His Second Chance
Page 9
“Come away from the door. I have something to show you.” He led the way to the bed as a low masculine moan slipped into the room.
The champagne turned to bile in his stomach, and he nearly lost his portion of the wedding banquet. Randall pulled him along toward the large four-poster, but David could not let it go. “There is just something monumentally wrong with that.” He flung his arm toward the side of the room adjoining the viscount’s bedchamber and pointed to the viscountess’s rooms. David shivered.
Randall placed a finger on his chin and turned his gaze away from the door and into green eyes. “Well, it has been monumentally wrong for seven years, then, according to Prudence. I think maybe it is a bit too late to worry about their liaison.” He opened a night-table drawer and pulled out an inlayed square box.
The sound of breaking pottery and then laughter filled his head with murderous thoughts.
“Leave it alone. Give your sister the respect and good wishes for her happiness she has shown us.” He leaned down and kissed David with all the love and joy of the heavens. “I know for one, I am truly happy. Never thought I would be this content and excited about the future.” He handed over the box.
Smooth and nearly seamless craftsmanship. Inside, the box was lined with the finest pink silk. He laughed.
“Actually, the color is potter’s pink, very tactful, and I’m told it will be all the rage for waistcoats next year.”
He touched the exquisitely smooth fabric. “All the same, I think I will enjoy it in this little box and keep the color off my person.”
The nuzzle at his neck made him nearly drop the box and its contents. Inside the lush lining lay a decorated gold pocket watch.
“Open it.” Randall’s expression was oddly concerned. Wary?
Inside the finely tooled cover was a simple inscription: Forever.
His heart flew, and his vision blurred for a moment. Blinking away silly maudlin emotions, he flung himself into Randall’s waiting arms. “Yes.”
* * * *
The room began to lighten, tinted by a lovely pink hue. They had talked, snuggled, made love all night long. David, ensconced in Randall’s strong arms, was too tired to smile, but the soul-deep contentment made every part of him vibrate with satisfaction. “Forever.”
The hug tightened.
“During the ceremony, I silently said the vows, to you. I will stay with you forever, Randall. Forever.”
“I know, my love. I know.”
He twisted around in Randall’s embrace. His arse clenched at the motion. He was sore, but even that sensation sent a surge of desire through his body. He had been thoroughly and expertly fucked last night. Their enthusiastic reunion had sent his body to heaven and back. Several times. He laughed as he was pulled across a broad golden chest. The embrace gave him a feeling of safety so complete and overwhelming, his eyes moistened.
“Ah, love, even your kisses taste like saltwater.” Kisses trailed along his lips again, then at the moisture on his cheek.
Goddamn, he was crying. He rubbed away the embarrassing liquid, but Randall didn’t seem to care he was acting like a baby since the kisses continued.
He snuffled, realizing he had come home.
Home to life and love.
He snuggled into Randall’s broad chest. Hair tickled his nose, and the smell of his warm male lover tickled his lust. He took a deep breath and sighed, all reservations gone. “I love you, Randall.”
The expected hug was near-crushing.
The End
Other Titles by Stephanie Lake
Second Chance Series:
His Midshipman, #0.5 (free to newsletter subscribers)
His Second Chance, #1
His Pirate, #2
Florian’s Garden (with coauthor Jules Radcliffe)
Thom’s Desires
About Stephanie Lake
Stephanie Lake is the pen name for a husband/wife team who enjoy writing happy endings and steamy middles. We hope you enjoyed His Second Chance, the first book in the Second Chance series.
We’d love to hear from you, so drop us a line at: slake255@gmail.com.
A peek at His Pirate by Stephanie Lake
Rhain Morgan will sacrifice everything, including happiness, to save his sister’s life. Little does he know that the pirate Captain who can grant his wish, will also steal his heart.
Warning: This title contains graphic seafarer language and high seas gay sex.
London, August 1809
The man was the ideal male specimen, except for the frown. Well, the frown and the nose. The nose a bit too prominent, a bit too hooked to be considered perfect, but it was a fully male-manly nose, which saved the face from a lack of character. Sleek brown brows over eyes the color of…of what? Damn the lighting in the Red Pig’s taproom; he couldn’t tell what color they were, but they were dark.
And those lips. They were full but smooth, not puffy like some. Puffy lips always looked like an over-yeasted pastry. But these lips were perfect for sliding a kiss onto.
Rubbing the engraved gold clasp securing the thin braid that fell over his ear, Captain Alastair Breckenridge leaned against the taproom’s door frame and let the door close. The sound of sea birds immediately turned to muffled cries. He allowed his eyes to adjust after the murky sunlight and took a moment to fully admire the man. Conservative but expensive clothing. Brown on brown over tan. He might be the boring type, dressing so drably. But really, who would care so long as they were grasping shoulders so broad as to eclipse the moon?
God. He obviously needed a good fuck in order to concentrate on finding cargo and stop envisioning acts that would not happen in this seedy tavern, in this seedy part of town, and certainly not with a man who glowers.
The room was only half-full. Midafternoon was not a popular drinking hour. Even so, two drunks in the corner made more noise than a squabbling family of ten laborers. The warm, humid air reeked of sour ale and cabbage, which was preferable to the stench of unwashed bodies that would permeate the tavern in a few hours when it filled.
Alastair closed his eyes and imagined what the man with the scowl would smell like. Fresh and sweet, that was obvious from his clean appearance. But what would be under the starch and soap? Would he smell like the forest, fresh earth, the air right before a storm? Hopefully he would not smell like the sea. Everyone he’d taken to bed the past few months smelled like brine, a scent that got tiresome very quickly.
Unable to ignore the glowering man who sat at a table alone, looking out of place, he finished his assessment: A mostly full tankard of ale close by his elbow. Must not be used to such unrefined fare. The man’s chin was strong but not overly so. Clean-shaven, pale skin. In total, a handsome package. He would have approached the man, introduced himself, tried to improve the young man’s mood—if not for creased skin between brows and across his forehead that tattled about this man’s temperament. Not a jovial youth to be certain. And Alastair did not associate with troubled people.
Better to look elsewhere for companionship tonight.
He would ask the barkeeper if anyone inquired about a ship heading west. They lost their contracted cargo because of the damn two-month delay returning to London and would likely lose the regular loads along the way as well. Damn the Moroccan government’s impound laws. Two months his ship sat waiting for him to grease the correct palms with an ungodly amount of money. He must pick up more cargo to make the sail profitable.
The barkeeper had worked at this seedy establishment for at least a decade, about as long as Alastair captained the Hurricane. The man was straight-dealing, with a good memory. That’s why Alastair kept coming here for tips on who needed what cargo shipped around the world.
Pushing away from the doorjamb, he caught the barkeeper’s attention and strode to the bar. “Hear of any cargo, One Eye?” No one had ever been brave enough to ask how the hulking brute lost his right eye. Not that he’d heard, anyway.
The man nodded and pointed.
Alastair turned in time to catch the handsome, sulking youth stare right at his arse before that gaze snapped to his face.
Well, well, well. His afternoon had just gotten exponentially more complicated and much more interesting.
Copyright 2017 © Stephanie Lake
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