Page 78 of Rears & Vices

“Now, Everard,” he’d said softly. “If you want it—now, or not ever again.”

A hell of a thing to say, especially as the first time he’d used Everard’s given name. Not particularly nice, either, to give him an ultimatum under the influence of the strain of battle.

Of course, Everard had then found himself pushing D’Arcy against the perforated companionway door—the only standing room in the place; it wasn’t a large greatcabin—and before Everard really understood what was happening, emotionally, had had D’Arcy with arms splayed, back arched, holding the worked-filigree door shut. D’Arcy kept watch and held his body taut as Everard screwed into him like he had never before done to a man, hard and fast, dizzying with the effort not to breathe. He hadn’t even once got himself fully inside; it should’ve been unsatisfying. But D’Arcy had left a bite mark the size of a doubloon through his lieutenant’s uniform sleeve, and Everard had remembered nothing of the battle afterward, just that it’d got them promoted.

And the guilt. He’d remembered the guilt, too.

Now D’Arcy spun round against the door, shoved down pantaloons. Like the first time.

Everard had made a choice then. He’d made a choice today, on deck, with Vitya’s urging him on. Now, or not ever again.

Maybe not an ultimatum. Perhaps a warning.

But I could have died.

Why was he so—goddamn—fearless?

D’Arcy jerked. “Fuck, oh, fuck.” His fingers on the wood spasmed.

It wasn’t like the first time. Perhaps a little bit, in the lack of space. In D’Arcy’s taut, locked muscles. In the positioning, in the shape of Everard’s hands grasping his hips.

Otherwise…

Everard sheathed himself fully, nudged them forward. D’Arcy put his weight on his forearms, banged a fist on the door, took hiccupping breaths. Everard began anew.

“Shit, oh, Jesus Christ, ohhh, Ever. Keep talking. D-don’t stop.”

Was Everard speaking? To him, the loudest thing was his breathing; it kept coming back to him reflected from D’Arcy’s skin, hot and damp.

When did they get so close? There was no space between them. D’Arcy’s fingertips now only grazed the door in faint, just-in-case support. Everard had gathered the rest of him in, and he was no longer taut, no fight left in him, no resistance, no demand.

Everard’s face felt wet alongside D’Arcy’s, and he didn’t know what from, sweat or tears or both—or whose.

“Bed?” he gasped.

“Bed,” D’Arcy agreed.

One quarter-hour.

“If that was the last time—if I die today—top marks,” D’Arcy slurred.

“You won’t d—but you are ridiculous.” Everard pulled on his stockings. “You said that in York.” He nudged an oil-shiny arse cheek with a finger. “And on the Wanderer. And⁠—”

“Did I?” D’Arcy huffed. “You and your memory. I don’t remember what I said after. I do remember that prick.” He rolled, stretched, and yawned; when he opened his eyes, their hazel was bright and alert. “Now I can fight.”

Buttoning his waistcoat, Everard shook his head. He leaned down, squinted presumptuously, and kissed him on the forehead. “Was I sufficiently loud?”

“Mm-hmm.” D’Arcy ran his hands through curls. “I’ll say.” Stark naked, he launched up like a man ten years younger. “This is a delightful tradition. Let’s keep it.”

“You know,” Everard said with a laugh, “I rather think we have.”

Nineteen

“Larboard-aft battery, run out guns!” Everard bellowed.

The second-deck guns were hauled forward to their ports. Everard crouched to run behind the line of cannon, making an ungainly almost-crawl across the deck as he craned his head to take their sights. It wasn’t what an officer usually risked doing, and it wasted time, but he had to be sure he still had a high angle before smoke overcame them.

Vitaliy was abovedecks, calling for the Sévère to tack into the wind, the madman, and the mizzen was backed and straining to brink. The effect was she heeled sharply to larboard, making a high cannon-shot trajectory a tall ask.