Page 70 of Rears & Vices

“At his plead?” Everard jested.

Vitaliy laughed softly, without humor. “No.”

“Wasn’t it horridly brutal?” Everard asked. “Four, five months long?”

“One hundred six days. Eventually, we took as many as we could to Les Cayes, but… many died.”

“Damn the Spanish,” Everard said fervently. He paused for a brief, silent prayer for the dead. Vitaliy withdrew a foot and pushed the cot into a slow rock once more. The ship was forever in motion, but Vitaliy minded being still even more than Everard.

“Weren’t you privateer for Madison, you said?” Everard asked.

Vitaliy inhaled like he’d been drifting off. “Early on, yes. Not beyond 1815. Madison tore up every commission as soon as he could, to appease the treaty and your Crown.”

“Not my Crown,” Everard said unthinking, surprising himself.

Hadn’t he thought it many times without being able to say it? Why now?

“No?” Vitaliy’s surprise floated up, a query mark of curiosity. But he said nothing further.

Everard imagined his thoughts. Not his Crown? He, the twenty-year career man? That Crown wasn’t his?

Backtracking, regretting, Everard spoke hastily into the quiet anticipation.

“How many prizes did you take for Madison?”

“Twenty-two, not including the Sévère.”

Everard whistled. Prizes were sometimes valued at one hundred thousand American dollars. “Your riches aren’t just vanilla.”

“No.” The query mark was still there, faintly. “Do you mind?”

“That I’ve tied myself to a king’s ransom, you mean?” Everard turned his head and kissed him, slid his tongue over the soft, welcoming fullness. “It’s an unfortunate complication, but I’m accustoming myself.” He reached, found Vitaliy already half-hard from the brief kiss. “You could spill on my chest—make it more worthwhile.”

Vitaliy laughed, warmly this time. “I like that you mind it,” he said, low. “I like that my wealth gave you pause. I won’t keep it forever.”

“I know that.” Vitya would keep it only as long as he must, to accomplish what he needed to, in order to succeed. “You needn’t justify it to me, of all.”

“But I do,” Vitya insisted. “Because you care for it.” He levered himself up and over, straddling. “And I want you to like me. The man. Not the pirate.”

“Er… no question of that, I hope,” Everard said dazedly. He stroked a thick thigh, flexed his fingers over fuzzed warmth. “Surely by now my alignment has been made clear?” The gold ring glinted in the moonlight. “I said yes. I want to stay. You gave me a printing press. I like everything about you, Vitya. I’m honored you want me by your side.”

Vitya gave a happy hum. Then, slowly, deliberately, he stroked himself. Everard was pinned, laid flat, stunned speechless not by the weight or even the beauty of Vitya’s body over him, but by the solemn, deep earnestness in his expression, the burning affection in dark eyes.

Everard had for once said the right thing. It seemed Vitya, the man—the strictly egalitarian, majority-elected, reluctant captain—did in fact like to be worshipped. Adored.

Everard thought, Worship I shall. And so he put out his tongue, and his fingers, and pulled the man closer.

“C’m’ere,” he said. “I’ll show you how much care I have.”

Afterward, Vitya bent, breathless, and licked errant drops from Everard’s skin.

“D’you think we might’ve met on the Atlantic?” Everard mused, gasping.

“Mm.” Vitaliy kissed up to Everard’s collarbone, soft and sucking. “Maybe.” He veered down, and Everard seized with ticklishness. “No, I think not. I would’ve hoped not. I know of your record.”

“Do you? Have you been speaking to Preston? He inflates these things out of proportion, you know.”

“Hmm,” Vitya said. “No.”