The Hot Toddy

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

  Ricky moaned his approval.

  The edges of orgasm heated Alex’s groin. Pleasing Ricky turned him on more than he’d expected. God, why hadn’t he taken his own dick out of his pants? The illicitness of the sex with Ricky excited him more than anything or anyone had in a long time.

  Ricky yanked Alex’s head back. Raising his shirt, he stared down the length of his torso until his eyes met Alex’s. His slack mouth and heavy panting betrayed his desire, and he thrust his hips. Alex tightened his fist at the base of Ricky’s cock to keep from choking, but the hungry eagerness in the rough man’s gaze made Alex want to take every greedy inch he could manage.

  “I’m coming,” Ricky said in warning.

  He was giving Alex the choice, stay and drink him down, or let go and let the cum fall where it may. Both scenarios thrilled Alex. He wondered which Ricky would like better. Would it turn the man on more to see Alex swallowing or wearing?

  Ricky stifled a cry, his eyes squeezing tight for a moment, as the first pulse of cum shot into Alex’s mouth. The hot cream danced on his tongue as he slid his lips off and stroked Ricky’s throbbing length as ropes of semen decorated his chin and mouth. He had to brace himself when, like a teenage boy in the throes of puberty, he climaxed without any assistance.

  When Ricky finished, he put his fingers under Alex’s chin and wiped his lower lip with his thumb. He narrowed his brow, a dark spill of hair shadowing his eyes. “Break’s over.”

  Confusion and shame wrapped Alex like a too thin blanket in a snowstorm. Ricky had used him and was now discarding him like week-old leftovers. Alex watched him button and zip his jeans.

  Unexpectedly, Ricky grabbed a paper towel roll from one of the boxes on the rack and pulled off a couple of sheets. He began to wipe Alex’s face with a surprising amount of tenderness. When he’d finished, Ricky elevated his eyebrows slightly, and met Alex’s eyes. “There. While I love the way you look wearing me, I don’t think it’s work appropriate attire.” He made a point of looking down at Alex’s groin and smiled. “Might want to get an apron over that.”

  “Right,” Alex said—a flush of embarrassment warmed his ears. “Right.”

  “Tomorrow come in early.” Ricky licked his lips. “Prepare yourself for me. I’m going to stick my tongue so far up that tight ass of yours, you’ll be begging for a pounding.”

  Oh shit. Alex’s felt the first stirrings of desire again. No. He would not be turned on right now—not by this bossy, ill-mannered, uncouth…sexy, hot, and delicious man.

  His brain and his body were having a battle, but he was determined his brain would win. What makes Ricky think there’ll be a tomorrow? That man has a lot of fucking nerve! Could he actually believe Alex was just going to jump to do his bidding? Well, he would show Ricky who was in control—who was the boss of Alex—and it certainly wasn’t some street thug.

  He stood up, rounded his shoulders, and stared directly at Ricky. He put his hands on his hips, ignoring the wet spot with the bulge growing beneath it, and, with as much indignation as he could muster, said, “Okay.”

  With his final declaration of surrender, he pushed past Ricky, cursed his treacherous libido, and practically ran from the kitchen.

  Chapter 2

  One Sexy-ass Nerd

  Ricky smiled as he watched Alex flee. He really liked the big nerd. He’d always had a thing for smart, shy guys, and Alex ticked all the boxes. On top of those qualities, Alex’s wide brown eyes, long face, and full mouth likened him to James Franco, one of Ricky’s favorite actors. Just thinking about Alex’s lips stretched wide over him made him hard again—not a comfortable way to cook. Could Alex really like him?

  He’d been seriously crushing on Alex since the first time he’d seen him two weeks earlier. Ricky had never been a big believer in love at first sight, but the intensity of his desire for Alex made him think it might be possible. The college boy hadn’t felt the same instant connection—Ricky would have noticed the sign.

  He’d seen the way Alex adored Tuck Thompson. The guy practically worshipped the All-American, blue-eyed blond. Had Alex accepted Ricky’s offer as a way to work off sexual frustration? Maybe. Did it really matter?

  Ricky didn’t have time for a relationship, not with twelve-hour shifts at the hospital followed by five-hour shifts at the bar. However, he couldn’t deny, he wanted another go with Alex. The handsome nerd surprised him by saying “yes.” Alex had been bold and brave—so much braver than Ricky imagined. He could still see Alex’s expression, glorious and alive, when Ricky’s orgasm decorated his face.

  Alex hadn’t even tried to wipe it away.

  In that moment, Ricky had wanted to kiss Alex, to drink in his lips and tongue—to share a moment of emotional intimacy with the beautiful, brooding man. Only one problem, Ricky didn’t casually kiss. He knew if he took their physical relationship that extra step, he’d want more from Alex. So much more.

  Note from G.R.

  I do hope you enjoyed this book, I’d so appreciate it if you’d help others enjoy it too.

  Recommend it. Please help other readers find this book by recommending it.

  Review it. Please tell other readers why you liked this book by reviewing it at online retailers or your blog. Reader reviews help my books continue to be valued by distributors/resellers. I adore each and every reader who takes the time to write one!

  If you love the book or leave a review, please email rgeorge@romance-the-night.com so I can thank you with a personal email. Your support means more than you’ll ever know! Thank you!

  About G.R.

  G.R. George is the pen name for USA Today bestselling author Renee George. G.R writes GLBT contemporary romance and GLBT paranormal romance. Her hot, steamy romances highlight varying themes including gay and bisexual relationships. A published author since 2005, she has written and published over 30 books in the past decade. Accolades include: EcataRomance Award for Best Paranormal Erotic Romance and Best Gay Erotic Romance and a Literary Nymph Blush Award for Best Paranormal Romance.

  Connect with G.R. online:

  Join G.R.’s Newsletter: https://app.mailerlite.com/webforms/landing/t1r6v0

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  Visit G.R.’s websites: http://www.grgeorge.com

  eBooks by G.R. George

  Holiday Hotties Romances, Paranormal MM series

  http://www.holidayhottiesromances.com/

  1. Fruitcakes

  2. You Don’t Know Jack

  3. Stupid Cupid

  The Other Team, Contemporary MM Romance series

  http://www.theotherteam.club/

  1. The Wallbanger

  2. The Hot Toddy

  3. The Gin Rickey

  4. The Dirty Martini

  5. The Old Fashioned – Wallbanger 2

  6. The Hurricane – Hot Toddy 2

  7. The Sparkler – Gin Rickey 2

  8. The Screwdriver - Dirty Martini 2

  G.R. George writing as Renee George

  Midnight Shifters, a Paranormal Romance series

  http://www.midnightshifters.com

  1. Midnight Shift

  2. The Bear Witch Project

  3. A Door to Midnight

  4. A Shade of Midnight

  5. Midnight Before Christmas

  Lion Kings, a Paranormal Romance series

  http://www.lionkingshifters.com/

  1. The Lion Kings

  The Cull, Paranormal Romance series

  http://www.ozarkshifters.com/

  1. Claimed By the Alpha

  2. Protected By the Alpha

  3. Ravished By the Alpha

  G.R. recommends … Lexxie Couper

  “If you love hot, sexy romance, I recommend Lexxie for more contemporary fiction that grabs a hold of you from th
e first page and doesn’t let you go until the end.”

  Balls Up

  Heart of Fame, Book 9

  Lexxie Couper

  Chapter 1

  Off-season was always a pain in Rhys’s arse.

  For one thing, he ate too much, drank too much, partied too hard and slept too little.

  For another, he never knew how to choose which country to spend his downtime. It sounded like a ridiculous First World problem, but his friends in London—friends that included such illustrious people as the youngest of the royal princes, an Olympic pole-vaulter and the British Prime Minister’s black-sheep son—wanted him to stay in the UK. His family in Australia expected him to come home and spend time with them, but he sometimes suspected it was because they worried about his partying ways and the influence of his UK friends.

  His family had a point, of course. The latter were partly to blame for the excessive eating, drinking, partying and lack of sleep.

  Partly, mind you. The other reason for the self-destructive behavior—rock god Josh Blackthorne—was spending most of his time on the other side of the planet in Australia.

  Which made it hard to head back to Oz, even if Rhys wanted to. Which he did.

  Sort of.

  Sort of? Bullshit. You don’t just want to go back. You want to go back, storm into Josh’s home, slam him to the wall, look him in the eye and tell him you’re in love with him—and that you’ve been in love with him since you were both fifteen.

  Turning to study the planes on the other side of the Qantas first-class lounge window, Rhys’s gut clenched. It was a raw fantasy he tortured himself with often. But it was only that: a fantasy.

  Joshua Blackthorne, his life-long best friend and one of the world’s sexiest, hottest, biggest rock stars, was deeply in love with a woman Rhys knew to be absolutely perfect for him.

  Josh had no clue what Rhys felt for him. None at all.

  And Rhys would never tell him.

  Ever.

  Which made returning to Australia in the off-season not just hard, but painful, because the moment he touched down in his country of birth, Josh and Caitlin would be there at the airport waiting for him, and he’d spend the next few hours/days/weeks in their company, watching them together, seeing them so very much in love…

  And wanting to be in Caitlin’s place with every fibre of his body.

  “Excuse me, Mr. McDowell?”

  Rhys turned his gaze from the 747s and Airbuses beyond the glass and smiled up at the woman in the Qantas uniform leaning towards him. “Yeah?”

  Her eyes flicked over him, no doubt taking in the stubble on his jaw, the scruffy hair, and the crumpled T-shirt and baggy jeans. “Your flight is boarding now.”

  He nodded at the lounge attendant. “Ta, love.”

  She smiled, straightening away from him. “You’re welcome, sir. Looking forward to going back to Australia?”

  Rhys’s gut clenched again as he rose to his feet. “More than I can possibly say.”

  Scooping up his knapsack—packed with his on-flight toiletries, a Joe Hill paperback, his iPad and the latest Synergy CD—he left the lounge and headed for his flight.

  He was recognised, of course. He couldn’t move around London these days without being so. In all honesty, he didn’t know if his fame came from his position as striker for Manchester United or his notoriety as a partier. Probably both.

  Surprisingly, no one approached for an autograph or photo. Perhaps everyone in Heathrow expected his bodyguard—a hulking mountain of mouth-breathing muscle called Timmy—to suddenly appear from the crowd.

  Timmy, however, would not be making an appearance, although Rhys wasn’t going to announce that unusual fact. This trip back to Australia was without bodyguard, manager or even token arm candy.

  This trip was strictly Rhys McDowell, boy from Oz who needed to touch base with his family. A man who needed to have his sister ground him, his father lecture him and his mother embrace him.

  This trip was, in other words, an attempt to once and for all get over his twelve-year ache for a man he could never have, by finally confessing to his family how he felt.

  They’d tell him how stupid he was being. They’d mend his wretched heart with harsh truths and uncompromising logic. And then, once they were done, he could go to dinner with Josh and Caitlin without being in a state of perpetual horny torment and get on with existing in the off-season without the need to destroy himself with booze, wild women, wild men and wilder parties.

  A sound plan.

  Somewhat sound.

  Okay, not really sound, but the only plan he had.

  After twelve years, he’d come to the realization he had to do something and this was what he was doing.

  Confession, parental insults, maternal hugs.

  He was but a few feet away from his flight’s gate, knapsack slapping against his hip, hair hanging in his eyes, when the first camera flash fired.

  Followed a second later by another one.

  Instinctually, he flinched, raising his hand to shield his face from the unexpected attention.

  And let out a surprised grunt when a man half a head taller than him, wearing black sunglasses, bumped into him, head down, jaw clenched.

  “Whoa there, dude,” Rhys said, stumbling back a step before his natural reflexes could correct his balance. “In a hurry are—”

  The man swung towards him.

  Rhys sucked in a sharp breath.

  Fuck, the guy was Curtis Clarkson.

  The ex-captain of the Australian cricket team fixed him in a steady stare. Rhys could feel the older man’s gaze on him even through the dark lenses of his Ray Bans.

  “McDowell?” The Australian accent licked at Rhys’s ears, sounding both strange and exquisite after so many months in the UK. “You look like—”

  Another camera flash fired right beside them. Curtis flinched.

  So did Rhys. Not a lot, but enough to catch Curtis’s attention.

  Straightening, the ex-cricket player let out a low chuckle. “Our egos, ’eh?”

  Rhys forced out a wobbly laugh. The last time he’d seen Clarkson was at the Australian Sportsman of the Year awards two years ago. They’d ended up in a metaphorical pissing contest over their chosen sports and which sport pulled the hottest groupies.

  Both men had also been more than a little inebriated during said pissing contest.

  If Rhys remembered correctly, they’d decided their chosen sport had nothing to do with the groupies; that it was, in fact, the size of their dicks that pulled the chicks, a decision that led to—again, if Rhys remembered correctly—both men dropping their tux pants to compare their respective packages.

  They’d been stopped before either could shame the other. But Rhys had a vague recollection of a bulge in Clarkson’s boxers far bigger than most men’s.

  Rhys also had an equally vague recollection of leaving the awards dinner with a sizeable boner that had nothing to do with the little honey on his arm.

  Staring at Curtis Clarkson now, twenty-four months later, his mouth turned strangely dry. Fuck, he’d never actually been this close to Clarkson without having more than a few drinks under his belt. Had never noticed how…how…fuck, how hot the cricket-playing bastard was.

  “You heading back to Australia?”

  Giving himself a mental slap, Rhys nodded his head. “I didn’t know you were over here,” he said. Damn it, what the fuck was up with his voice all of a sudden? It sounded as if he were trying to talk with a throat full of gravel.

  “Cricket thing.” Curtis let out another one of his famous chuckles. The guy was known for his sardonic sense of humour, as well as his lethal bowling arm. And, if the gossip mags and bloggers were to be believed, his equally impressive bedroom skills. Hadn’t he just recently been linked to some kind of a scandal with some computer guy and an American? Or was Rhys imagining that? He was certain another Australian celeb on the UK party circuit had suggested something like that.

  Before
he could stop himself—Jesus, what was wrong with him?—Rhys dropped his gaze to Curtis’s crotch.

  “I’d say my balls are up here,” Curtis’s dry voice murmured, “but you’re actually looking in the right spot.”

  Rhys jerked his stare upward, chest squeezing tight.

  Christ.

  Curtis chuckled again, the relaxed sound sending a lick of tension straight into Rhys’s groin. “Sorry, mate, just giving you a hard time. I’m jetlagged. Flew in two days ago and heading back now.”

  Rhys forced out his own laugh. The world was quite familiar with his bisexual tastes. Rhys himself played up the reputation often, usually tongue firmly in cheek. He hadn’t, however, expected the ex-captain of Australia’s cricket team to join in the jest, especially not in the middle of Heathrow Airport surrounded by people who—more likely than not—knew exactly who he was, given the UK’s obsession with cricket.

  The fact Clarkson captained the Australian team to a crushing defeat of England in three Ashes series in a row would have contributed to his fame over here.

  And here he was now, talking about his balls.

  Before Rhys could stop it, an image of Curtis’s boxer-clad bulge entered his head again.

  Why the hell was he suddenly so aware of Curtis Clarkson? And more to the point, why was he nervous?

  Because after a lifetime aching for Josh, you’ve decided it’s time to move on? And because you’re you, a masochist, you fall instantly in lust with a man known to be straighter than your best friend? You’re a fucking idiot, McDowell.

  “Last boarding call for passengers flying first class Qantas Flight 42.”

  At the speaker-amplified announcement, Rhys shifted his knapsack on his shoulder and gave Curtis a grin he hoped was wide and unaffected. “That’s my flight. Better get my arse into gear.”