The Captain and the Squire

by Catherine Curzon

Tarquin pressed his hands to the window, gazing, his body thrilling as the hammer fell.

  Those perfect muscles. Like a thoroughbred stallion.

  With one last strike of the hammer, Chris rose up to his knees and blew out a long breath of exertion, fluttering the fallen locks of hair against his forehead. His chest glistened with perspiration, and Tarquin was catapulted back into the tack room all over again. Chris drew the back of his hand across his brow then, as if driven by some mysterious sixth sense, his bright gaze traveled across to the French windows. And he smiled.

  Tarquin gave him a small wave. “Can I have a word?”

  “Come on in,” Chris called, standing to greet him. There in his belt loop Tarquin couldn’t help but notice a bunched red shirt. It was such a careless gesture, underscoring what a free spirit Chris was, that it set Tarquin’s heart pounding all over again.

  Tarquin trembled as he opened the French window. He stepped into the room, placing his brogues carefully as he was very aware that he was walking on Chris’ hard work. “I… Umm… I forgot to mention something the other day.”

  “Hey, don’t worry about it.” Chris settled one hand on his hip, where his jeans sat just low enough to be irresistible. There was a sweet aroma in the air, the smell of something tasty in the oven. “We both had a good time, didn’t we? You’re engaged, I’m not about to try and wreck your life. You don’t need to say anything.”

  “Oh.” Tarquin shoved his hands into the pockets of his corduroy trousers. “That… Actually…I was here to say that I meant to invite you to dinner the other day, only I forgot because…”

  Tarquin gazed into Chris’ eyes, mesmerized. “I didn’t know what to do. Afterward. After Bryan came stamping in, I thought, We can’t hold hands, people will know. And they mustn’t know. I’m sorry. I keep thinking about what happened in the tack room, and it was the most wonderful time I’ve ever had. I keep thinking of you, and…”

  Tarquin’s gaze drifted down from Chris’ eyes, as if the rest of the man’s body was exerting a hypnotizing pull. That soft, dark hair on Chris’ chest, and those toned planes, and the arms. Oh, those arms, pulling against the metal ring.

  “And…?” He took a few steps toward Tarquin, until there was nothing but an arm’s length between them. “It doesn’t have to be a one-off, squire. A guy like me needs keeping in line, and I need a strong guy like you to do it.”

  “I want you.” Tarquin dared himself to touch Chris’ cheek, stroking Chris’ nascent stubble. “I want more than a few snatched moments in a tack room. But my God, Chris…we’d be having an affair.”

  And he pictured Petunia. Furious Petunia who even now would be stabbing at that innocent camembert, cursing her fiancé’s name.

  “We would.” Chris closed his eyes and turned his head just enough to kiss Tarquin’s fingertips. “I’d be all yours.”

  Tarquin took in a breath, then said, “I don’t think she loves me. And I don’t know what I can offer you.”

  “You sound like you need to have some fun.” He put his hand on Tarquin’s hip. “Let that squire out a little more, Tarkers. Enjoy being you.”

  “He’d like that!” Tarquin grinned. “He would, and so would I! Would you…would mind terribly giving me another kiss?”

  “Are you asking, squire?” Chris teased his lips against Tarquin’s, smiling softly as he drew away a little, denying him his kiss. “Or telling?”

  “Let me rephrase that.” Tarquin’s voice sounded, even to him, deeper now, richer in tone. “Captain, kiss me.”

  Tarquin felt Chris’ smile as they kissed, then he parted his lips and sank against Tarquin, looping those wonderful arms around his neck. It was the most fierce kiss Tarquin had ever felt, and the fire ignited all over again.

  Tarquin combed his hands through Chris’ hair, reveling in its thickness, and pressed his hips against Chris’ thigh, showing him he was hard again.

  “I bloody want you,” Tarquin murmured against Chris’ mouth, then kissed him again, more passionately than before. More passionately than he’d ever kissed anybody, maybe, this forbidden embrace filling him with a tingling electricity. But he had an invitation to deliver. The last thing they wanted was Petunia knocking at that French window, her stabbed camembert clutched in her hand.

  “Have me.” Chris roamed his lips over Tarquin’s jaw. “Take me.”

  Tarquin groaned with frustrated lust. “After dinner, perhaps? Please, you will come to dinner?”

  “Dinner’s now?” The surprise in Chris’ voice was understandable, but if he refused, Petunia would be roasting Tarquin alongside her famed beef Wellington. “You want me to come to dinner tonight?”

  “Will you?” The squire melted away, replaced by good ol’ Tarkers instead. “We were going to have claret, but Petunia insisted she didn’t want it, and she stuck a knife in the camembert, and I scared the dogs with a tablecloth, and there’s footprints in the cellar, and she’ll kill me if you don’t come.”

  “‘Course I’ll come for you. I’m all done with hammering for the night.”

  Thank God he said yes.

  And the fruits of Chris’ labors—though Tarquin hadn’t expected his Canary Wharf captain to be doing the work himself—were obvious. Gone were the dusty, threadbare furnishings that Hardacre had refused to replace despite his wealth, and in their place was comfort, vivid throws and deep cushions, the faded paintings on the walls replaced with vibrant scenes that Tarquin recognized as the Georgian paintings of Bough Bottoms that had once been hidden by a patina of dust.

  The antique furniture that was so much a part of the place was still here, but it was polished and bright, loved once more instead of just tolerated because it was worth money. All the many generations of Hardacres who had lived and loved in Hardacre Grange would surely be looking down and smiling, because for the first time in more decades than Tarquin knew, the place was alive again. Not a moldering den of malice owned by a curiously hedonistic Scrooge, but a place that was filled with joy. The house suited the man who now lived here, just as the dark, forbidding interior he had swept away had suited his late uncle. It was still the Grange, but it was Christopher Hardacre’s Grange.

  “Can you spare me ten minutes to have a shower and throw some clean clothes on?” Chris kissed Tarquin’s cheek. “I’ve got something for you too. I was going to bring it over tomorrow and ask if we were still mates.”

  Chris. In the shower.

  “Oh—sorry. Mind wandered off there. Yes, do hop in the shower. I won’t watch, promise!” Tarquin said. “Erm…a present? Well, that’s very kind.”

  “If you want to watch, come and watch.” He kissed Tarquin’s nose. “You can see the house on the way, let me know what you think. I hope you don’t hate it, I’ve put my heart and soul into this place—I didn’t realize I might not get to keep it!”

  “I’d very much like to watch. And I am impressed, you’ve put so much work into this house.” Tarquin held Chris’ hand. “Don’t worry about the Oracle, she’ll come round, I know she will. I just hope she doesn’t wreck your lovely floor with her trotters!”

  “I’m not just a pretty canary in pinstripes, I like getting up a bit of a sweat.” But all this time, the hammering and drilling…that had been Chris? Surely not. Although apparently so. “Besides, it’s been a challenging year, I wanted something to take my mind off the markets. I can’t take credit for the garden but…yeah. It’s not quite finished but it’s getting there. Best of all, I get to say, I did all of this.”

  And all of this was quite something. And it was exactly what Tarquin would’ve expected from him—color and comfort and light.

  “You should be very proud of what you’ve done here—you’ve transformed it into a lovely home.” Tarquin grinned, then assumed the tones of the squire. “I hope you’ve installed a bally decent shower! I want to see my captain damp and handsome.”

  “You’re going to see your captain absolutely soaking,” Chris told him as they climbed the staircase. Generat
ions of rather less handsome Hardacres glowered down from canvas at the two men and Tarquin realized with a frisson that they must be heading for the bedroom.

  The captain’s bedroom.

  At the top of the stairs a door stood open and Chris led Tarquin through it into what felt like the promised land.

  And the biggest bed in Bough Bottoms.

  The room carried the exotic scent of Chris’ cologne and birdsong poured through the open window, filling it with cheer. From that same window Tarquin could see all the way down to the river at the bottom of the garden and he pictured Chris in bed, propped against the pillows in the morning sun, his skin dappled with the rays of light. He pictured something else too, two masculine figures entwined atop the covers, illuminated by moonbeams.

  “What a charming room!” Tarquin remarked, as he tugged at the hem of his jumper.

  “I’d love you to join me but I guess I need to be quick if Ms. Rudd’s waiting.” Chris kicked off his trainers to reveal his bare feet, long toes sinking into the rug. Tarquin raised an eyebrow and unfastened the top button of Chris’ jeans as Chris put his arms around Tarquin’s neck. “And I’ll be spending all day tomorrow very hard at it, if you can spare any of your Saturday to lend me a helping hand?”

  Tarquin offered a helping hand right there and then by opening another button on Chris’ jeans. “I could always say I need to have a look around and recommend any modifications you might need to make for the Oracle?”

  “I like it.” Chris stroked Tarquin’s cheek. “Who could argue with that?”

  “No one!” Tarquin winked. “Now, into the shower, captain, chop-chop!”

  Beneath Chris’ jeans were the most crisp, white boxers that Tarquin had seen this side of a commercial and he remembered again that calendar-worthy vision downstairs. And tomorrow…such promise.

  “I don’t suppose you ever saw the old bathroom.” Chris laughed, leading him to a closed door that he pushed open onto a gleaming vision of white, blue and chrome. “But believe me, this is better.”

  “I was spared your uncle’s bathroom!” Tarquin remarked. “This is extraordinary. And must’ve cost you a packet! Just keep singing to the pig, Chris, and all shall be well, I’m certain of it.”

  Chris laughed again, but Tarquin was reminded of his sadness at saying goodbye to his car last week. The day of the tack room, in fact. The day on which everything had changed. Perhaps he was just all done with city show though. He had Beardsley’s ancient Land Rover to bowl about in, after all. It was better than nothing.

  “If I’d known about this one month from moving in clause before, I might have held off on the home improvements. I was here for a few weeks on and off, sleeping in a sleeping bag, beans on toast for every meal, just me and my DIY. And all the time you were next door.” He walked past the claw-footed bath to the shower and reached in past the screen to press a button. A moment later, jets of water seemed to be shooting from everywhere, filling Tarquin with a whole raft of fresh new thoughts. “I suppose if they chuck me out, I could fight it, but that’ll cost another fortune.” Chris turned back to Tarquin, one thumb hooked beneath the waistband of his shorts. “Permission to drop ‘em, squire?”

  Tarquin was grinning so broadly, he feared his face might jam forever in a huge smile. “Permission definitely granted!”

  “You look gorgeous tonight,” Chris told him as he finally kicked his last scrap of clothing aside. “But I bet you know that.”

  Tarquin had to force himself to speak. His gaze roamed Chris’ body. He couldn’t decide to what to gawp at first. “I do? I’m just…dressing for Friday night dinner really! Sorry—well, this is the first time seeing you without a stitch on, and can I just say… Good Lord, Chris, you’re a strapping chap!”

  “A strapping, sweaty chap, I’m afraid.” He stepped into the shower. “What’s the dress code for guests?”

  “I don’t suppose you wear corduroy trousers?” Tarquin ran his hand back through his hair. I’m dressed like a bloody geography teacher on a field trip. “Smart casual. Throw on a shirt. Just make sure it’s seen an iron recently!”

  “Well, I actually ironed one ready for my gift mission tomorrow, so I’m good to go.” He closed his eyes and tipped his head back beneath the water, letting it run over him. “God, that feels good after today.”

  Tarquin glanced at the bathroom’s fittings, wondering if he really should be doing this. But hadn’t he paid to watch videos of handsome men showering, then hastily closed the browser when Petunia appeared? This was the real thing. And a man who wanted him, and seemed to be enjoying the fact that Tarquin was there.

  “Lots of soap, captain!” Tarquin demanded, in the voice of the squire. “Get yourself into a lather, man!”

  Because you’re getting me into one.

  Chris shook his head to clear the water droplets from his lashes, then opened his eyes. With his gaze dancing over Tarquin, he took a bottle from the shelf and opened the lid, squeezing a dollop of the liquid it contained into his palm. The aroma was a heady spice, the same scent that Tarquin had tasted on his skin, and now he watched as Chris ran his assured hands across his chest, trailing decadent bubbles over the contours. This was better than any video and it was just for him.

  “That’s excellent, captain! Impressive work!” Tarquin moved closer and took the large bath towel from the rail. It was so soft, and Tarquin held it to his cheek as he watched.

  Nobody had ever done anything like this for him. It didn’t seem quite real. Yet it was real, because there was another botanical scent as Chris squeezed a pool of shampoo into his palm. He turned as he reached up and shampooed his hair, all the better to show off the rippling muscles in his back.

  The finest man I ever saw.

  Tarquin said in an undertone, “And don’t forget the buttocks, my dear fellow!”

  And of course he did as he was told, throwing Tarquin a heated look over his shoulder. Then he brought both hands round to his buttocks, massaging the shower gel into a lather. Tarquin pretended it was his hands massaging those buttocks, and he imagined himself there, naked with Chris as the warm water cascaded over them.

  All of Tarquin’s Christmases had come at once.

  “Firm strokes, that’s it!”

  And he watched Chris’s hands move with increased vigor, sweeping and caressing, swirling bubbles across his firm buttocks.

  “Do I have your permission to touch myself, squire?” His voice was a low whisper. “Please?”

  “Yes, captain, you do. And make as much of a spectacle of yourself as you wish!”

  The world seemed to have fallen away now, leaving nothing but Hardacre Grange and this gleaming bathroom, one man so respectably clothed, the other so lewdly naked. There was no Petunia, no dinner waiting, no Pimms and no camembert—there was just Tarquin and Chris and, as they now both knew, their affair. Chris turned back toward Tarquin, his erection standing out shamelessly between them then. With his elegant hand still garlanded with rich suds, Chris wrapped his fingers around himself.

  “You know…you know when I said I had no wish to see your tilly-tadger?” Tarquin’s gaze was now fixed on it, a wonderful specimen of manhood in Chris’ square hand. “Did you know I was lying?”

  “When you used the word Grecian, I knew you were lying.” He reached up behind his head and wrapped the fingers of his free hand around the chrome shower fitting, the muscles in his arm and torso tightening with the gesture. Any more words were lost in a soft moan of pleasure as he made a spectacle of himself, just as Tarquin had asked him to.

  “Brazen and lewd and marvelous—captain, you make your squire very happy indeed.” Tarquin loosened his belt, his roomy corduroy trousers straining somewhat as Chris performed just for him. The water cascaded down over his body and his hand moved fast and hard, his lips parting to release another moan as every moment Tarquin’s sensible cords grew tighter still.

  “Don’t hold back—let go when you need to, captain.” Tarquin could have skipped wi
th glee, but he took a steadying breath before he said, “You have my permission to come.”

  “Thank you, squire,” Chris gasped.

  As Tarquin watched, his muscles tightened just a little more, the change almost imperceptible were Tarquin not studying him quite so intently. A second later Chris’ orgasm seized him and his whole body buckled forward, anchored only by his hand on the gleaming chrome fitting.

  “By God, you’re a glorious sight!”

  Tarquin risked the enthusiastic jets of water to reach into the shower and turn it off, then he draped the bath towel around Chris’ shoulders. “Let me help up, you dear old thing.”

  “Was that a nice pre-dinner treat, darling?” Chris asked, kissing Tarquin’s cheek and taking the corner of the towel in one hand. “If you’re going to help me with the house tomorrow, we might both need a shower.”

  “It was a lovely treat and I’m sure we’ll work up quite a sweat tomorrow, hammering away!” Tarquin amused himself toying with Chris’ wet hair, which only made the tightness of his cords worse. “I have a slight trouser-related issue to deal with. Erm…”

  “Erm?” he teased, innocently. “Maybe I can help with that?”

  Tarquin wondered if Chris would see that he was blushing. “I’d be very grateful. Not to mention very happy!”

  “Maybe you could dry my hair? Multitasking at its finest.” Chris put the towel in Tarquin’s hand then dropped to his knees. He unbuttoned the sensible cords and slid the zip down, gazing up at him all the time.

  “You have lovely hair,” Tarquin told him as he began to rub Chris’ hair. “It reminds me of a field of wheat. You know how the wind stirs it and—sorry, I…I do sound like a right twit sometimes.”

  “Don’t ever say that about yourself. There’s nothing twittish about showing some sensitivity.” Chris eased Tarquin’s boxers down, freeing his erection. “And there’s nothing wrong with being sexy in cords either. Do we need to be quick?”

  “Sadly, yes.” Tarquin had slowed in his hair drying, but sped up now, vigorously rubbing. “But to be honest, that shower performance of yours was so arousing, I don’t think it’ll take very long!”