The Captain's Flirty Fireworks

by Catherine Curzon

  Rob took a moment to get his breath back. That was close. He mussed Ollie’s hair, affectionate and playful, before saying, “The tart in me wants to take you from behind, but the romantic in me wants to gaze into your eyes.” He joined his hand with Ollie’s on his erection and kissed him.

  “Ease the jods down as far as you need to and indulge the tart first,” was Ollie’s advice once the kiss ended. “Then we can spend all night being romantic, but I’ve not been able to think straight since you landed on top of me.”

  “Nor have I!” Rob admitted. This was insane—Ollie was perfect. His dream man. Rob kissed him again and whispered, “On your knees, then. I’ll prepare the equipment.”

  Ollie was quick to obey, presenting that glorious bottom to him again as he wrapped his fingers around the wrought-iron filigree headboard. The jodhpurs clung to it, hugging the muscular curves, smoothed over the firm contours of his thighs. Gold medal standard indeed. Rob gave him a tap on the rear before opening the bedside drawer.

  “Stay right there, Ollie.” Rob rolled on a condom and slicked himself with lube, then gripped the waistband of the jodhpurs and slowly peeled them down to the middle of Ollie’s thighs. He took his time, wanting to savor the slow reveal of what would be a most spectacular sight. And of course it was. The jodhpurs hadn’t lied.

  Ollie glanced over his shoulder and asked innocently, “Do you approve?”

  Rob demonstrated his appreciation by planting a wet kiss on each of Ollie’s buttocks. “I most certainly do.” Then he slid one finger down the cleft of Ollie’s bottom and inside him. Ollie’s head tipped back as a low moan of desire slipped from his lips. He was ready. Rob saw it in the way those perfect, muscular buttocks tensed, how could he not?

  “Are you ready for your strapping tart of a fireman, you showjumping, medal-winning tart?” Rob held Ollie’s waist with one hand and positioned himself between Ollie’s legs, the leather boots ridiculously erotic against his bare skin.

  “I’m ready for his pole, his hose and especially”—he looked back over his shoulder and licked his lips slowly—“his hard, hot cock.”

  Rob was gentle to start with, slowly thrusting into Ollie until something in Ollie’s moans told him he was ready. Rob threw aside any pretense of being gentlemanly and took Ollie’s erection in his hand, thrusting hard and stroking with the same rhythm. Ollie’s whole body seemed to answer, pushing back onto his cock then forward into his hand and all the time those glorious, delighted moans filled the air, the scent of Ollie’s cologne heady and exotic and his hair soft and thick as it brushed Rob’s cheek.

  He felt the change in Ollie’s body as his orgasm approached, a fresh urgency in his movements, a new intensity in his moans. Rob, who had been so close to his climax earlier, couldn’t hold back any longer and Ollie’s orgasm seemed to carry Rob on. With one last, almighty thrust, he shouted Ollie’s name and the very essence of him seemed to pass into his lover until he had no idea where he ended and Ollie began.

  When Rob had gone into the pub that evening, he’d wanted to get to know the locals better. But he hadn’t for a second expected to get to know anyone as well as this. Hadn’t even contemplated that he’d end the evening with leather boots and half-stripped-off jodhpurs pressed to his skin, nor his body joined so intimately, so damn roguishly as it was now with such a sexy, lovely man as Ollie.

  A man he might have a future with.

  * * * *

  A lot had happened in the space of two years, Rob reflected as he looked at Ollie. A nervous firefighter had settled into a village as comfortably as though he had been born there, a showjumper had added to his collection of gold medals and between them, they had shared an intimate wedding ceremony with their family and handpicked friends. Yet what good was a wedding if it couldn’t be celebrated in the very village where they had met? So, as bonfires were built and fireworks primed across the nation, Rob and Ollie left the church in Longley Magna arm in arm, their intimate wedding now completed by a blessing that had been standing room only.

  The fire crew formed a guard of honor outside the church, creating an archway from firemen’s axes. Rob and his husband were showered with rice and confetti as they kissed, and Rob thought once again how lucky they were—the intense attraction that had brought them together had turned into love.

  Tonight Mr. Tresham would light the fireworks in honor of his son and his new son-in-law, and he had even filled in a risk assessment without complaint, which Rob already knew would be taking pride of place atop the bonfire. Yet now nobody looked prouder than the retired wing commander who snapped away with his camera, even as his wife did her best to keep his thumb out of the shots.

  Ollie let his head rest softly on Rob’s shoulder for a moment then raised it to kiss his husband’s cheek. He touched his lips to Rob’s ear and whispered, “I love you, Officer Monteagle.”

  “I love you too, Captain,” Rob replied. He had only just begun to kiss his husband again when he heard a shout that by now he recognized. With a sigh he ended the kiss.

  At the foot of the oak tree in the middle of the village green stood a familiar figure, stooped and smiling, a dish of cat food held in one hand. With the other she gestured up into the tree from which Smudge watched the festivities, pretending to be stranded.

  Mrs. Cooper smiled and pointed to the cat, then said, “When you’ve got a moment, Mr. Tresham-Monteagle, no rush!”

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  Captivating Captains:

  The Captain and the Theatrical

  Catherine Curzon & Eleanor Harkstead

  Excerpt

  Summer 1817

  As Captain Ambrose Pendleton strode through the gates of Vauxhall Gardens, he didn’t see the crush of people or the lights in the trees, or hear the music. He was thinking only of seeing his friend Orsini once again.

  But first there was the show, which Orsini had raved about in his letter. Cosima was from his stable of talent, and Orsini had been insistent that his friend watch the most remarkable, exquisite and well-formed young lady to grace the continental stage.

  And her adorable performing parrot!

  Ambrose entered the pavilion where Cosima was to perform. He took his seat and, as he waited for the show to begin, found himself enjoying the hubbub of ordinary people around him. How nice it was to be back among the throng of humanity, without the smell of gunpowder or the roar of cannon or the parade-ground shout. He glanced about the audience, wondering if his friend was there, but Orsini was nowhere to be seen.

  The quartet struck a note, and applause rang through the pavilion as the velvet curtain was drawn back. The woman who emerged was tall and slender but, as Orsini had promised, well-formed. Here in a summer London, her diaphanous gown and tumbling curls transported Ambrose instantly back to his youth in Italy, to a world of classical myth and striking women, yet none that he could recall were as striking as the creature who now tripped across the stage, one slender arm outstretched for the bright blue parrot that perched upon her pale wrist, the yellow and red feathers beneath its wings and at its breast shimmering.

  A woman in Roman dress and a parrot… It was very Orsini, if nothing else.

  There was likely nothing else quite like it in London that night as the magnificent Cosima ran through her repertoire of silly stories—just the right side of bawdy—and Italian songs, sometimes accompanied for the sake of comedy by the bird and sometimes, for the sake of entertainment, by the quartet. Every man in the audience was enraptured by her, enchanted by each flick of her auburn curls, each sly aside, and every woman became a confidante, laughing behind ladylike hands at some wry comment from the performer on the stage.

  Wherever had Orsini found her? Ambrose wondered, though he knew instinctively that some of this material must belong to his friend, for it had that same devilish mischief so beloved by Amadeo Orsini. They claimed that she was his sister but Ambrose knew better, for he had met Orsini’s numerous sibl
ings and none of them were La Cosima.

  Yet she certainly could have been family.

  The show ended with rapturous applause, Cosima curtseying to her admiring audience as the parrot took a small, proper bow. Reluctantly, Ambrose followed the crowd out of the pavilion and back into the balmy summer air. He would happily have watched Cosima and her parrot perform all evening, if not for his promised reunion with Orsini.

  Off he went toward the Cascade, where they had arranged to meet. But he couldn’t see Orsini anywhere. Where was the young man Ambrose remembered, always decked out in silks? He certainly would have noticed him among the crowd—unless, and Ambrose thought it most unlikely, the great impresario had adopted a somber guise.

  But wouldn’t he notice Orsini’s dancing eyes, and his knowing smile, and his—what the devil?

  “Now, madam, please stop that!” Ambrose laughed politely—as politely as a man could with a woman’s hands over his eyes. He could smell her perfume and feel the lace of her gloves and hear her giggle. “You must have confused me for your husband, or your sweetheart!” Or a paying customer, but Ambrose thought it best not to voice that.

  “Captain Pendleton,” came the singsong-voiced reply from close to his ear. “The great Orsini begs your indulgence, but, alas, he is detained by matters feminine. He asks that I escort you to supper tonight!”

  Ambrose clenched his jaw. Matters feminine? Was Orsini involved in some sort of intrigue with a lady?

  And why did he recognize the woman’s voice—but of course!

  “Cosima!”

  He turned quickly and took her hands as they fell from his face. There she was, standing before him, the leading lady of Orsini’s show, a dazzlingly red shawl wrapped around her narrow shoulders. As much as he’d longed to see his friend, what an honor it was to be favored by such a performer—and the parrot too, who perched on her shoulder like a little admiral.

  “How excited I am to make your acquaintance!” Ambrose bent to kiss her gloved hand. “I very much enjoyed your show this evening.”

  The parrot administered a sharp peck to Ambrose’s hair and Cosima exclaimed, “Pagolo! Captain, forgive my little chaperone, he is so very protective of his Cosima and his applause!”

  “I enjoyed your performance too, Pagolo, of course.” Ambrose grinned as he gave the imperious parrot a bow. “How very remiss that I did not congratulate you, as well.”

  “His career has been long and celebrated.” Cosima tapped her finger gently against the parrot’s beak and he cocked his head to one side. “He might teach all of us how to improve our performances, he thinks! Now, sir, what delights might the gardens offer an innocent Italian girl and her escort?”

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  About the Authors

  Catherine Curzon

  Catherine Curzon is a royal historian who writes on all matters of 18th century. Her work has been featured on many platforms and Catherine has also spoken at various venues including the Royal Pavilion, Brighton, and Dr Johnson’s House.

  Catherine holds a Master’s degree in Film and when not dodging the furies of the guillotine, writes fiction set deep in the underbelly of Georgian London.

  She lives in Yorkshire atop a ludicrously steep hill.

  Eleanor Harkstead

  Eleanor Harkstead often dashes about in nineteenth-century costume, in bonnet or cravat as the mood takes her. She can occasionally be found wandering old graveyards, and is especially fond of the ones in Edinburgh. Eleanor is very fond of chocolate, wine, tweed waistcoats and nice pens. She has a large collection of vintage hats, and once played guitar in a band. Originally from the south-east, Eleanor now lives somewhere in the Midlands with a large ginger cat who resembles a Viking.

  Catherine and Eleanor love to hear from readers. You can find their contact information, website and author biographies at https://www.pride-publishing.com.