The Captain and the Squire

by Catherine Curzon

  Tarquin brushed his mouth over Chris’ then replied, “An excuse to have shower?”

  “Sorry for dragging you away from your hunt, squire.” Chris’ voice shifted into that slightly more plummy tone, the bray that he had first heard from the hot tub in what seemed like another lifetime. “Took my eye off the horizon so I could have a good look at that arse of yours!”

  “I suppose I should apologize for having a godlike rump, but by Jove, I refuse!” Tarquin guffawed like the squire. “Because you love it, captain.”

  Chris tossed his hair and said breezily, “It’s nice enough, I suppose, for a rural arse! Very shapely considering you sit on a tractor all day chewing a piece of straw.”

  Tarquin slapped his thigh and the sound of hand against flank reverberated around the hallway. “I’ll have you know I chew straw in a robust, manly fashion. You’d swoon away to see me do it, you Canary Wharf canary!”

  “Sitting in your combine harvester,” he teased, “counting sheep and baling hay!”

  “And thinking about my next opportunity to tie you up and spank you.” Tarquin nibbled Chris’ earlobe, then dragged his lips over Chris’ throat. “Then give you the best fuck you’ve ever had.”

  He felt the quickening of his lover’s pulse beneath his lips. Chris tipped his head back a little and asked, “Upstairs, squire?”

  “Yes—quick—before I burst through my jodhs!” Tarquin chuckled. He let Chris lead him up the staircase past those painted Hardacres, that gorgeous jodhpur-clad arse tantalizingly in his reach.

  Off to the promised land again.

  Naughty, forbidden, wonderful fun awaited, and Tarquin almost rubbed his hands together with glee. Once they were at the top of the stairs, he gave Chris’ arse a slap.

  “Into the bathroom with you, captain!”

  Chris gave a wiggle of his bottom in reply and together they almost tumbled into the bathroom, the fall forgotten.

  Tarquin pulled Chris into his arms, kissing him as deeply as he could as he gripped his buttocks through his jodhpurs. Was there anything better for framing a perfect bottom than the clinging fabric of jodhs?

  Chris groaned into the kiss, pressing his hips to Tarquin’s. His hands slid down over Tarquin’s back, possessive and fierce. Tarquin reached between them and roughly unbuttoned Chris’ jacket, then pushed it off his shoulders. He plucked the pin from Chris’ stock then kissed his way around Chris’ exposed neck.

  There was something almost forbidden in the curve of Chris’ throat when he let his head roll back, his arched neck a perfect, classic line for Tarquin to explore and enjoy. And he knew then that he could happily spend a lifetime exploring the planes of Chris’ body, not to mention sharing dishes of homemade crumble in bed. He had been enchanted.

  Chris’ cologne seemed to fill the room—that and the scent of their warm skin. Tarquin unbuttoned Chris’ shirt and let it fall to the floor before he stroked the muscles of Chris’ back and those strong shoulders. How had they ended up here? How was he, a pillar of village society, standing fully dressed with a half-naked man in his embrace? A half-naked man whose jodhpurs were even now straining to contain his erection, in fact.

  “Boots off, captain,” Tarquin ordered, his voice thick with desire. With just a touch of studied insouciance Chris sank to sit on the edge of the gleaming bath and lifted one leg.

  “Give me a tug, squire?”

  Tarquin took the boot and slowly pulled it from Chris’ leg. Then he bowed his head to kiss Chris’ toes.

  “Oh, Tarks,” Chris sighed happily. “You’re bloody lovely.”

  “I try to be.” Tarquin grinned as he set the boot aside. “Next foot. Chop-chop, captain!”

  He swung his leg up, gripping onto the edge of the bath as he leaned back. “Yes, sir!”

  Tarquin crouched down in front of him, knowing full well what that would look like as his jodhpurs stretched against his thighs. And his groin. Tarquin captured Chris’ leg and pulled the boot free with a deliberate grunt of effort. He kissed Chris’ toes again.

  “You better not be wearing anything under those jodhs, captain!”

  “Nothing,” he breathed, gazing unashamedly at Tarquin’s jodhpurs. “And you, squire?”

  “Not a thing!” Tarquin pushed aside the squire for a moment to remark, “And it doesn’t chafe at all!”

  Chris laughed and lifted his foot until he could stroke his elegant toes down Tarquin’s chest.

  “Would you like me to stay dressed a little bit longer?” Tarquin circled his fingertip against Chris’ ankle. He cocked his head to one side and gazed at Tarquin for a long moment.

  “I want whatever you want,” he said eventually. “Is that very soppy of me?”

  Tarquin kissed Chris’ foot. “I want to get into that shower with you and give you a good scrub. And make sure you haven’t got any horrid scratches or bruises.”

  “So let’s get you out of those gorgeous clothes?” Chris lowered his feet and stood. “And let’s get into that shower.”

  * * * *

  The warm water cascaded down over them as Tarquin caressed Chris’ body, examining him for any sign of injury, even the slightest, from his fall. It wasn’t exactly an arduous job, but Chris’ fall had really worried Tarquin. The thought of any harm coming to Chris terrified him. Yet there wasn’t a mark on his lightly tan skin, not a scratch or blemish. Even so, he would have stern words with Bryan Reeve.

  But for now, Tarquin would enjoy their stolen moment together. “Captain, your body is as perfect as ever. Your insolent nipples and your eager cock are hard and ready, I see!”

  “My nipples were never more insolent than they are right now.” He grinned, reaching back to slide his arm around Tarquin’s waist. “What’re you going to do about it, squire?”

  “Give you a good, hard fuck.” Tarquin pressed his erection against Chris’ buttock. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “I’d love it,” Chris purred. With a moan he ground back against Tarquin’s cock while his fingertips teased between Tarquin’s buttocks. He turned his head and sighed. “You know how to keep a demanding captain like me very happy.”

  Tarquin kissed Chris’ cheek then, because he was a little embarrassed, whispered, “I want you to beg me.”

  Perhaps there was something ironic about begging to be begged, but Tarquin couldn’t help asking.

  And Chris paused. It was only for a second but to Tarquin it felt like hours, an interminable interlude as he waited for his lover’s response. Had he misunderstood their relationship so badly?

  But as Chris reached out for the bottle of shower gel, Tarquin’s anxieties melted away.

  “You want me to beg, squire?” Chris opened the lid and squeezed the bottle, pouring a sensuous slick of gel over his chest. Then he began to massage it into his skin, lathering thick bubbles over those contoured muscles. “Is that what you’d like?”

  “Yes—please.” Tarquin’s voice was hoarse with need. “Beg me, captain, please beg me.”

  “Take me,” Chris begged. He took Tarquin’s hands in his own and ran them through the bubbles, tensing his muscles beneath his palms. His voice was breathless with need, low and heated. “Please, squire, I need you. Fuck me, please.”

  Oh, God.

  Then Chris glanced back and, every inch the frustrating city boy that he played so well, asked with feigned insolence, “Would you like some more?”

  A jolt of desire ran through Tarquin. “Yes, more, please, more!”

  “You’re so big,” he sighed, sliding Tarquin’s hands over his nipples with a moan of desire. This wasn’t an act, Tarquin knew, it was only the city boy’s insolence that was part of the game. “I want you to take me. I want you to fuck me as hard as you can, to hold me down and have me.”

  “Captain, I will!” Tarquin reached for the condom that he’d sensibly brought into the shower with them and discreetly placed on the soap tray with a tube of lubricant. “Hands on the tiles while I ready myself.”

&nb
sp; Chris reached out and put his palms flat on the tiles. Even as Tarquin prepared himself, he could see that his lover was peacocking again, making the best of his water-slicked skin as he subtly tensed for him. It’s fair to say Bryan hadn’t intended this when he sent Chris flying into that hedge.

  “You’re a splendid sight, captain! The perfect man for your squire!”

  Tarquin held Chris around the waist with one strong arm and wrapped Chris’ erection in his other hand as he slowly entered him. Tarquin closed his eyes, overcome by a rush of affection and longing as their bodies joined once again, with lust roaring in with Tarquin’s first thrust.

  Chris gave a hoarse cry of delight and pushed his body back to meet Tarquin. Then he arched his neck and kissed him in a glorious tangle of sighs and moans. At that moment, Tarquin seemed only to exist to pleasure Chris, to bring the gorgeous man in his arms exquisite joy.

  “Hold my wrists.” Chris flexed his fingers against the tiles. “Please…”

  Tarquin took Chris’ wrists and held them tight, pressed to the tiles, while thrusting as hard and deep as he could. How amazing it felt to have this muscular man relinquishing his strength to him, wanting pleasure in return. Every stroke and thrust drew a fresh moan of abandon from Chris’ pouting lips and he drove back against Tarquin, their bodies so closely joined that it seemed they had almost become one, sharing the same needs and pleasures, a connection that positively blazed.

  “Do you want to come?” Tarquin held Chris’ wrists even tighter. Chris arched his neck, catching Tarquin’s lips for a fevered kiss before he managed to gasp his reply.

  “I need you…”

  “I need you too…” Tarquin blinked away the water that had fallen into his eyes, then in a deep voice, he said, “Beg me for permission to come.”

  “Please,” Chris moaned, driving back onto Tarquin’s cock. “Please, squire, let me come.”

  “Beg harder,” Tarquin purred.

  “You delicious bloody bastard…” Chris dropped his voice to a low, lustful plea. “Please…I need to come. Tell me I can come…you know you love it too.”

  Tarquin nibbled Chris’ earlobe, then whispered hotly, “You have my permission. Come, captain!”

  It was like having the most remarkable and inappropriate magical power imaginable, because before the words had left his mouth, Tarquin felt the telltale tremors in Chris’ body. He gave a cry of pleasure and bucked hard against Tarquin, consumed by his orgasm.

  “Christopher Hardacre, bloody hell!” Tarquin cried as his own climax shot through him. He slapped the tiles with the flat of his hand, then held Chris tight as they leaned against the wall of the shower together, their entire bodies softened with answered pleasure.

  “Wow…” Chris’ voice was dreamy with happiness. “Tarks, you’re wonderful.”

  Tarquin covered Chris’ neck with affectionate kisses. “Let’s have a lie down. But I can’t stay too long. Sorry, darling.”

  “The Master of the Hunt has to be there for the boozy lunch.” Chris smiled. “And I’ll be there too, but I’ll try not to just gaze at you all afternoon.”

  “Shame I can’t have you sitting on my lap!” Tarquin gave Chris’ bottom a slap.

  This is how a couple of fellows should spend a Sunday. What could be better?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Tarquin glanced at Chris’ bedside clock. “Should head off to the lunch now, I suppose?”

  But he didn’t want to go. It was so snug and lovely in Chris’ bed, with his lover wrapped around him. Who would want to walk away from that?

  One last kiss.

  He ruffled Chris’ hair and kissed him. “My gorgeous captain.”

  “I’ll arrive ten minutes behind you,” Chris murmured. “And pretend I’m not desperate to kiss every bit of you.”

  Tarquin stroked Chris’ jaw, mesmerized by the ocean depths of his blue eyes. “We can slip away for a couple of minutes if we can’t resist each other.”

  “Tarks…” Chris sighed with contentment. “I—”

  The door, which had been ajar, suddenly flew open and there, her eyes wide and dark with fury, stood Ms. Petunia Rudd. For a moment she was silent, then she said in a surprisingly calm snarl, “We’re waiting for you at the pub. Get dressed now.”

  Tarquin stared. He was quite possibly having an out-of-body experience, because it seemed as if he were watching from somewhere against the ceiling, looking down on the scene below. He wasn’t scared, but oddly detached. As if he’d been waiting for this moment to come. And now that it had, he could relax.

  “You could knock,” he said as he began to turn back the duvet. “I was just on my way. I’ve checked Chris over and he’s fine, but Bryan—oh, he’s in one hell of a lot of trouble.”

  As are you, you damn fool.

  “Petunia—would you give me a moment? I need to find my jodhs.”

  “I think they’re in the bathroom,” Chris said helpfully, then addressed Petunia. “I’m sorry, we didn’t—”

  “I really don’t want to know.” She stalked into the en suite, and a moment later Tarquin’s discarded clothes came flying out, hurled with the might of the sixth form medal-winning shot-putter Petunia had once been. “Mr. Hardacre, you’re too sore to come to the hunt drinks this afternoon, I think.”

  “He has every right to come to the hunt drinks if he wants to.” Tarquin rolled his eyes at Chris as he got out of bed. He hopped about on one leg as he put his jodhs back on, hoping he wouldn’t discover they were inside out once he’d squeezed into them.

  Chris looked mortified though, a look that only grew worse when she called, “He’s just another typical, lying, faithless, dirty Hardacre! You could do a lot better if you must have your final fling.”

  Tarquin tucked his shirt into his jodhs and peered around the bathroom door. He flinched back. Now his fear hit him.

  Oh my fucking bloody God, she’s going to murder me in my bed.

  “Not in the man’s own home, Tuney! Chris is…” Gorgeous and sexy and he needs me. “Is a…an excellent chap!”

  Petunia pushed past Tarquin and strode back into the bedroom. She came to stand beside the bed, where Chris appeared to have frozen in guilt-stricken horror, and put her hands on her hips.

  “Your pig won’t be coming home,” she said in a low, menacing sneer. “And on the day you’re kicked out, I’ll serve her with apple sauce and throw the party of a lifetime. Tarquin, pub, now!”

  Tarquin hobbled across the room after her, wedging his foot into his boot as he forced his arm into his jacket.

  “She’s joking, Chris, just having a laugh!” His voice was tight and strained, a terrified squeak that was a world away from the squire’s confident boom. “I’ll see you soon—come round for a drink one evening!”

  “God, I hope you used protection.” Petunia grimaced. “You never know with Hardacres, they could’ve been anywhere. All the money in the world, no class.”

  “Tarks,” Chris called weakly, looking like a man who was suffering from shell shock, “I’m sorry.”

  “He isn’t sorry at all, Tarquin,” Petunia informed him as she seized his hand and dragged him from the room like an unruly child at playschool. “Come along, people’re waiting. Can’t let the village down.”

  “No, indeed, can’t let the good people of Bough Bottoms down. Duty calls.”

  Tarquin smoothed down his jacket. At least he’d showered.

  * * * *

  Can anyone tell?

  Tarquin had spent the drinks party smiling when all he wanted to do was hide in a corner and cry. What the hell could he do? He’d never wanted Petunia to find out, never set out to hurt her, but hadn’t he realized that she’d find out eventually?

  Idiot, idiot, what a fucking idiot.

  He chuckled and shook hands and smiled in photos, all the time knowing that inside that shell of bonhomie was a failure of a man who had blundered about in the shadows because he couldn’t be himself.

  Petunia should never ha
ve said what she had about Chris in front of him, but his uncle had been a dreadful man. What if Chris was just as bad? All that sighing and moaning, and that party with his dreadful mates—he was a hedonist.

  A rogue.

  Bryan had told everyone that his arm had spasmed and he’d accidentally hit Chris’ mount, and Tarquin had nodded but he had no idea anymore—what was true? Was everyone concealed behind a false exterior, just like him?

  And Chris was so good at assuming his role of captain, the city-slicking canary from the Wharf, the man who had to charm his way into the village because he had nowhere else to go. What if it was all one big act? He stood to inherit a fortune if he could convince the Oracle of Delphi to come home, and what better way than seducing the man she trusted?

  He wouldn’t.

  But what if he had?

  He looked at Petunia standing among an adoring crowd of her friends, the village ladies hanging on her every word as she discussed the plans for the wedding next year, the petunias in the church, the petunias in her bouquet, the ivory gown with its eight-foot train and the family pearls that would be stitched into her veil. Petunia was normality. She was respectability and safety and a life without surprises or silken cords or the squire. As Mr. Petunia Rudd, he would wrap that fearsome fellow in newspaper and pack him safely away in a forgotten attic, a memory of what had once been.

  A memory of what could never be.

  Tarquin hung his head. How could he have done all…all those things? The spanking, the tying up, the sex?

  My word, the sex.

  Tarquin drained his glass in one go. No, he would be good ol’ Tarks, and he would behave from now on.

  Petunia didn’t need a squire, after all. She wasn’t that sort of girl.

  It wasn’t until members of the rowing team began to depart for training that Tarquin realized there was something worse than being at the pub with Petunia. It was the prospect of going home and being alone with her in her silent, stoic fury. And Chris next door, equally alone, that last sentence unfinished.

  I…

  What was he going to say?