Page 77 of Rears & Vices

But Vitaliy shook his head. “No, matelot. Not significantly.” He smiled. “Options are always good.”

“Right,” Everard said, baffled. “I don’t know if…” Options. Was that what D’Arcy was? “Well. I’ll… take you at your word, then.” He detached himself from the lines and about-faced to climb down. He acknowledged D’Arcy, who nodded and bounced on his heels once, straight-faced.

Was he an option? Or was he inevitable?

Everard made one last look over. Vitaliy’s attention was vigilant and workmanlike again, already back on the glass.

Everard stepped sideways, straddling, invading space. “Vitya.”

Vitaliy pulled aside the glass with a grunt of surprise, caught Everard by the waist as he leaned in, and let the lines take their weight. Everard kissed him, full on the mouth.

After a moment, Vitya broke off, biting gently. He mumbled, “Go.”

Everard went before he lost his nerve entirely.

On deck, D’Arcy looked up at him from under tumultuous curls. “Braggart. Peacock. Bull. What a display.”

Everard smoothed his waistcoat. He was already breathing as though he’d climbed four sets of ratlines, up and down.

“You are the very devil, Preston. I cannot believe you.”

D’Arcy grinned like a fool. “Yes, you can. You’ve done this before.”

Oh, he had. “Come on.”

He led the way.

Three-quarter hours.

In the Navy, nobody had much read into their disappearing on the cusp of battle. Even if Everard looked out of his wits with anticipation, D’Arcy had a dissembler’s effortless nonchalance, an ease that usefully deflected attention.

Too, he was very good at remaining quiet under duress.

D’Arcy followed him, calm and hands-in-pockets. But as they swung round aft to the teniente’s quarters, surrounded by pirates and cannon and all the preparations of battle, D’Arcy pulled him against the partition wall and kissed him, leant the whole of himself against the whole of Everard, chest and hips and knees.

Everard gulped as his stomach swooped in shuddering leaps. He glanced round⁠—

“Ever.” D’Arcy drew his attention gently back, and the look on his face—no dissembling today, no, sir—Everard’s mouth went dry. D’Arcy’s eyes were dark, long-lashed, mischievous beneath arched brows, almost villainous in their knowledge: You know what’s to come, and you can’t stop it.

No. Not if it killed him.

D’Arcy pushed his hips in close once more—making Everard gasp louder than he meant—and reached for the latch of the apartment door.

“You’ll have to be gentle,” D’Arcy murmured against his lips as their steps tangled, as Everard was pulled across the threshold. “Careful. Quiet.”

“Right.” Everard stamped down disappointment, ashamed at himself. It didn’t matter. “Of course.” Then he paused. “Really?”

D’Arcy laughed. He kicked the door shut; it creaked and then banged. Resolute.

“Hell, no. Absolutely not.” He’d at some point undone all Everard’s buttons, and now spread clothing aside for exquisite access. He leaned in to nip at Everard’s ear. “Like the first time, hmm? But loud.”

Everard groaned.

“Yes, precisely that loud,” D’Arcy said approvingly, and kissed him.

The first time. Too long past. Everard had known that First Lieutenant Preston D’Arcy wanted him. Despite Everard’s best efforts, D’Arcy had known he was wanted in return.

And so, with a Frenchie bearing down on them, mere minutes away, D’Arcy had given him one significant look as he handed over an impeccable diagram of the ship’s maneuver. A rueful smile.