The Captain and the Cricketer

by Catherine Curzon

  “Do people just call by unannounced often?” As he awaited the response, George dropped his boxers and stepped out of them. Then he set his sunglasses and watch down atop his discarded clothes, shedding the very last remnants of the world.

  “N-no one ever calls.” Henry knew it was rude to stare, but George, standing there stark naked beside the lake, muscled and masculine from toes to neck, feminine in the face, was the most erotic sight Henry had ever seen. He couldn’t look away. A noise escaped his mouth. It might have been “Oh my God,” but Henry wasn’t entirely sure.

  “Are you coming in?” George held out his hand. “You look terribly hot and bothered, it’ll be nice.”

  Swim? Without swimming trunks, without a towel—without a bloody care in the world!

  “If a chap can’t swim naked in his own bloody lake, then what, I ask you, is the world coming to?” Had Henry just said that? He appeared to have done. And it was Henry who was untying his shoes as fast as he could and had his shirt off before he could remember his scar, pulling it over his head to save time unbuttoning it. Once he had dropped his trousers, it became obvious that his boxer shorts could do very little to conceal his appreciation at the sight of George’s nudity, so he took a deep breath and asked, “Should I? Or am I too indecent to go naked?”

  “You’re the most marvelous sight I’ve ever seen.” George’s gaze swept over Henry’s naked body, the sunlight leaving him with no hope of hiding the scar, but there was nothing in those green eyes but love and—there was no avoiding it—passion.

  Who would ever have thought it?

  “Come on then, you can’t go swimming in your underwear, after all.” George put his hands on his hips and affected a stern look. “It’s not British, old boy!”

  Henry gave him a lopsided grin and swept his hand through his hair. “All right. I’ll do it. We always used to dare each other—we haven’t changed so much!”

  Henry dropped his boxer shorts and kicked them away. He stood there in his own garden, by his own bloody lake, the warm sun on his skin and the light breeze ruffling his hair.

  “I feel free!” Henry punched the air, then ran down to the lake’s edge, where he flung himself at the water in an enthusiastic but clumsy dive.

  “Go on!” George gave a cry of encouragement and ran down after him, tucking his knees into his chest as he bombed down into the water just as he always had done in boyhood. The bigger surprise came when Jez followed them down to the edge and touched the surface of the lake with his velvety muzzle. He drew back a little and walked a few more feet, occasionally brushing the surface until, with a small, tentative movement, he stepped down into the water. It wasn’t deep here, rising to just above Jez’s knees, and he stood happily, swishing his tail and surveying this new, unexpected world.

  Henry moved his arms in figure-of-eights to keep afloat, then kicked his way through the water over to George.

  “Jez seems to like the lake as much as his dad does!”

  “Dads, Fitz.” He looped his arms around Henry’s neck. “If you don’t mind?”

  “I would love to be Jez’s dad.” Henry pecked a kiss to George’s mouth. Miraculously, despite his dive-bombing, George’s makeup had stayed put. It was like swimming with a very sexy Georgian water nymph. “What a handsome son we have!”

  “And don’t think I’ve forgotten that you must have a dog!”

  “You’ll have to help me choose one. A fresh-faced puppy? Or some poor old loveable sod with one eye and a broken tail?”

  “We don’t need to stop at one, do we? Whatever, though, let’s make it a rescue like Jez?”

  “I wouldn’t have anything else.”

  As Henry kissed George again, holding him close, enjoying the sensation of their wet skin touching, he wondered just how much swimming they would get done. The kiss went on and on, their bodies tight together as the water soothed him after the rigors of the afternoon.

  A horse, dogs, George staying in the village—everything was perfect. The only fly in the ointment drove a Ferrari and wore tasteless belts. But at this moment, Henry didn’t want that odious man anywhere near his thoughts. He kissed his lover with renewed passion, to push away the unwanted thoughts that would otherwise crowd in on him. Their legs tangled, and they rose and fell in the water as they held on to each other. Henry ran his fingertips down George’s spine to the dimple just above his pert bottom and circled it there.

  A soft moan of approval escaped George’s lips into the kiss and Henry felt his lover’s hands come to rest on his own bottom in a firm, rather determined grip. He certainly wouldn’t get swept away, that was for certain. George’s breath seemed to be coming quicker than ever with each second that passed and he shifted his hips, his erection pressing against Henry’s.

  Between kisses, Henry whispered, “I owe you for yesterday evening. Don’t like to be in a gentleman’s debt.”

  Under the water, he closed his hand around George’s erection. His strokes were slowed by the weight of the water, the sensations all the keener as he felt every contour of his lover’s cock in his hand. In reply, George took Henry’s erection in his palm, echoing his movements. His grip was firm and sure, his kisses deeper than ever. What magic had George worked on him? A week ago he had been grumping about alone, buttoned tightly in tweed. Now he was naked in the lake, in the arms of the man he loved. And on this perfect summer afternoon, they were making plans for the future. Their future.

  “I’ll never hurt you,” George whispered, nuzzling Henry’s jaw. “I swear it.”

  “I know you won’t. And I’ll never hurt you.”

  George’s hand tightened on Henry, the strokes faster. Henry increased his efforts in response, his hips bucking against George’s hand as he moaned with the pleasure George gave him. He felt George’s other hand slide across his buttocks, caressing and stroking beneath the surface of the water and all the time those soft, erotic groans in his throat, a sound of utter abandon.

  George’s wonderful racket filled Henry’s ears, the water rippling and splashing around them as they brought each other to pleasure. They kissed deeply, tongues sliding together. Henry’s moans turned into a cry of joy as his hips jerked forward and he came in his lover’s arms. He shivered as his orgasm trembled on, dutifully bringing George higher and higher, the groans in George’s throat singing of love and lust.

  “Fitz!” Henry’s name—the name George called him—was torn from his lover in a cry of delight. His hips moved hard against Henry’s hand, then he sank against him, his climax playing itself out in soft moans and gentle thrusts.

  They embraced, drifting in the lake, gazing at each other with happy, lazy smiles.

  Henry rested his lips against George’s ear. “You looked so beautiful when you came. If I hadn’t felt your skin against mine, I wouldn’t have believed you were real.”

  “I’m real and I’m yours.” George stroked his face. “Always.”

  They kissed slowly, the water lapping against them. Henry felt the bottom of the lake against the soles of his feet as they moved into the shallows.

  “We’ll never make the Olympic team if we swim like that, Captain George! Although there might be an opening in a very specialized synchronized event.”

  “Look at Jez.”

  The horse had ventured out farther and was merrily paddling up to his knees, tossing his mane with delight. George let his chin rest on Henry’s shoulder and watched with a soft smile, the foal seemingly oblivious to anything other than the delightful coolness of the lake.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Steph’s satin dress, hand-picked by an expert from a vintage shop in Paris, hung on the back of the wardrobe door. When she had tried it on, Steph had been ecstatic to discover that it clung in all the right places, with a neckline that plunged as low as it could without leading to arrest.

  She glanced at the dress over her shoulder as she brushed her hair.

  “Captain George’ll be putty in my hands, Ed-babes.”

&
nbsp; “He better bloody be, Stephy, because that damned vet seems to hang on his every word, from what I’ve heard.” Ed tipped his golf clubs onto the bed and sat beside them, a cleaning cloth in his hand. “You want to watch that. You sure Brookes isn’t pally with him again?”

  “Henry chased George out of his garden. Does that sound like someone being pally to you?”

  “He’s going to have to get bloody pally sharpish, though, isn’t he? Because he’s the only person Henry ever listened to!” He scowled at a clod of mud on the end of an expensive five iron. “I want a contract for the TV series and I want Brookes leaning heavily on the bloody vet to hand over the house.”

  “Hasn’t that old woman rung you yet, the one you gave your card to?” Steph had visions of enormous television cameras rolling away from her, out of reach. No series on the telly for her thanks to her useless husband. “Anyway, it’s a careful balance. George is still nostalgic for our childhoods—at least that’s the impression I got. And I’ll work it in our favor. I’m a master manipulator, Ed-babes—I’m always playing people off against each other. Just you wait and see.”

  Yes, just you wait and see, Ed-babes, when the divorce papers land on your desk and your ex-wife whisks George off to the Maldives for a wedding that will grace the pages of Hello!

  Steph wiped a cotton pad across her face, trying to remove her triumphant smirk. But Ed hadn’t looked up from his golf clubs.

  “He still hasn’t replied to the lawyer’s letter—I reckon he’s going to cave, Steph.” Ed laughed. “That lad who went mental with the cricket bat way back when wouldn’t cave, but timid old Henry the vet will. He’s not got two pennies to rub together. I just need to lean on him a little bit more and he’ll give up the manor to us. And then good ol’ Randy will find out that he’s not the only one who drives a hard bargain.”

  Ed chipped at the mud, affecting a New York accent. “Fifty million for a shitty flea-bitten house, Mr. Belcher?”

  “Why yes, Mr. Cheese,” he was himself again, “or there’ll be no Cheese Acres Golf Resort. You play Ed Belcher, you’re gonna lose. Cheese or no Cheese, this is my land, and I’m the only one who pisses on it!”

  Steph tittered, imagining Ed as he picked up that copy of Hello!, his ex-wife with her new husband posing for the cameras, smiling while Ed was utterly crushed. “You should go up there now and piss in that precious lake! He always banged on about the newts—but then he has a lot in common with them. Little and slithery, slinking about in the dark.”

  “You know what I should do? I’m going to nail him where no man can resist.” He stood and mimed a swing with the club. “I’m going to offer him half a mill cash right there on his doorstep, and he’ll kiss my feet. He’s all high morals now, but wait until he’s staring down a five hundred-k gun barrel, Stephanie.”

  Steph giggled inanely, but behind her rictus grin was the horrible thought—if Ed resolved the issue of the manor now, then what about George?

  There was still the TV contract, of course. Surely Ed would allow her to continue her flirtation for the sake of that?

  “He’s a miserable skinflint, is Henry.” Steph sniffed. “I bet he’s got fifty-pound notes stuffing his mattresses. He’s probably far richer than any of us can imagine. He’ll laugh at your half a mil. Go on—offer him three-quarters!”

  Steph eyed Ed carefully in the mirror. She enjoyed watching the kaleidoscope of colors that his face changed through whenever he was on the precipice, about to part with more money than he intended. From white, to puce, to blushing pink, to a worrying purple that signaled the early signs of a coronary. If only she were an artist and could capture the colors on canvas.

  “No,” he decided eventually. “It’s half or nothing. He says no, you need to flash the flesh at Brookes and Brookes needs to lean on his mate. If that doesn’t work, it’s court and I’ll bankrupt the fucker. Either way, I’m getting that house and holding a gun to Mr. Billionaire Cheese’s head.”

  He put his fingers to his temple and mimed pulling the trigger, then laughed.

  “I’d say you should shag Fitzwanker and get the house that way, but I don’t reckon he fucks anything, let alone the sexiest girl in Sussex. Eh, Stephy, eh? Only one man puts it to you and it’s not Fitztwat. Brookes too. He can touch as much as he likes, but he’s not putting his cock anywhere it shouldn’t go, right?” He assumed a high-pitched voice, obscene and wheedling. “Ooh, Georgie, you can give Stephy one after you’ve convinced Henry that he’d be better off without his house. Stephy’ll be waiting in her best knickers as soon as the papers are signed!”

  Steph pushed back the velvet-upholstered stool at the dressing table and stalked toward her delightful husband. She walked him back toward the bed and pushed him down with one nudge of the shoulder. Parting her silk dressing gown to reveal her tan, bare legs, she straddled his hips.

  “Well, darling, I am a monumental prick-tease.” She smiled as Ed chuckled between her legs. “There wasn’t any sex for my Ed-babes until our wedding night, was there? And no sex at all for television’s George Standish-Brookes—as my darling husband wishes.”

  Until the moment the divorce comes through.

  Steph brought down Ed’s zip and lightly dug her manicured nails into his testicles.

  “Not now, Stephy,” he told her. “I’m thinking about money. Get your arse over to the safe and pull out half a mill, I’m off to have a fucking laugh at Fitzwanker.”

  She dug her nails in a little more.

  “We’re going to get that manor, and we’re going to do whatever it takes, aren’t we, Ed-babes? But just remember, darling, your Stephy-Steph is easily upset sometimes. You have to let your Stephy-Steph have her treats.”

  “You’ve got your credit cards,” he told her snappily. “Now get over there and fetch the cash. Are you coming to watch the show?”

  Steph trotted through the thick, spongy carpet toward the enormous oil painting of their daughter. It was attached to the wall with a hinge, and Steph swung it outward to open the safe. She pressed her lips tightly together as she counted out the wads of notes.

  Ed picked up his club again, swinging merrily at the air.

  “I’m going to be the next Cheese, bigger than Sugar, bigger than Trump, big as a big fucking fat pair of swinging balls!” Ed declared. “Lord and Lady Belcher!”

  You’ll be as small and shriveled as your own dick by the time I’ve got my dues from the prenup.

  “Lady Steph has a certain ring to it, doesn’t it!” As does Sir George. She clanked the safe shut and swung the oil painting back. For a moment, her unfortunate daughter grinned back at her.

  Why did the poor girl have to resemble her father? It’s so very difficult to love the child.

  Steph slunk back to the bed and chucked the money onto the shiny duvet.

  “There you are! And I’m not coming—I’ll stay here and buff my toenails.”

  How long would her husband be gone? Half an hour, perhaps. She’d text George.

  No—Snapchat him. A smiley, friendly face and a bit of cleavage. Get him in the mood for tomorrow’s dance.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The past few days had drifted by as if Henry and George were floating along a river, hands dangling in the water as they traveled it together. They had met every evening, and shared a meal, laughed and kissed, and slept through the night in each other’s arms. ‘We’re still courting,’ they told each other, so held back from that moment, the intimate bodily connection that they both yearned for. But it would happen. ‘It’ll be very special if we wait.’ Although Henry wasn’t sure he could wait all that much longer.

  This evening, George had been at the village hall with the production crew, getting everything ready for the dance tomorrow. Like a groom hidden from the wedding preparations, George had insisted Henry stay at home—with the promise that George would come to the manor as soon as they were set up.

  Henry was waiting with a brandy in his armchair, looking through a list of poten
tial pets that he’d picked up from their nearest dog shelter. It was so hard to choose when he would willingly have given all of them a home.

  A knock sounded loud and heavy on the front door. It didn’t sound like George, but even so—Ed Belcher.

  Bloody hell.

  “Henry!” Belcher held a closed briefcase. “I’ve been thinking and I’ve not done right, putting pressure on you over your old house. It’s not the way old school mates should do business.”

  “Good. Then that means you’ll sod off and stop blathering on about some old bet between a gang of drunken hoorays two hundred years ago.” Henry made to push the door shut, but Ed interposed himself.

  “I’ve got a cool half mil here in used notes. Let’s shake hands here and now and do the deal.”

  “Are you high, Ed? Are you hallucinating? Can you see an estate agent’s for sale board in my front garden that is otherwise invisible to every other living soul? What part of my house is not for sale do you find so hard to understand?”

  “A grand an hour, that’s what you’re looking at for the sort of lawyer who can see off my people.” Ed sneered. “One. Thousand. Pounds. Per. Hour. What can you afford, Fitzwanker? Thirty minutes, maybe? Take the money, buy a little place, sit back and pay a girl to lick caviar off your balls. Let Eddie Belcher take this money pit off your hands.”

  Why had Steph chosen to marry such a grotesque bully?

  Bad Billy Fitzwalter would’ve fought tooth and nail for his home, and so would Henry. Until he had nothing left, he would fight—for the house he had grown up in, for the lake that he and George had loved in, for the grove of trees where the centuries collapsed in on themselves and the dead still walked.

  “Take that shiny little briefcase of yours and shove it, mate. Because I’m not being bought and I’m not being bullied. You’re not having my house. My house—not yours. My lawyer will be in touch! Go on, Ed—shove off!” Henry gripped Ed’s shoulder. He found his hand mainly full of foam padding, but he forced Ed to turn ninety degrees anyway. “There you go—there’s the gate. That’s where you came in at, and that’s where you’re sodding off to. Bye-ee!”