaps she could reform the wolf.

  She ran an eye over his long arms. It was a shame she wasn’t the kind to trade sex for favors. He could probably strip paint ten times faster than her or anyone else on the planet and finding a tradesman to fix her house was proving painful. The very thought of doing it all herself made her want to cry. Hot as he was, the thought of him repairing her house was way hotter than sex.

  Sex. Gosh, how many months had it been? Maybe a fling would be therapeutic. All this time she’s been making out like a nun, haunted by the shameful way she let her ex-husband slink off before she could sew prawns into his curtains or whatever it was spurned women were meant to do. Sex with a hot Olympic athlete—sex of the hot, nasty, infinitely satisfying variety—might be just what the doctor ordered to heal her wounded pride. She considered it.

  Nope, she preferred to teach Mr Olympic Water Polo Team a lesson.

  I’m mad, absolutely stark-raving mad, and lack of sleep and a bad divorce has nothing to do with it.

  She met his piercing gaze squarely. “Well, I can’t speak for my cousins, but I could certainly show you ‘round. Do you have somewhere to stay?”

  His gaze grew hungry. “Some chain hotel in the center of town, but I’d much rather stay with you and see the real Tasmania.” His gaze wandered over her, cataloguing dishes on an imaginary all-you-can-eat buffet until her cheeks flushed in spite of her effort to stay cool.

  She schooled her face, resisting the urge to laugh at his unsubtle inspection. “Please, stay with me at my beach house. Though I have to warn you—” she leaned in close, “—you might get hot, sweaty, and dirty.”

  His beautiful azure gaze glazed over and a muscle ticked in his lean cheek. “Really?”

  Was that a slight rasp in his voice she heard?

  Boys of Summer Anthology
<
br />   an anthology of seven hot erotic romance stories

  Release Date: 07/05/2012

  http://pinkpetalbooks.com/Boys-of-Summer-Anthology.html

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  Table of Contents

  Part 1

  Part 2