Bare for You: Outback Skies, Book 3 (4 page)

Every day, he walked out of his home wearing not just a tailored suit, but a lie.

He hadn’t had sex with another guy since he was nineteen and on a backpacking trip around Europe.

No one in Australia suspected, and he needed to keep it that way.

And yet here he was in Wallaby Ridge for less than two hours and he’d not only kissed a man, but that man had seen straight through him.

“
Do you fuck like you kiss?”

Closing his eyes, Jeremy pumped his cock harder.

It was impossible to banish Ryan from his mind. Futile.

So he didn’t try. Instead, he focused on the man. Drew a detailed image of him from the memory in his head and let his desire feed on it.

He cupped his balls, kneading their heavy weight as he imagined Ryan’s hands on his flesh.

Hot pleasure unfurled in his core, flooding his cock with fresh blood.

Picturing the heli-musterer, he tugged on his sac and pumped his shaft faster, his breath ragged and choppy.

Masturbating had become an art form to him. After so many years denied the sexual release his body and soul truly needed, he’d become a master at self-pleasuring. But there was nothing artful about the way he fucked his hand now.

Now there was only raw want, elemental lust.

Now there was an impatient need to purge an unobtainable man from his body before the desire consuming him undid everything he’d worked towards.

Tightening his grip, he dragged the pad of his thumb over the tip of his cock, telling himself it was Ryan’s tongue laving his flesh.

His mind went with the notion, turning the scraping of skin on skin to an exquisite caress. He groaned, head lolling backwards, stomach hitching.

“Do you fuck like you kiss?”

The question taunted him. Aroused him. Tormented him.

He worked his cock with savage intensity, panting as the desire for Ryan seared through his veins.

He didn’t know what kind of lover he was. Not with a partner the likes of Ryan. The lack of knowledge, however, only served to increase the base pleasure claiming him. Controlling him.

As brutal as his hands were on his cock and balls, he ached for Ryan’s mouth and hands to be even more so.

Where had this come from? This unexpected need to be dominated by a man he barely knew?

And why was he so aroused by it? So…so…enslaved by it?

“Do you fuck like you kiss?”

An image of Ryan filled Jeremy’s head. Ryan naked, prowling towards him, his cock large and rigid and venous, his chest hairy, his stare fixed on Jeremy.

He surrendered to the image. To the mental fantasy of the man capturing his lip without a word. To the powerful dream of Ryan plundering his mouth with a tongue as dominating as the hand fucking Jeremy’s cock.

He gave himself over to the invention of the heli-musterer in charge of his pleasure.

Fucked his hand even as he told his body it was Ryan’s hand, Ryan’s mouth, Ryan’s—

His orgasm detonated before he could stop it.

Head thrown back, Jeremy roared with a release as unexpected and powerful as his lust for Ryan Taylor.

His seed spurt from him in throbbing pulses, wetting his fingers, his stomach, his toes.

And even as the stark realization he was ejaculating on the deputy prime minister’s bedroom floor hit him, the potent fantasy of Ryan bringing him to climax prevented him from stopping.

Prevented him from doing anything except moan with pleasure and—eventually—sink to his knees on the plush carpet and wonder how he was going to survive his time in Wallaby Ridge.

Chapter Four

After a night of refusing to touch himself or the rigid pole his cock had become, Ryan could only let out a ragged groan as the minister for the arts and culture exited Broken Downs homestead.

The politician wasn’t playing fair.

With the pale dawn sun barely breaking the eastern horizon, the light that bathed Jeremy as he crossed to Ryan’s helicopter only served to highlight the absolute perfection of his appearance.

His hair was immaculately swept back from his high forehead. His glasses were spotless. A purple tie, pinstriped with thin silver lines, knotted at the base of his smooth—no doubt, freshly shaved—throat. He wore no suit jacket, but his shirt seemed almost to burn with pristine whiteness, emphasizing the toned physique Ryan had spent the night imagining must be beneath it. Dark charcoal pants highlighted the long length of his legs, just snug enough around the thighs to hint at their muscular strength. On his feet, he wore black shoes polished to a sun-rivalling shine.

Ryan took one look at him and swore he was going to rip the shirt right from the man’s body.

For a surreal moment, as he killed the chopper’s engine, the words of his jest to Charlie the day before came back to him.

“I like to dirty ’em up,”
he’d declared. Of course, at the time, he’d been talking about a nonexistent sexual relationship with a movie star.

Who could have guessed mere hours later, he would be craving to dirty up a man he actually knew?

You know you can’t really dirty him up, right? He’s a politician here on official duty. And despite the way he kissed you last night, he’s never declared he was gay.

Keeping that thought in the forefront of his mind, Ryan removed the headphones from his ears, returned his cowboy hat to his head and swung open the pilot’s door.

“Minister,” he said as Jeremy crossed the manicured lawn to where Ryan had landed.

A foot from where he stood, Jeremy stopped. “Do I have to ask you to call me Jeremy again?”

Ryan couldn’t help his low chuckle. Nor rein in his gaze as it slowly roamed over Jeremy from head to toe. Subtlety had never really been Ryan’s strong suit. “I think you may have to.”

The challenge felt loaded, even though it was meant to be flippant.

Jeremy’s Adam’s apple jerked up and down the column of his throat, his stare fixed on Ryan’s face. “Call me Jeremy.”

The strength behind the instruction sent another shard of liquid want into the pit of Ryan’s stomach.

Fuck, if he didn’t get the man to the first official appearance of his visit to Wallaby Ridge, he really would be in danger of tearing Jeremy’s immaculate shirt and tie from his body.

Drawing a slow breath, he threw a small nod over his shoulder towards his helicopter without breaking eye contact. “You ready?”

A knot bunched in Jeremy’s jaw. His chest rose and fell beneath crisp white cotton. “Would you like to come in for coffee first?”

The question struck Ryan like a fist. His cock however, already half stiff in anticipation of seeing the man, throbbed with impatient approval.

Jeremy held his gaze, his blue eyes direct behind the lenses of his glasses. Direct and unreadable at the same time. “I’ve given the resident staff the morning off.”

Head roaring, body thrumming, Ryan drew another breath, this one slower. Deeper. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

For an answer, Jeremy dipped his head in a single nod.

Ryan narrowed his eyes. “Are you sure you know what you’re asking?”

“Are you sure you can handle it?”

“Handle what?”

The man’s lips curled. A little. Became…mischievous. “Something hot.”

Before Ryan could stop himself, he let out a low chuckle. “You don’t know what the word
hot
means out here.” He paused. For a fraction of a heartbeat. “Jeremy.”

And without waiting for the minister to respond, he turned and climbed back into the chopper, settling into the pilot’s seat.

No matter how much he wanted to accept Jeremy’s invitation into the homestead, he wouldn’t let himself.

Not yet.

Not ever.

Keeping his face neutral, he cocked an eyebrow towards Jeremy. “I’ll be waiting for when you’re ready to leave.”

It was Jeremy’s turn to narrow his eyes. His jaw bunched. His Adam’s apple slid up and down his throat again.

Under no circumstances could Ryan read what was going on in his head.

Ryan forced a pointed smirk to his lips. “It’s going to take at least an hour to fly to the Mutawintji National Park. You’re going to be late if we don’t leave soon.”

The sound of Jeremy clearing his throat scraped over Ryan’s fraying constraint. As did the sight of him adjusting the glasses on his face. It was the action of a man not only digesting the situation, but reasserting control over himself.

It turned Ryan’s already stiffening cock hard.

“I will be out in ten,” Jeremy declared before pivoting on his heel and striding back into the homestead.

No matter how much he tried not to watch Jeremy’s arse bunch and flex in his suit trousers, Ryan couldn’t look away.

After ten minutes exactly, Jeremy reappeared, looking every inch the big-city politician. A tailored jacket now covered the white shirt, its exquisite cut highlighting his broad shoulders and tapered torso. Dark sunglasses had replaced his normal clear-lens glasses, hiding his eyes from Ryan. Ryan was surprised to see an iPad mini and an Australian Wallabies rugby union cap rather than a briefcase in his hand.

Climbing into the helicopter on the passenger side, he gave Ryan a brief nod, his expression unreadable. “Ready.”

Ryan flicked a slow look over Jeremy’s city attire, trying to hide his lingering inspection in a mocking observation. “You do realize we’re going bush today? The Aboriginal rock and cave art you’re visiting is very remote. The only way to get to it is a long walk through rugged terrain.”

Jeremy raised an eyebrow. The edges of his lips twitched. “You think I’m not dressed appropriately?”

I think you naked and pinned beneath me on the bed would be more appropriate.

Ignoring the arousing thought, Ryan let out a snort. “Your feet, mate, not mine.”

Leaning forward a little, Jeremy cast Ryan’s hiking boots a quick look before letting out his own snort. “This is why I need Linda here with me,” he muttered.

Linda.

The very female name stabbed at the fog of arousal permeating Ryan’s mind. He sucked in a slow breath, at once furious with himself and shocked by the ridiculous jealousy shearing through him.

With a grunt, he yanked his hat from his head, tossed it into the space behind the front seats and slapped his headphones over his ears.

Linda. Jesus, since when had he let raw lust get the better of him? And here he was thinking before the five days were up and the minister went back to Sydney, maybe, just maybe, they could explore the undeniable sexual attraction between—

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment.”

Jeremy’s apologetic statement jerked Ryan back to the interior of his chopper, a second before the politician climbed out of the passenger seat and hurried back to the homestead.

Gut a churning mess, Ryan frowned. “What the fuck?”

Barely five minutes later, Jeremy reappeared.

And Ryan knew beyond doubt the battle to banish the man from his mind was lost.

“Better?” Jeremy grinned at him, once again settled back in the passenger seat.

It was all Ryan could do not to lean across the middle console and kiss him senseless.

Instead, he let himself slowly—slowly—take in every inch of the
new
minister for the arts and culture sitting beside him.

Gone was the tailored suit, silk tie and polished business shoes. In their place were a pair of faded denim jeans that highlighted not only the sculpted muscles of Jeremy’s legs, but the rather impressive bulge of his groin, his white business shirt—now with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his collar unbuttoned, and a pair of hiking boots that genuinely looked like they’d trekked halfway around the world and back.

On his head sat an Akubra Snowy River, the iconic Australian hat as well-worn and beaten as the boots on his feet.

“Better,” Ryan rasped, mouth dry, lifting his gaze to Jeremy’s face. In his jeans, his cock throbbed.

White teeth flashed at him as Jeremy’s grin stretched wider. “Good.”

Grinding his teeth, body thrumming with carnal want, Ryan turned his attention to the controls of his chopper. “Let’s get this bird in the sky,” he growled, his dick now hard and trapped uncomfortably in his jeans.

Beside him, Jeremy laughed.

The laugh of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. And was enjoying himself immensely while doing so.

The ancient Aboriginal art painted and etched into the rocky overhang known as Thaaklatjika was stunning. Spiritual. Jeremy moved from one to the other—led by an Aboriginal elder guide—taking in each one with enrapt, reverent awe.

Or at least, that’s what he hoped the tribal elder, the Wallaby Ridge mayor and the small media contingent from Sydney there to capture the politically important moment saw.

In actuality, he spent the entire duration far too aware Ryan Taylor was but a few metres away, his entirely too-rugged maleness crushing any hope Jeremy had of absorbing the culturally significant artwork.

Every time he heard Ryan utter something to one of the others in their party, be it a comment on the paintings themselves or to clarify a misconception about the Malyankapa and Pandjikali people, the traditional owners of the land, Jeremy’s stomach clenched and his pulse quickened.

It was his own fault, of course. He’d asked Ryan to accompany them.

When they’d touched down on the outskirts of the Mutawintji Historic Site, after a flight ripe with loaded silence, Ryan had informed him—and the waiting Barnaby Doyle and Aboriginal elder—he was going to wait in the chopper.

Before Jeremy could stop himself, the invitation to join them on their exploration of the artworks fell from his lips. Although it was less an invitation and more, going by the way his stomach churned and his balls ached, a request.

Not even that. A need.

Because despite the fact Ryan had turned down his poorly considered, wholly impulsive offer of coffee—yeah right, coffee—Jeremy had spent the flight to the national park wanting the man. More than he wanted to draw breath.

At one point, he’d opened his iPad and played a most woeful game of Angry Birds, just to stop himself from reaching over the centre console and smoothing his palm up the length of Ryan’s snug-denim-clad thigh.

Now, gazing blankly at the paintings, stencils and etching older than recorded colonial history on the rocky outcrop before him, he wondered how much longer he’d be able to hold on to the ridiculous façade.

There was only one thing here he was interested in. Only one thing he wanted to explore with thorough, leisurely attention. Ryan Taylor’s naked body.

God, he was screwed.

Huh. I wish.

“Don’t you think, Minister?”

It took a long second of silence before it dawned on Jeremy that everyone was looking at him.

A prickling heat razed up the back of his neck into his scalp. “I’m sorry,” he said, offering a sheepish smile, “I think I got lost in the beauty of the art and history here. Can you repeat that, please?”

The mayor frowned. A part of Jeremy’s mind noted the rotund man, currently dressed in a suit similar in colour to the one Jeremy wore yesterday, was sweating and panting profusely. The top of his scalp not covered by his ludicrous comb-over glowed an angry, sunburnt red. Jeremy suspected if he didn’t get some kind of ointment or lotion on it soon, it was going to blister.

“I said—” Barnaby tugged at the buttoned-up collar of his shirt, “—it never ceases to amaze me how far some people will travel to look at simple handprints on a wall.”

Jeremy opened his mouth. And closed it again when Ryan uttered, “Perhaps it amazes you because you’ve no grasp of the spiritual significance of those hands, Barnaby? Or the history they tell?”

Jeremy didn’t miss the way the mayor’s lips compressed to a thin white line. Nor the way the news cameras swung in his direction. Or the way the Aboriginal elder nodded a small smile at Ryan.

“I hardly think a cowboy has the right to inform me of what I grasp and don’t grasp, Taylor. Especially a g—”

“Don’t.”

The single word left Ryan with flat menace.

Barnaby Doyle flicked a harried glance at the cameras and reporters.

Jeremy stood motionless. For a heartbeat. “I’ve been known,” he said more loudly than the close proximity of those around him required, “to drive clear from one side of Sydney to the other to check out some new graffiti.” He slid his hands into his back pockets and pulled a self-mocking grimace, one that said he was a complete imbecile. “In peak-hour traffic no less.”

The cameras swung back to focus on him, the men operating them chuckling. The two reporters laughed. So did the Aboriginal elder.

Barnaby let out his own wobbly guffaw, pasting down his comb-over with his palm. “Life in the Big Smoke, eh, Minister?”

A few feet away, Ryan’s gaze found Jeremy’s.

Held it for a moment.

His nostrils flared. His chest rose and fell.

And then he touched the brim of his hat before turning away.

Jeremy didn’t call after him. Nor did he go after him.

He wanted to.

Every fibre in his body wanted to.

But he couldn’t.

To do so would draw unwanted attention to the reason for his pursuit. Besides, how could he offer words of support to a man whose sexuality was slighted when he himself was firmly and permanently locked in the closet?

It would be hypocritical.

It would be dangerous.

Career suicide.

That’s not the reason for it being dangerous, is it?

Letting out a steadying breath, refusing to acknowledge the intoxicating thought of calming Ryan’s anger with a lingering kiss, Jeremy turned back to the rock wall.

Focused his attention—and in doing so, the media’s attention—on the ancient art there.