A few moments later, with the plane at a complete halt, Tabatha once again appeared at his side. “If there’s anything else you require, Minister…”
She left the invitation hanging.
As before, he returned her offer with a warm but neutral smile. “Thank you. Not right now, no. Will you be joining me on the return flight?”
He could tell by the way her lips curled the question had achieved its intended purpose—a suggestion of the possibility of future relations without the necessity of actual interaction.
Playing the game at its most subtle and finest.
“I will be, Minister.”
He let his smile stretch wider. The smile of a man with a beautiful, friendly woman before him. “I shall see you then.”
And with that, he rose to his feet, gathered up his suit jacket and briefcase, adjusted his glasses and made his way to the exit door of the plane, now being opened by the pilot.
Wallaby Ridge, here I come.
“Okay, Taylor,” Wallaby Ridge’s mayor—a man with a comb-over only God could forgive, and a sense of humour of similar ilk—said on Ryan’s right, giving Ryan a sideways glance. “Chin up, chest out, hands to yourself.”
Ryan let out a low chuckle and repositioned his hat on his head to shield his eyes from the red sun setting behind the plane. “Watch yourself, Barney. Your bigotry’s showing.”
Before the mayor could bluster out an indignant, “I was only joking”, the door to the plane swung completely open and a tall man stepped out onto the top step.
“Fuck me,” Ryan whispered, staring at the man. Staring at his broad shoulders, his sandy-blond hair, his narrow hips and chiselled jaw.
Ryan’s throat squeezed shut. His gut clenched. His balls rose up. His cock twitched in his jeans.
“Fuck me,” he repeated, his mouth dry. “It’s Ryan fucking Gosling. In glasses.”
Chapter Two
Oh no.
Jeremy swallowed, frozen on the top step of the plane’s steps despite the baking heat. Down on the runway, the man in the cowboy hat, chambray shirt and faded jeans looked up at him.
Oh God, this is inconvenient.
The man’s exquisitely shaped lips formed words Jeremy couldn’t hear.
Jeremy swallowed again. Fuck me. That’s what the cowboy had just said. Fuck me.
Sucking in a swift breath, Jeremy couldn’t stop himself raking a slow inspection over the man. A tightening sensation bloomed in the very pit of his gut, radiating through his groin to his balls. Balls suddenly heavier and more…there than they had been a second ago.
Oh God, no.
“Everything okay, Minister?”
Jeremy cleared his throat at Tabatha’s question. “Just a bit taken back by the heat,” he offered over his shoulder to the flight attendant now standing behind him.
Heat. Hot. So hot. So inconveniently hot…
His balls throbbed, letting him know in no uncertain terms he’d seen something he liked.
A lot.
Before he could stop himself, he returned his gaze to the waiting cowboy.
The unknown man seemed to be staring into his soul. Even from this distance, Jeremy couldn’t miss the intensity in his blue eyes. Nor the way his Adam’s apple slid up and down his throat. Or the way his broad chest swelled with a deep breath as Jeremy’s gaze roamed over him, stretching the chambray tauter over pecs Jeremy suspected would be sculpted to perfection by hard manual labour.
A thick spasm claimed his cock, and he cleared his throat again, shuffling his feet this time as he jerked his stare away from the man in the cowboy hat.
So inconvenient. So damn inconvenient…
Movement on the man’s right caught Jeremy’s unsettled attention.
Another man looked up at him, this one short and round with the most amazing comb-over Jeremy had ever seen. The white material of his short-sleeve shirt was damp under his armpits, spreading sweat stains the likes of which Jeremy had never seen.
Jeremy focused his mind on those blooming stains in an effort to erase his unexpected reaction to the cowboy.
Sweaty armpits, sweaty armpits, sweaty armpits. Nothing remotely arousing or sexy about sweaty—
“Is there something else I can help you with, Minister?”
There was no suggestion of sexual dalliance in Tabatha’s question this time. This time, Jeremy detected confused concern.
You’ve been standing frozen on the top step for an eternity, man. Of course she’s confused.
With a third clearing of his throat—he’d need a drink of water ASAP—he twisted to face her. “Sorry. I’m going. Thank you for making the flight pleasant.”
The hopeful seductress returned in a flash at his words. Tabatha curled her lips into a sultry smile. “You’re more than welcome. I look forward to attending to you on your return flight. Enjoy your stay in Wallaby Ridge.”
And with a barely felt trailing of her fingers over his wrist, she took a step back into the interior of the plane. Leaving Jeremy with no other recourse than to turn and make his way down the stairs towards the two men waiting for him on the runway.
One was no doubt Wallaby Ridge’s mayor.
The other…
Please don’t let the other be Ryan Taylor. Please don’t let the other be—
“Minister Craig.” The squat man with the ludicrous comb-over met him at the bottom of the plane’s short steps and snagged his hand in an enthusiastic shake before Jeremy offered it. “Barnaby Doyle. Mayor. Welcome to Wallaby Ridge.”
Behind Barnaby, the tall man in the cowboy hat watched Jeremy receive the hand pumping from hell with a small grin.
Jeremy didn’t miss the way the edges of his eyes crinkled a little. Or the flash of white, even teeth behind perfectly defined lips. Or the hint of a dimple in his right cheek.
His gut clenched some more. His balls grew heavier. His cock twitched again.
Biting back a groan, he offered the mayor a smile.
This is not good. Not good.
“Thank you for the warm welcome, Mr. Doyle.” He extracted his hand and shot the cloudless blue sky sweeping overhead a wry smile. “Although I wouldn’t have minded a cooler one.”
The cowboy chuckled.
Jeremy wished he hadn’t. The effect the relaxed sound had on Jeremy’s body was disconcerting. And rather appealing.
So goddamn inconvenient.
As before, he had no hope of stopping his gaze slipping to the inconvenience in denim.
Their eyes met.
Fused.
A frisson of raw desire shot through Jeremy. His heart smashed fast into his throat.
The cowboy’s nostrils flared, even as he reached up and rubbed at the back of his neck.
“Sorry,” Mayor Doyle burst out, embarrassment clear in his voice. “I should introduce you to the man who’ll be responsible for getting you around our breathtaking home. Minister Craig, this is Ryan Taylor.”
The name—wholly expected and three times as unwanted—stroked Jeremy’s sanity. He smiled at the cowboy, who was now stepping forward, hand extended.
It took Jeremy’s brain all of about three seconds to register the sublime curve of Ryan’s biceps beneath the sleeve of his shirt, the latent power in the expanse of his shoulders; three seconds during which the desire to see the man shirtless burned through Jeremy with fierce hunger.
And then those interminable three seconds of mental torment were shattered by Ryan’s long, strong, calloused fingers wrapping around Jeremy’s in a firm handshake.
At the innocuous contact—one men all over the planet shared every day—another jolt of concentrated desire sank into Jeremy’s groin. At the jolt, Jeremy’s throat seized up, his pulse turned into a pounding canon and his cock throbbed.
Ryan Taylor’s gaze held him imprisoned. As did
the warm dryness of his palm pressed to Jeremy’s. And the undeniable interest in his blue eyes. “G’day, Minister Craig.”
“Please,” Jeremy croaked, incapable of doing anything but. “Call me Jeremy.”
Ryan inclined his head in a single, shallow nod. Their stares didn’t break. “Jeremy.”
A distant part of Jeremy’s brain—the part that played the political game oh so very well—recognised his and Ryan’s handshake had extended beyond the socially accepted duration. The part of his mind cataloguing every sculpted bulge of the man’s body beneath his faded blue shirt didn’t care one iota.
Ryan Taylor was singularly the sexiest man he’d ever laid eyes on. Ever.
“Ryan,” he said, echoing Ryan’s nod. “So, you’re the one who’s going to be stuck with me for the next five days? Flying me around?”
The edges of Ryan’s eyes crinkled. “I’m the one that’ll be taking you to the heavens and back on a daily basis, yes.”
At Ryan’s side, the mayor chortled. “Now we’ve got introductions out of the way, we can get to it.” He directed a guileless smile at Jeremy and smoothed a palm over his comb-over. “So tell me, Minister, is it hot enough for you?”
Forty-five minutes. That’s all it took for Ryan to know he was in deep shit.
Forty-five minutes.
Jeremy Craig, minister for the arts and culture, didn’t just push all of his sexual buttons. Jeremy Craig pushed all his intellectual buttons as well.
Thank bloody God, Barnaby accompanied them on the flight to Broken Downs. If the mayor hadn’t been on the helicopter, Ryan was pretty bloody certain he would have made a fool of himself.
And by fool of himself, he meant outright confess to the minister he wanted to bend him over the nearest surface and fuck him, first with his tongue, then with his cock.
Jesus, what the fuck was he going to do?
The flight to the deputy prime minister’s Wallaby Ridge homestead was the longest, most torturous forty-five minutes of his life.
Minister Craig sat beside him, his suit immaculate, his voice smooth and composed, his lips forming words of witty intelligence and articulate observation.
Ryan hung on each one, remaining silent.
Barnaby sat behind Ryan, shouting over the constant thrum in the chopper’s interior despite the fact all three men wore headphones with mics attached.
The mayor—unused to such an important official guest to the town—babbled on about Wallaby Ridge’s history. He filled Jeremy in on the birth of the town over two hundred years ago, how it came to be thanks to the nearby cattle stations of Farpoint Creek and Acacia Springs and their need—back at the start of Australia’s British colonization—for ongoing supplies.
Jeremy made all the appropriate noises at the appropriate places. He asked questions that showed an understanding of the spiritual importance of the land to the local indigenous community.
When the mayor—foolishly, in Ryan’s opinion—waved aside the notion the indigenous art gallery was long overdue in the area, Jeremy very politely revealed a deep knowledge of the cave and rock art located in the Mutawintji National Park.
Ryan didn’t miss the subtle reproach in the minister’s voice as he expressed to Barnaby how the Aboriginal people of the area deserved not only recognition but also respect for their culture.
By the time they landed at Broken Downs, Ryan was as hard as a fucking pole.
“Going to do a systems check.” Killing the engine, he removed his headphones and turned to cast Jeremy and Barnaby a relaxed grin. At least, he hoped it looked relaxed. With the way his body was behaving, he may very well have been grimacing like a starving deviant. “Minister, I’ll be back to collect you tomorrow morning. Around seven.”
“There’s no need for you to leave the helicopter in the first place,” Barnaby, ever the bigoted sycophant, informed Ryan. “I’ll see the minister gets settled in.”
Without another word to Ryan, the mayor opened the back door and climbed out of the cabin.
A heartbeat later, Jeremy opened his door and alighted from the chopper.
He stood outside, his gaze—concealed now by dark sunglasses—levelled at Ryan.
“Coming, Minister?”
Ryan ground his teeth at Barnaby’s shout.
A small smile tugged at Jeremy’s lips, and then, with another one of those single nods, he closed the door and proceeded to cross to where the mayor waited.
If it hadn’t been for the fact Ryan was sporting a rather sizeable hard-on, he would have followed them into the homestead, just to see Barnaby squirm.
Unfortunately, he was sporting wood. Wood hard and thick enough to make its presence known the second he stood.
Wood, he had to admit, that may or may not be totally misplaced. Because despite the instant and immediate vibe he’d gotten from Jeremy Craig—one that damn near had seared his lungs it was that hot—as far as Ryan knew, the minister was straight.
Straighter than straight.
Adjusting his jeans around his engorged cock, he waited until the mayor and Jeremy disappeared through Broken Downs’s main door and then tugged his mobile phone from his hip pocket.
Tapping on the Google app, he adjusted the crotch of his jeans again and typed Jeremy Craig gay into the search field.
The first page of results listed more than one news article about Jeremy’s political stance on same-sex marriage.
Ryan tapped the first one, trying not to fidget in his seat. Beyond the helicopter, the raucous laugh of a kookaburra split the serene Outback silence.
Pulse pounding, although who the hell knew why, Ryan read the Sydney Morning Herald’s article from a year ago.
“He supports it.”
His whisper sounded louder and more relieved than it should have.
Relieved.
Jesus.
Scrubbing at his face, Ryan let out a ragged laugh.
“What are you thinking here, Taylor?” He removed his hat, scratched at his head, rubbed at the back of his neck and returned his hat to his head.
He scrolled through the next few pages of search results, looking for any link to any site that discussed Jeremy’s sexuality.
There were a few malicious, anti-politics sites that declared with venomous vitriol that Jeremy had to be gay, citing his glasses, designer suits and haircut as proof. Other sites of the same ilk hinted that his reputation as a ladies’ man, and the string of beautiful women always on his arm at official functions, were just beards, there to reinforce the lie the minister was straight.
Those sites, however, also had posts and articles claiming things like the prime minister was born in New Zealand rather than Melbourne, that the Queen had an illegitimate son living in Perth, and that Australia was on the cusp of leaving the Commonwealth and becoming a republic due to a handshake deal with the US of A.
None of the information he read could be taken seriously.
Which didn’t give Ryan any further clarity on the molten sexual chemistry he felt between him and the minister.
Until Lyle, the Casanova from Dubbo, had entered his life, Ryan had never been wrong when it came to recognizing a fellow gay man. Or a straight one, for that matter.
Nothing about Jeremy said gay. Nothing.
And yet…when their eyes had met…
Are you trying to justify the insta-lust you felt for the minister? The hard-on you’re sporting right now?
The chopper’s pilot-side door swung open before he could contemplate an answer.
“Minister?” Ryan said, staring at the man standing in the open helicopter door.
Fuck, why did the bastard have to look so fucking—
“I told you,” Jeremy growled, staring back at him through spotless lenses, “to call me Jeremy.”
And with that, he reached a hand through the opening, cuppe
d the back of Ryan’s head in a strong grip and crushed Ryan’s lips beneath his.
Chapter Three
Damn it, what a fundamental fuck-up.
He shouldn’t have left the deputy prime minister’s house. When the mayor took a phone call from someone called Senior Constable Baynard, Jeremy had chosen to give the man some privacy.
His feet—no, his body—had taken him outside before his brain could move him to just another room.
When he’d seen Ryan still sitting in the helicopter, every fibre in Jeremy’s body had begun to thrum with an elemental need. One he couldn’t deny, no matter how dangerous.
He’d crossed to the waiting chopper, telling himself he was just going to talk to Ryan. That was all. Just a conversation between two men. They’d hardly gotten a chance to talk on the flight here, what with the mayor filling Jeremy in on Wallaby Ridge. It made sense to find out a bit more about Ryan now, given they were going to be spending a lot of time together over the next five days.
That was the reason for coming out here, he’d told himself as he’d opened the chopper’s pilot-side door. Not the primitive, compelling desire unfurling deep within his very core.
He’d opened the chopper’s door, ready to say hello. To break the ice with some kind of neutral topic. What that neutral topic was, Jeremy hadn’t known. He’d been hoping his knack for thinking on his feet was going to save him.
But then Ryan Taylor had turned to look at him, and in the split second their stares met, Jeremy saw raw, open lust in the man’s eyes. Lust for him. In that split second, any hope of neutral conversation had been shattered, replaced instead with a driving urgency to take possession of Ryan’s lips.
To take possession of him.
They’d both spoken. Words had fallen from their tongues. Jeremy thought he’d said something wankerish and pretentious, and then his hand was fisting in the hair at the back of Ryan’s neck and he was claiming the man’s lips for his own.
The kiss lasted barely a heartbeat.
Long enough to delve his tongue past Ryan’s parted lips and slide it against Ryan’s.
Long enough for Ryan’s groaned exhalation to mingle with Jeremy’s own moan of fatalistic dismay as he caught Ryan’s bottom lip between both of his and sucked.
Bare for You: Outback Skies, Book 3 Page 2