His Midshipman

by Stephanie Lake

  His Midshipman

  Stephanie Lake

  eXcessica publishing

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  His Midshipman © June 2018 by Stephanie Lake

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  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.

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  This book is for sale to ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

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  Excessica LLC

  P.O. Box 127

  Alpena, MI 49707

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  To order additional copies of this book, contact:

  books@excessica.com

  Edited by Keren Reed

  Cover by Jules Radcliffe

  First Edition April 2017

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  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Contents

  Blurb

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  About the Author

  Other books by Stephanie Lake in the Second Chance series:

  excerpt from His Pirate

  excerpt from His Second Chance

  More From Excessica!

  Blurb

  A chance encounter with a handsome midshipman leaves Viscount Randall Blair planning a future for two. Randall never knew how fast and hard love could hit until he found the right person: David. The only problem is how to convince the young sailor that they are perfect together.

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  His Midshipman is a stand-alone short story. Randall and David’s story continues in His Second Chance, a novel by Stephanie Lake.

  To our wonderful fans! You guys rock!

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  Acknowledgment

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  Thanks to our awesome beta reader and cover artist, Jules Radcliffe. Special thanks go to Keren Reed, editor extraordinaire. Without the two of you, this short story would still be collecting dust mites.

  1

  London, April 2, 1779

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  Viscount Randall Blair’s cock, currently disconnected from his mind, led him on this crazy adventure. His hardened prick directed, his body followed, his mind was a mere hesitant spectator. Truth be told, not quite hesitant, because more than an hour ago, lust banished whatever misgivings he had into the deepest recesses of his conscious thoughts.

  “Just four more streets,” he told the young, raven-haired midshipman.

  They dodged the freezing puddles faintly illuminated by flickering oil lamps set into stone facades. The midshipman was lithe and fast, never stepping foot into water or offal.

  Their breath was visible, smoke in the chilly night air. Damp cold permeated his great coat. But even the cold did nothing to quell the stink of urine and refuse boiling from backstreets and alleys.

  Midshipman Smith. Randall repeated the name to himself and ran his tongue around every delicious syllable. Mid-ship-man Smith. The handsome young man he met for the first time this evening at the Pig and Whistle.

  Ah, the Pig and Whistle. A smoke-filled, rowdy place for jolly neighborhood drunks and deviants. It was a refuge similar to Mistress Croydon’s nancy-boys’ house in Field Lane, where sheriffs lurked, had a come-off with customers, then busted them for gross indecency.

  The Pig and Whistle, or the Whistler’s as regulars called it, welcomed sexual deviants. Men like Randall and, apparently, Midshipman Smith.

  Randall visited the Whistler’s, trolling for lusty sailors, or any lusty man for that matter, when in a dry spell between lovers. But his evenings always ended with him walking home alone before sunrise.

  That was until tonight.

  Tonight had been different. Greatly different.

  The evening really began when a young man who looked barely twenty, with unruly shoulder-length hair confined at his neck, and dressed in a rumpled suit, eased his slender frame into the seat next to him. Something about the man’s bearing—his erect posture—told Randall that here was a sailor, an officer most likely.

  “Good evening,” the man said in a voice Randall barely heard over the roar of drunken revelry. “So sorry, but this seems to be the only seat left in the house.”

  He smiled at the visitor. “No imposition at all, and good evening to you. I’m grateful for your company. Seems my friend deserted me for a livelier companion.”

  The comment was not some platitude to ease the young man’s mind about any intrusion. Randall’s likeminded friend, White, left not five minutes earlier with some large, hairy man for making a stitch, and would not likely return. Knowing White, it could be half the night before he hailed a hackney cab to take him home. That man was insatiable, and completely not Randall’s cup of tea; otherwise…otherwise, he might not be here chatting with the naval officer.

  And that would be a shame because the man sitting next to him, eyes downcast but giving brief, almost shy sideways glances, was a cool sip of spring water.

  “I have not seen you around before this evening. Not that I frequent this lively establishment, but it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr.…” Randall glanced at his table companion’s recently misused but otherwise expensive clothing.

  “Midshipman”—a large swallow, then—“Smith,” the young man replied with a slight smile and one of those coy glances before returning his gaze to the long oak table.

  A couple of men sitting across them raised their tankards in a boisterous toast, and there would be no more introductions until the well-wishing subsided. A moment later, the plump, aging barmaid plunked a huge pewter mug of dark ale on the table.

  “There you go, dearie.”

  Smith dug through his small money bag, and as he laid a few coins on the table, she snatched the largest one.

  “Ooh, I do love a man what gives a generous tip.”

  The midshipman stared as she strutted off, hips swaying under heavy cotton skirts. He shrugged and slid the coins back into the money bag, then raised his mug and nodded to the men across the table.

  Randall could hardly breathe when the man turned piercing ink-black eyes, shaded by sinfully long lashes, toward him, and raised his mug again. He was so ensnared by that gaze, he almost missed the statement, barely audible over the Whistler’s background chatter.

  “To His Majesty. May his years be as countless as the stars in the night sky.”

  Did the shy midshipman smile, or was that a smirk? Entranced by the dark eyes, Randall laughed at the man’s subtle humor and raised his mug in return.

  “Tell me,” he asked, “when did you join His Majesty’s Navy?”

  “At the age of twelve.”

  Twelve. He’d joined the Royal Navy what must have been some ten years ago when Randall was…two years shy of twenty. The navy. A breeding ground for buggery. An irrational feeling of getting somewhere too late stung his stomach.

  “Do tell me your name, sir?”

  Oh, yes,
he had forgotten to finish the introductions. Typically, in the Whistler’s, he fabricated a name spontaneously. After all, there would be little more than a fondle in a corner, and he’d likely never see the man again. But Smith had shared his name, and Randall suddenly wanted more than a quick rub-off.

  “You may call me Randall.”

  The boy’s eyes and nostrils widened, and Randall inched closer on the short bench they shared. Not close enough to touch, but enough to feel the warmth of the other man’s leg.

  Smith did not move away.

  A good sign. In fact, that was a very good sign.

  Their conversation meandered from topic to topic. He made certain there was never a lapse in discussion. Even when he could think of nothing entertaining to say, he would blurt the first inane question to introduce itself in his ale-muddled brain, because he did not want the midshipman to have time to consider leaving.

  Smith’s voice grew louder and the gleam in his black eyes brighter after his second and then third mug of ale.

  “Which would you rather command,” Randall asked, “a ship of the line or a nimble frigate?”

  To which Smith replied after giving it some thought, “The frigate, of course. Leave the lumbering ships of the line to the stodgy admirals.”

  “Lord Howe is a stodgy admiral?” He raised an eyebrow in mock surprise.

  “The stodgiest, I say, when it comes to sensual pleasures.” The boy slurred his words and, after a pause, also raised an eyebrow, then giggled.

  The boy was foxed. Perfect time to move things along.

  Randall tossed an arm over firm shoulders, blurting out the only thing that came to mind that did not involve sex and would keep the conversation running along while he pressed his suit. “What do you say of those scandalous plays at some of the smaller theaters?” God, but he was in his cups. Normally his conversation was much more skillful.

  Yet the boy answered, and perhaps that little wiggle was a guise to snuggle closer.

  “The most delicious scandals. Adultery, infidelity among aristocrats, nobles fornicating in broom closets with the hired help.” Smith slowly licked ale foam from his upper lip with the tip of his tongue.

  An image of that tongue licking his prick flashed in Randall’s mind. “Tongue…” he said. His face heated. “Er, I mean…those sordid affairs shunned by Lord Howe.”

  “But not by us, the refined patrons of our illustrious Pig and Whistle.” Smith’s eyes bored into his, when he said us. Randall’s cock strained against tight breeches as Smith held his gaze, then placed a hand on Randall’s thigh and applied the lightest pressure for a brief moment.

  A shiver ran up his leg and along his spine.

  Making up more ridiculous chatter as cover for his next move, he said, “Will the insubordinate American Colonists”—he placed his hand on Smith’s, which now lay on the bench between them—“ever learn proper manners from Lafayette?”

  “From a dissolute Frenchman? Impossible,” Smith slurred, then laughed and laced their fingers together.

  Another jolt raced through his body.

  Easing the man’s hand off the bench and onto Randall’s thigh was brazen, but the touch was entirely Smith’s. The simple caress was scorching and exquisite, and then, in a very bold move, the man’s hand slid farther until lightly brushing Randall’s cockstand.

  Forcing back a gasp of pleasure, he held his breath for a moment. His surroundings blurred, time slowed, and all he could see were the midshipman’s black eyes and full, wide lips.

  There was a gentle squeeze on his yard. Randall stopped himself before his back arched and his arse lifted off the bench, propelled by the tease of euphoria that coursed through every particle of his being.

  He was drunk. Hell, they were both drunk. They needed to leave before attracting the wrong kind of attention. He slowed his breath and wrapped his hand around Smith’s, trying to stop the excruciatingly sweet torture and his imminent climax. Lost in those flashing gunmetal-black eyes, he leaned toward Smith, caught the scent of clean sea breeze, and said, “I have a bottle of the finest port in my study.”

  “My favorite.” Smith let Randall lift his hand off the painfully ready member.

  Randall’s shoulders dropped with relief. “Only a mile from here, in Soho.” He glanced around the table. “It’s best that we leave separately and meet at the first corner to the right.”

  Blackmail, theft, or perhaps worse. An article in one of those slanderous newspapers about the unnatural proclivities of a certain Viscount B. Worries churned in his mind as he and Smith approached his townhouse. Three…no, just two streets away. He, a viscount, was about to invite a complete stranger into his townhouse with the intent to commit the crime of sodomy, and other pleasures that would merit scandal. Randall shook those ale-muddled thoughts away. The boy was legitimate, not some ne’er-do-well. But, he had to admit, the added danger of going home with a stranger sent a thrill rushing through him. He could barely wait.

  “Here it is,” Randall said, catching his breath. His pale-yellow brick townhouse had filigrees and brown-painted molding. It was a comfortable place he always enjoyed coming home to. Today he was especially glad to be here, ten seconds away from having his tongue in this man’s mouth.

  The townhouse, dark and featureless in the night, towered above its neighbors. A faint glow from the fireplace in his study was visible through the closed curtains of an upper-story window. Two oil lamps by the front door cast a soft ruddiness to Smith’s pale complexion, their light reflected as pinpoint glimmers in his eyes.

  Randall took a step forward, drawn by the boy’s parted lips, then jerked away when he realized he was about to bestow a kiss in plain view of anyone who might peer out a window at that moment. God, they must enter the house now!

  He stepped back, tried to still himself and his pounding heart, then adjusted his great coat to keep from grabbing the boy again. This was really happening. In a handful of minutes, he would have that firm, willing body in his hands, lay kisses on that mouth, the sculpted jaw, the fine, thin nose. He fumbled his key from a deep pocket and nearly dropped it.

  The door opened before he’d even recovered from his awkward scrabble with the cold metal.

  His butler stood in the opening. “Good evening, my lord.” Dressed impeccably as usual, the butler stepped aside. The glass oil lamp in his hand cast shadows into the dark-paneled entrance hall that often seemed lonely. Tonight it was full of promise.

  His guest followed him into the blessedly warm and dry home that smelled faintly of lemon wax from Thursday’s polishing.

  “Still awake, Bentley?”

  “Yes, my lord. Checking that all is well before I settle in for the night. I heard noise at the front door and thought it might be you arriving home.”

  “I see.” He was inwardly proud of his butler’s dedication but would wait to demonstrate that until third-quarter wages were paid. “Is the fire in my study well stoked?” Randall asked.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  They handed Bentley their coats.

  “Thank you, Bentley. Do send Geoffrey to bed. I shall be up for a while yet and can undress myself tonight. That will be all.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Picking up the flickering oil lamp always left by the front door when the master was out, Randall led Smith up one flight of stairs and down a dark hallway. He opened the door to his study with a shaking hand and stood aside.

  Smith flashed a glance from under ebony lashes, gave a shy, small smile, and entered.

  Yes, indeed. This was really happening. He had brought a man home to commit a sensual crime that would lead him to… He didn’t care. Wherever it led him, this one night would be worth it. He was in heaven.

  Randall tried to say “welcome,” but his mouth was parched and the word did not make it past his lips.

  As he locked the door to his study, Smith’s hands took hold of his hips. The young midshipman, though slender in build and shorter than Randall, perhaps by
three or four inches, had strong hands which gripped tightly as he turned Randall around.

  “My dear sir, I don’t normally act this boldly,” said Smith in a voice that was sweet and savory at the same time. So different than the near bellow he used at the Whistler’s to be heard over the noise. “Blame it on the ale if you will. The numerous tankards which I… When my favorite cousin died… Riding accident…” He glanced away and took a deep breath. “I needed to…” Another deep breath. “But if you do not kiss me soon, I just may die from anticipation.”

  Their gazes met. Lit by the firelight, Smith’s eyes were black as a moonless night, yet stoked with a ferocious inner passion that was impossible to ignore.

  Their lips met. Smith’s were smooth under his own, soft yet firm, open and inviting, and set his cock afire. God, this young man unraveled his composure and awakened a savage lust he had not felt since his first time.

  Randall deepened their kiss. He wanted—no, needed to be inside the young man, even if it was only with his probing tongue. Silky heat stirred his lust to a fever pitch.

  Coat and waistcoat fell onto the oak floor. The damn cravat slipped into a knot, so Smith shoved Randall’s shirt up, out of the way, as eager fingers unbuttoned falls.

  When chests were bared and breeches loosened, Smith moved Randall’s hands away. He reached up, slowly, and placed a light kiss on Randall’s cheek.

  Leaning against the closed door, Randall ran his rough, ruddy hand through soft, ebony hair as warm lips brushed against his evening stubble, then moved to his neck, under his ear. The caresses were bliss, his skin hummed, and the kisses told him that Smith longed for more than mere sexual release.