Page 69 of Rears & Vices

Vitya wrapped fingers round the head of Everard’s cock, and stroked: gently, lightly, not nearly enough.

Or so he thought. “Oh, no.” Everard cursed as his thighs shook, and climax came upon him. “Oh, god.”

That was him with his head thrown back; him panting, pleading, writhing. Through it all, Vitya kept up his subtle thrusts, kept Everard close and restrained as he trembled, kept him atop the carriage as he arched.

“What—in—hell,” Everard panted, at last. He looked down, and saw no spend but a slick wetness. He was still hard beneath Vitya’s fingers. “How in hell⁠—”

Vitya put his thumb to his mouth, looking pleased with himself. He withdrew carefully, hauled Everard up, brought him close, kissed him again.

Head spinning, Everard attempted to snatch back flailing lines, to seize control into his grasp once more.

“Take me to bed,” he said against perfect lips.

Vitya hummed, wrapped Everard’s legs and arms around himself, and lifted. Carried him with heavy, thudding steps into the greatcabin, dropped him down into the cot. Undressed totally, and then laid himself over Everard, dense and warm, and kissed him and kissed him until Everard’s legs spread and his cock ached.

“Vitya,” he begged. “Please.”

“Now,” Vitya whispered, “I will do what I want.”

“What… ever,” Everard muttered, mad with lust. The rag-stuffed mattress was bliss beneath them. “However you want it.”

Vitya shifted, set down Everard’s legs that swayed like reeds, and straddled his waist.

Everard’s focus wavered, addled with desperation, confused by lust. He stared down.

“Dear God. Like this?”

“Yes,” Vitya confirmed, nonetheless a question.

“However you like,” Everard replied dazedly. He reached down, fumbling to assist, pushed himself upright. He was wet all over from the strange, pseudo-release. It would more than do. “I should warn you, I’m not sure that— It might not⁠—”

“Fuck,” Vitya said softly, and sank down.

“Might not take much,” Everard finished, wheezing. Yes; despite his misgivings, he was absolutely going to be capable of further release. Currently, it was held back through force of will alone.

Vitya kissed him. Even his breaths were quiet.

But he had his recompense. Everard held on for dear life.

Seventeen

Days later, long before first light, Everard sought answers simply, in the way Vitaliy seemed to always encourage from him: by asking.

They lay rocking in the massive cot, beneath the A-frame ripple of mosquito net: side-by-side, sticking, and sated. Vitaliy had mentioned in his direct way that he did like to be awoken, impromptu, for sex—as long as it was assured he was truly wakeful before proceeding. Everard had done this gladly, with enthusiasm, and there’d been a lot of proceeding, with gloriously no interruption at all.

Then he worked up his nerve and asked about Alarie.

Vitaliy said, “Louis-Michel wants me because he had me last year in Cartagena.”

“Oh?”

Vitaliy shifted onto his side and brushed his socked foot against Everard’s. Everard found Vitya’s preference for socks in the Caribbean heat mildly strange but also endearing. The wool tickled; the sheet woven betwixt their bare legs felt floaty and cool.

“Not like that,” Vitaliy said. “In his flotilla. He was commodore, at the siege. Do you know of it?”

He did. News of that conflict had reached Upper Canada, and he remembered it well. Spanish Royalists, intent on reconquest, had sieged Cartagena de Indias for months on end; reports were that a quarter, maybe even a third, of New Granada’s population had starved.

“The Sévère carried Cartagena’s marque at his request,” Vitya said.