The Pirate of Fathoms Deep (10 page)

Shemal's eyes widened, and for a moment, he looked like he couldn't breathe. "Forty—" He choked, coughed. "That's a lot of fucking money."

Lesto burst out laughing—and laughed harder when Shemal scowled at him. Bright, sharp affection rushed through him, and he was helpless against tugging Shemal in for another kiss.

The sound of noise at the end of the hall startled them apart, and Lesto motioned for Shemal to follow him, heading down the hall and through an archway to the backstairs. On the second floor, he cut right and headed down the hall to his room.

When the door was closed and locked behind them, Lesto removed his armor and set it on its stand, put his sword belt on the trunk next to it, then sat on the bed to get rid of his boots before stripping off his under tunic.

"Should I get the healer?" Shemal asked, then made a face. "Not that I know where to find them."

"I'm sure someone has already ratted me out," Lesto replied, then smiled faintly. "That's why I locked the door."

Shemal didn't return the smile, too intent on frowning at Lesto's bleeding side. Really, though, the bleeding had practically stopped. He'd just overworked the last little stubborn bit high on his ribs that wasn't healing as quickly as the rest. "You're hurt."

"I've seen scars on you that are worse than anything I've got," Lesto said, moving over to the table where Mishi had left supplies for him with a long-suffering sigh after Lesto had hurt himself the previous day clobbering a group of halfwit cadets. They were going to wind up on wall duty in Tricemore if they didn't pull their heads out of their asses. "I doubt you got proper treatment."

"Yeah, and the wounds lasted longer than they should have and hurt constantly, sometimes so badly I couldn't sleep for long, if at all, until they were half-healed. Ever been scratched by a thorn rat? That was days of white-hot agony I still remember ten years later. If we'd had a healer, they could have applied a poultice that would have eased the pain in a matter of hours. Instead, I suffered for almost two weeks."

Lesto sighed. "You make your point, but I promise, this particular tear isn't any major worry. I just need to clean and bandage it. Help if you want."

Shemal's frown eased slightly as he joined Lesto at the table and with quick, sure movements, removed the stitches, cleaned the wound, and covered it with a fresh bandage.

"I'm not sure why I'm surprised you're good at that. A skill born of necessity, like your silver tongue leanings?" Lesto smiled. "You have elegant hands."

"Elegant?" Shemal snorted and washed his hands in the bowel of water on the table, dried them with a rag from a stack. "I've been called a lot of things, but elegant is definitely new." He flexed his hands, calloused and scarred, the fingers long and deft. They weren't pretty hands, but neither were Lesto's. "I'm fairly certain elegant is not the word."

Lesto stepped in close, rested his hands on Shemal's hips, and leaned in to brush a kiss across his mouth. "It is most definitely the word. You're good with your hands, that lends elegance. Even if you're too good for my fancy words."

"Never said that," Shemal said with a faint grin and drew him into another kiss that banished Lesto's plans for the rest of the day with shocking ease. Let the garrison take care of itself, and the less he saw of those two halfwits he called family, the better for them.

He slid his hands around and down, digging his fingers into the fine ass he'd admired even when he'd been so exhausted he could barely see straight. Then, admiring was all he could do. Now, though, he could do a good deal more than—

"Oh, no," Shemal said, drawing back, stepping firmly out of reach. "That will make your injuries worse for certain."

Lesto glared. "I'm fine. Get back here. If I wanted lectures and fussing, I'd go find Mishi or Sarrica. I want
you.
Without having to rush or be furtive."

Shemal glared right back. "Yes, and if I was the one with those injuries, you'd be the one saying it's not happening. You're definitely one of those rock-headed halfwits who gets mad when everyone else ignores their injuries and hurts, but will walk around with a broken leg and say you're fine. The sort of fusspot hypocrite that drives the rest of us mad. Do you know how many sailors die because of nonsense like that?"

"Did you just call me a
fusspot
?" Lesto demanded.

Folding his arms across his chest, Shemal replied, "Yes, because it's
true.
Tell me that anything I've said is wrong."

Lesto opened his mouth, closed it, then muttered, "I'm not a fusspot."

Shemal's glare turned into a crooked grin. "Yes, you are. One of the volatile ones, like my mother. You could tell when she was really worried about you because she'd haul off and backhand you hard enough you'd wake up on the other side of the island." A surprised laugh got the better of Lesto, and Shemal's grin widened. "You'd probably like my mother, come to think of it."

"I'm High Commander of the Imperial Army," Lesto said, turning stiffly away and heading for the wardrobe. "If I took proper care of every little injury I acquired, I'd spend all my time in bed instead of getting things done. I'd look weak and incapable, and there's also the fact that halfwits like Sarrica never fucking listen to me. So I'm sorry I'm a damned fusspot hypocrite, but I have a job to do."

That he should probably get back to since all his stupid hopes for being selfishly indulgent for once in his life obviously weren't going to happen.

He yanked the wardrobe open and found a clean undertunic, threw it toward the bed, and turned back for a tunic. Snatching one off the shelf, he whipped around—

—and barely stopped in time to avoid slamming into Shemal. "What? I can get dressed on my own, you know."

"At no point since the first time I saw you have I ever had a single thought about getting your clothes
on,
" Shemal replied.

Lesto wanted to stay mad, but he was helpless against the smile that overtook his face. "Well, that makes good hearing, at least. But I've been rather firmly told that the rest of them will not be coming off, so move out of my way so I can dress."

"I didn't mean to hurt you," Shemal said, "but I am fairly certain that if you're going to worry about me, which I know you have, then you have to accept that I worry about you, too. I've always made a point of avoiding, uh, this kind of thing, but even I know a thing like worry goes both ways."

"This kind of thing," Lesto echoed, the last of his anger fading. "I'm a fusspot and you're relationship shy. What a pair."

Shemal's cheeks flushed. "I'm not—" He broke off when Lesto snickered. "
Fine.
Fair enough." He reached out and pulled the tunic from Lesto's hand, threw it aside then pulled him in and kissed him. With intent. No mistaking a kiss like that.

Lesto drew back only when he needed desperately to draw a proper breath. "I distinctly remember someone telling me this wouldn't be happening."

"Well, we're certainly not reliving what we did the first time," Shemal replied, walking backward toward the bed and dragging Lesto with him. "My knees were bruised for days, and the rest of me wasn't much better off."

"You should have seen the places
I
had bruises," Lesto groused, though he hadn't regretted them until Shemal had abruptly abandoned him, left him feeling used and foolish.

Shemal sat on the bed, drew Lesto between his thighs, and dragged that hot, distracting mouth across his throat, lingering where his pulse beat to suck up a mark.

Lesto's breath hitched, fingers twitching before he rested his hands on Shemal's heavy thighs. Fuck, he hadn't forgotten the feel of them at all, even discounting the reminder in the bath. There weren't many people that could make him feel small, even though he wasn't actually big, just tall and often covered in armor and aggravation. Shemal, though, made him feel small, in a way he wasn't used to at all. "Is there any chance of convincing you to fuck me?"

"I think past precedent has established I'm not much good at resisting that particular request," Shemal said, throat working, eyes sliding shut. When he opened them again, they were dark and hot, pupils large enough to swallow much of the beautiful teal. "I don't think your wounds will thank me much."

"I really am better healed than any of you are crediting," Lesto said with a huff. "It's been more than a week. I have waited long enough to have you in my bed, pirate."

Shemal grinned, hot as a midday sun at the peak of summer. "Far be it for me to keep arguing, Commander." He dropped his hands to stroke and squeeze Lesto's trapped cock, leering slightly as he added, "I'm more than ready to get on with the
having.
"

Rolling his eye, Lesto stepped back and worked on getting his breeches off. "You're still wearing clothes."

"I guess it would be rude to keep them on at this point. Even an uncouth heathen like me knows that much," Shemal said, and with truly impressive speed, he sent his clothes to join Lesto's breeches on the floor. Getting hold of Lesto's arm, he dragged him onto the bed and pushed him into the bedding. "Now, then—"

They both went still when someone knocked on the door.

"Leave or I'll put you in stocks!" Lesto shouted.

There was one last, hard rap on the door, a
you'll definitely hear about this later
warning, and then whoever it was—Mishi, likely—departed.

Shemal laughed. "Subtle."

"I have never been accused of subtlety or patience," Lesto replied. "Those are not the skills I am paid to possess."

"Fair enough," Shemal said and bent to kiss him, bracing his hands on either side of Lesto, leaning over him like a bank of storm clouds bent on soaking the entire continent.

Lesto was more than willing to let the storm have him. He rested his hands on that fine, warm skin, slid them back to dig his fingers into the lovely muscles of Shemal's back, keeping him close to better suck and lick and savor that irresistible mouth. He whined in protest when Shemal drew back. "What?"

"I thought it would be better to have something slick now, rather than have to stop to look for it later," Shemal said, then bent to lick across his lips before sucking on the bottom one, pulling away slowly with a drag of teeth that made Lesto shiver.

"There's a basket on the shelf under the table," Lesto said.

Shemal rolled away, that wicked little grin on his face, and knelt on the floor. Lesto could hear him rifling around in the basket for a moment before he found the little glass vial Lesto had put there the last time he'd been at that garrison. Mostly for self-gratification, but also the low-burning hope that eventually he might have company.

It was still hard to believe all that hoping had come to something.

Climbing back on the bed, Shemal spread Lesto's thighs, mindful of the injured one, and settled between them like he belonged there. Lesto certainly wasn't denying it. The problem with always being in charge was that people assumed he was in charge in
all
circumstances.

He'd tried to tell exactly one other lover what he'd wanted, and they'd laughed, thinking he was joking, and told him to stop delaying and get on with it. He hadn't felt comfortable telling any of the others, which he'd realized rather too late was a sign they weren't worthy lovers.

Only one person, other than Sarrica, had ever done what he asked without hesitation or question, hadn't seen it as strange.

Lesto curled a hand into Shemal's heavy hair and drew him down into a deep kiss, loving the way it already felt so familiar, so necessary. Drawing back, he said, "I've been waiting a long time, pirate. You better be at least as good as my memory."

Emotions too tangled to sort rippled across Shemal's face, and he gave Lesto a quick, hard kiss that lingered like spicy peppers before shifting to put that evil, highly memorable mouth to work elsewhere. His teeth nipped at soft skin, his tongue dragged over scars, though as focused as he clearly was on trying to make Lesto scream, Shemal never once forgot about Lesto's wounds.

By the time he lapped at the wet smears left on Lesto's skin by his aching, eager cock, Lesto was desperate enough to kill him, except then the lovely torment would cease. "Are you going to let me touch you?"

"Not while you're injured," Shemal said, looking up the length of Lesto's body through his long lashes. "Hold still and do as you're told, Commander."

Lesto groaned, liking that more than he would ever admit, though the way his cock twitched, he didn't
have
to say. Shemal chuckled, low and addictive, and finally dropped that distracting mouth of his over Lesto's cock, sucking with expertise, throat tight and hot, tongue more flexible than a tongue had any right to be. Lesto shuddered hard, dropping one hand to fist in that thick, heavy mass of hair, his other hand tangling in the blanket as he thrust deeper into Shemal's throat.

Shemal took it with ease, sucking harder, working Lesto's cock until it was impossible to hold back. Lesto came with a ragged cry he didn't bother to muffle. It was his room and his garrison and he seldom got to enjoy anything but his own hand. That was more than enough for some people, but Lesto had never been one of them.

Drawing back, Shemal wiped spit and come from his lips and chin with the back of his hand. Sweat gleamed on his tattooed skin. Fuck if that wasn't the most erotic image Lesto had ever seen. Lesto leaned up enough to grab hold of his shoulders and dragged him into a wet, messy kiss. Shemal groaned into his mouth, pushed him down into the bedding with all that lovely weight, and rutted jerkily against him.

He spilled just moments later, still kissing Lesto, feeding every moan and garbled word into his mouth. When he eventually went still, they both were panting softly, the only sound in the room, the noise of the garrison a distant, negligible murmur.

"You were supposed to fuck me," Lesto said eventually. "I suppose I can forgive you since it means you have to stay here until you get around to it."

Shemal laughed and rolled off him, went to the table to wet a cloth that he brought back to clean them both. He tossed it to join their discarded clothes when he was done then stretched out beside Lesto, a long, loose-limbed, half-wild beauty too breathtaking to be settling for the difficult life of lover to the Duke of Fathoms Deep.