by Lee Rowan
He smiled to himself. Just as well it didn’t. It would be worse than embarrassing to have his cock come to attention every time Davy walked past on the quarterdeck! And he’d better stop thinking about that happening or it would, and that damned woman could be back at any time.
He rinsed off where he’d washed—back and shoulders only. He was tempted to do more but uncertainty prevented him.
“What’s wrong?” Davy twisted around. “Why did you stop?”
Marshall suddenly realized how wonderful it was that David Archer was able and willing to speak up. Unlike his own tongue-tied condition. “I—I wasn’t sure if it was all right….”
“William….” Davy sighed, turning to face him. “I told you some time back, nothing you do is unwelcome. Nothing. Quite the opposite.” He laid a hand on Marshall’s chest, above his heart, which leapt at the contact. “When you touch me, it seems as though you’re washing away all the old memories, the old troubles. You can touch me anywhere. Everywhere. I want you to. In fact—” He stopped. “Never mind. But please, don’t stop. Unless you would rather not?”
There was no answer for that but a kiss, and Marshall wondered absently if the film of water between them was going to evaporate as steam. “I’d better finish, then,” he said eventually. “Before your lady-friend returns with dinner.”
He refilled the pitcher and resumed his pleasant task. Since Davy was now facing him, it seemed only logical to wash his face, smiling at his sputtering. “Anywhere, you said,” he reminded.
“I was hoping for something a bit lower,” Davy complained.
“Yes, your neck is in need of a wash.” He was playing. Playing, by God—and not a game that required a winner or a loser, but a gentle, happy amusement in which they both won. It was very strange. Some magic of Davy’s, without a doubt—none of his own doing.
Neck led to shoulders, chest, the springy golden hair there stuck down now with lather. Arms… and on the right arm, a bumpy irregularity—the ragged crisscross of pink scars, still bright and visible on either side of his elbow. “Those are healing well,” Marshall said, remembering the vicious wounds Adrian had inflicted in trying to fight free of Davy’s stranglehold.
“I expect there’ll always be some trace of them, though.” Davy’s lips pulled tight in what was not quite a smile. “Truly, William, I am almost glad of that. They’re a reminder that I did beat him.”
“True indeed. Do you want your hair washed?”
“Mmm.” Davy pulled loose his ribbon and tipped his head back. “You’re going to spoil me, Will.”
“Not at all. I expect the same service in return.”
“A clever ploy.” His eyes suddenly opened wide. “Will—did you lock the door?”
“No!” Water splattered as Marshall lunged across the room and slid the latch shut.
“Just thought of it,” Davy said apologetically, blinking as water from his hair ran down his face. “She’d likely knock first, at any rate.”
“I should hope so!” He covered his receding panic by considering the task at hand: he’d cleaned everything from the waist up. Should he proceed back or front?
Or both?
Davy caught his breath as Marshall’s right hand slid down his belly. His hips tilted forward a tiny bit, in anticipation, and Marshall slipped his other soapy hand right down Davy’s arse.
“Hey!”
His finger slipped between the cheeks, into a warm cleft. Necessary, was it not? The object of the exercise was, after all, a bath. No part of this fine, supple body should be left unwashed! Besides, Davy was not trying to avoid his touch, or even objecting.
“You said anywhere.”
“And you said you expect the same in return.” Davy said nothing more, but a wicked smile crept across his face as he rocked back and forth between Marshall’s hands.
“Oh, dear.” Perversely, his cock twitched and began to grow, whether from Davy’s movement or the notion of receiving such attentions, he could not say. Somehow or other, Davy had maneuvered his own cock into Marshall’s hand. It was not hard, exactly, but it seemed interested. And was Davy really pushing back against his finger?
“But I fear we will not have the time for a proper exchange. Unless you want to give the serving-maid an education in naval maneuvers. You’re doing a fine job of sounding the bottom!”
It felt more like running out the long guns with no powder for firing. Marshall hated to admit it, but Davy was correct. After all those years at sea, with the watch rung every half-hour, he had a sort of internal clock that anticipated those bells, and he knew their hour was at least half-gone. “Very well, then….” What was he supposed to do now? “Davy? Do you… um. Shall I—” How awkward it was!
Davy didn’t make it any easier by chuckling. “Just get all the soap out, William, I don’t need a rash down there!”
By the time Davy was thoroughly rinsed, he was giggling so hard Marshall was tempted to smack his wet bottom and annoyed at the hilarity that had subdued his libido once more. He consoled himself with the thought that if a little frustration was all it cost to chase away some old demons, it was cheap at the price.
And besides, if Davy was finished, it was his turn next.
“If you can get hold of yourself—” he began, proffering a towel. And “oh, hell!” as the phrase sent Davy into another spasm of laughter. “Mister Archer—”
Davy caught him around the waist and kissed him, his mirth finally subsiding. The feel of his slick, warm flesh chased away any lingering aggravation. “Sorry, Will. Here, let me do the honors. Step in, if you please, milord.” He studied William in the tub as though he were a project to be undertaken. “Hair first, I think—start at the top.”
It was sheer luxury to simply stand there and let the warm water trickle down his back. Deft fingers scrubbing through his hair, massaging his scalp—no wonder the Romans were so devoted to their baths, if they had this sort of attention! “We should do this every day,” he said dreamily.
“If we have—head back, Will!” A cascade of warm water ran down his face and, as he tilted his head obediently, up his nose. His turn to sputter, though not with laughter, and by some lucky chance, Davy didn’t find it funny either. He simply passed Marshall the towel to mop his face and waited until his head was at the proper angle to finish rinsing his hair.
“Sorry, you moved just as I began to pour. There, that should do it.” Davy flipped the wet tail of hair to the front of Marshall’s shoulder, then commenced scrubbing his back.
It was heaven. The room was cooling with the sun’s warmth gone, but the hot water kept him comfortable enough. That, and Davy’s hands, defining the boundaries of his body with affection unspoken but apparent. Marshall could not recall ever having felt so cherished. Perhaps his mother had bathed him with such care, when he was very young, but if so there was nothing of that left in his memory.
Davy was washing him everywhere, even his genitals. His cock was rather long—he was both proud of and embarrassed by the fact—but it got the same sort of careful attention as the rest of him. Davy made no remarks, only squeezed it gently as he finished, and sighed. “We just don’t have time,” he said, very close to Marshall’s ear. His grip suggested otherwise, and he was standing so near the tub that Marshall could feel a nudge from behind.
The situation required a command decision. “We’d better dry off and get dressed. That feels very good, but I am not certain much would come of it.” A bald-faced lie. If Davy kept on with what he was doing, they’d both be flat on the bed again in no time.
He had made the right choice, though. They’d pulled on shirts and breeches, unlocked the door, and were wondering how long they’d have to wait for someone to remove the bathwater. The tub made it nearly impossible to move in the room, but would block the narrow hallway if they set it outside. They were relieved of the decision when—as Davy had predicted—the maid knocked upon the door.
“Do you have anyone to help you with that?” Davy asked he
r, gesturing at the thing. “It’s a hazard to navigation in here.”
“Na, Toby can just pitch it out the window. Garden down below.”
Marshall glanced at the boy who’d helped bring up the meal. He hardly seemed large enough for the task. It would take him a long time bailing with a bucket, time they could otherwise spend alone together. Marshall raised an eyebrow in Davy’s direction. “Not that it’s likely to make much difference this afternoon.”
Davy grinned. “We’ll be heaving to windward, I’m afraid.” He nodded to the boy. “Here, mate, when I give you the nod, open the window, right?”
Toby nodded and stationed himself. Marshall seized one of the tub’s handles, Davy the other, and as they swung for the third time, Davy said “Now!” The boy opened the window and they flung the water out—Marshall automatically yelled “HEADS!” A gust of wind blew in a spray of water back at them, but the youngster got the window down fast enough that nothing was seriously doused. Still, they sat down to eat a little damp for their efforts as the highly amused servants took their leave.
In the entertainment of having their guests take on his chore, the boy had forgotten to light the fire, but the meal was a distraction from that. The innkeeper’s wife had made good his boast. Roasted chops, soft rolls, a hearty dish of mashed potatoes with butter, fresh green beans…. Marshall forgot his wet clothes as he happily tucked it away. He had been on short commons during their weeks as prisoners and might as well make up for it while he had the chance. He could not remember when he’d last finished a meal with apple pie, and he didn’t think he’d ever had one as good as this. After a few minutes, though, he realized that Davy was uncharacteristically quiet. “Something wrong?”
“No.” He poured himself more ale from the pitcher that had arrived with their meal, peering down into the mug as though there were something fascinating in there.
“It will be nice to have a fire. I’d not have thought we’d want one, a few hours ago.”
Davy shivered. “Yes. Very pleasant.”
Marshall very nearly asked him once again if he’d done anything distressing, but guessed that Davy would say no even if it were not true. They finished the meal quietly, put the empty dishes outside on the tray, and made certain the door was locked once again. The remains of dinner—the ale pitcher, a couple of rolls and butter—stayed behind.
A fire would be pleasant, with their damp hair, but it was not as enticing as his companion. Marshall smiled. “A good meal, and now to bed?” Davy nodded and moved into his arms, still shivering. His kiss was hardly reluctant, but there was some unspoken reservation in the contact. Marshall drew back just a bit. “I know something is wrong, Davy. Will you please tell me what it is?”
“It’s nothing.” He sighed. “Very well. William, if I were to ask you to do something—something you did not wish to do—would you tell me so?”
He shook his head—not in refusal, but in puzzlement. “I don’t understand. You’ve asked nothing against my wishes.”
“Not yet. Not today. But do you remember, back on that ship, I asked if you would like to be inside me? To—to take me, as a man would a woman?”
He was shivering harder now, and although Marshall now realized it was not from cold, he left Davy standing beside the bed. “Just a moment, let me start the fire.” They might want it later, if the night was chill, and tending it gave him something to do with his hands. It also let him hide the physical effect of Davy’s hesitant question.
He had not thought of doing any such thing before today, but the memory of that bath—of Davy pushing against his fingers in what felt like open invitation, that hot channel between the cool, slippery curves—he was hard again already, from just the thought of letting his cock ride in the crevice of Davy’s lovely arse.
“Do you remember, Will?”
“I remember,” he said hoarsely. He moved the logs in the firedog apart a little, giving them room to let the air flow, threw in a handful of tinder, and blew on it to raise a spark. “Why do you ask?” Why do you ask, if you’re shaking with fright?
“I would be—” Davy stopped and swallowed. “I would be obliged if you would do me that service.”
He could not say “Are you mad?” But he thought it. The tinder caught, flared, and sent flames licking greedily into the kindling. “Are you certain?” he managed finally.
“Yes,” Davy whispered.
“Why?” He turned, looking up at his lover, who was staring into the flames. “You don’t need to do that for me.”
Davy smiled wryly, without raising his eyes. “I know.” He shifted a few things around on the table, then left them to sit on the edge of the bed. “It is something I would like to do for myself. With you. If… if it does not repel you.”
Of all the words he might have chosen! “No. Not at all.” He rose and sat beside Davy in a single movement, wanting very much to touch him. “But I would not cause you pain. On my life, I would not.”
“As I said before,” Davy said cautiously. “When we are together, the things you do seem to clear away the… the wreckage. I want your touch on me, William. Everywhere his was.” He ran his tongue over his lips—nervously, not seductively. “On me. In me.”
Marshall did touch him then—he had to—just a hand on his arm. “Davy, you’re shaking. Are you cold?”
“No. Well, just a little.”
So far, so good. But that had not been the real question. “Are… are you afraid of me?”
“No!” He pitched into Marshall’s arms so abruptly it knocked them both back onto the mattress, holding on as if he had fallen into deep water. After a moment he let out a long, ragged sigh, and Marshall realized he was weeping softly, almost noiselessly.
“Davy! Davy, what is it?” He had, now and then, seen youngsters react with tears, when they were first wounded or lost a friend in battle, when the grand adventure suddenly changed into bloody, ugly reality. The other men usually distracted them with rude jokes or religious consolation. Marshall had neither to offer, and he had never seen Davy this way. It had to be connected with Adrian; it had to be. But why now?
On second thought—whenever could an officer in His Majesty’s Navy behave this way? There would never have been a good time. If Davy could release whatever he had been holding inside himself and let it go, surely that was better than putting on a brave face and tearing himself apart inside. Marshall only wished that his own desires would be more respectful of Davy’s distress; the warm damp body plastered against him should have evoked sympathy, not lust. If only that woman had brought the tub two minutes later—!
After a little while, the weeping stopped; Davy cleared his throat. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled into Marshall’s shoulder. “I had not meant to…. The—the ale must’ve been stronger than I thought.”
“Will you please tell me—”
“You….” He would not look up. “You are not repelled?”
It would be stupid to claim he was. His cock was hard and hot, pressed against Davy’s through the two thin layers of fabric. “I am not. I am afraid, though. For you.”
“Will. You will not hurt me. Please. I want you. I want, for once in my life, I want to be fucked by someone I love.”
The words sent a rush of heat through Marshall’s body. He held Davy tighter, at an utter loss for words.
Davy sighed suddenly. “You don’t want to, do you,” he said. “Damn me, you simply don’t want to. My apologies, William. I am a stupid, oblivious, witless—whuf!”
The rest of the litany went unfinished as Marshall rolled atop him, driven past reason. “Does this feel as though I don’t want to?” he demanded, grinding downward. He seized Davy’s hair, pulling his face up so he could ravage his mouth. He knew he was clumsy at it, but there weren’t any words left, and in another moment, he was going to explode.
Davy grabbed him just as fiercely and gave as good as he got. When he ran out of air, Marshall rolled to one side and fumbled Davy’s breeches buttons open, then dr
agged them off with reckless haste. He shed his own clothes nearly as quickly and tossed them toward a chair. Davy had his shirt half off, so he grabbed that, and it flew off to join the rest of the heap.
Decks cleared for action, he dropped back onto the bed and grabbed Davy again, this time rolling over so that Davy was on top of him. “Listen carefully,” he said, brushing his lips against Davy’s mouth, sucking on his lower lip, dizzy from the ale and intoxicated by the heat and pressure against his cock. “I want to.” He caught Davy’s arse, one cheek in either hand, and let his fingertips slide between. He squeezed. “I want you. Are you listening, Mr. Archer?”
“Yes,” Davy breathed, undulating against him. His eyes were big and dark in the dim light, and, brave words or no, he did seem apprehensive.
“But you must show me what to do. Davy, I don’t know!” That seemed stupid, it was so obvious: turn him over and put it in, but… “If I were to hurt you—”
“It will be all right, William. I promise. Here, let me—” Looking more than a little dazed himself, Davy moved back to sit on Marshall’s thighs. “See, it’s a bit wet already, so’s mine.” He ran a fingertip over the head of Marshall’s cock, spreading the fluid seeping out.
Marshall shivered at the touch—and gasped when it ceased. “No!”
“Wait,” Davy said. He took his own cock in hand, leaning forward, and rubbed its wet tip against Marshall’s shaft.
The sensation was indescribable. Davy was concentrating, biting his lip. How beautiful he was… how good it felt… his cock was growing harder with every touch. “You’re going to kill me!”
“I don’t think so. There.” He moved around again, hovering over Marshall, his cock making small damp kisses on Marshall’s stomach. “There. Now you hold it—no, hold yours, William, hold it up, that’s it—’steady, boy, steady.”
