Read Online His Heart's Obsession by Alex Beecroft - Free Book Online
Authors: Alex Beecroft
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dismay.
It was that, rather than the pain, that gave Robert pause. He liked a bit of rough play and did not expect gentleness from a man so sorely tried. His bruises throbbed deliciously, adding a dark counterpoint to the throb of his cock. His hips pushed forward instinctively. His mouth filled with of the iron taste of need. He wanted to be ridden hard, to be ruthlessly used to purge Hal’s anger and despair.
But the silence weighed on him. Hal’s look of desperate endurance weighed on him. He hadn’t done this to prove Hal right, to prove himself motivated by base lust. Not merely to gain a night of meaningless sex. Not to inflict more pain.
“Hal, look at me. Please.”
Hal’s body tensed, unresponsive under Robert’s hands. He turned his face away, grimacing. Robert took him by the chin and turned it back. “Please.”
Hal’s eyes opened and Robert saw a condemned man, taking what comfort he could, knowing he would despise himself for it in the morning. Drunk and despairing, punishing himself.
“Oh,” Robert whispered, gently, his arousal dying in the darkness of that gaze. “You don’t truly want this at all, do you?”
Letting go abruptly of his root-tearing grip on Robert’s hair, Hal turned over, radiating affront. “’M not gonna beg.”
Robert reached out, smoothed a hand along the curve of creamy shoulder. Despite everything he found himself smiling. “You’re such a moody brat, Morgan. I don’t know what I see in you.”
“Don’t know either,” Hal slurred into the pillow. An almost affectionate silence filled the room before Hal sighed, relaxed and plunged into sleep.
Robert put his shirt back on, rejected the temptation to snuggle, and lay down a careful foot away. Pulling the blanket up around his ears, he watched the last drop tremble on the lip of the discarded rum bottle, where it lay on the floor beside Hal’s breeches. Even after he had quietly taken care of his outstanding problem, sleep failed to arrive. If he slept, there would be a tomorrow, and he didn’t dare think about that.
Chapter Nine
Aboard HMS Swiftsure , off Martinique
Hal locked his hands together behind his back and paced as upright as he could beside Hamilton as the captain walked to and fro across the quarterdeck. On the horizon, the distant white speck that was a suspected French frigate had begun to enlarge. She was hull up, and separate sails could now be discerned through a spyglass, even from the deck.
Hal alternated between watching her grow slowly larger as the Swiftsure caught up with her, and watching Hamilton’s serene little smile. The captain was recounting an anecdote about whales to the midshipman of the watch, stopping only when he had to check the sails and murmur a casual order to trim.
The decks were swept bare fore and aft, and beside every cannon a thin stream of smoke rose into the air from the slow-match upright in its bucket. The marines were in the rigging, a rookery of red jackets bristling with rifles, and Hal had not yet lost the feeling of nausea he had woken up with on the morning after Hughes destroyed his last hope.
He should have his mind on the chase, he knew that, although the interminable story about whale-fish and ambergris and how one of the whalers had defrauded the others was doing nothing to help his concentration. He wished he did not still feel so sick. There was no reason for it—they had been at sea a fortnight now, hopping from one island to the next on patrol, hoping to find exactly this—a small and venturesome French vessel, acting the part of privateer or spy.
There should have been plenty of time for the hangover to wear off and his regret at his own actions to dull beneath the bracing discipline of shipboard life. But neither showed any signs of ever shifting again. It seemed he was a hypocrite after all.
He was no more virtuous than Hughes. Less so—God, what a rebuke that was! He would have given Hughes what he wanted, out of mere despair,
It was that, rather than the pain, that gave Robert pause. He liked a bit of rough play and did not expect gentleness from a man so sorely tried. His bruises throbbed deliciously, adding a dark counterpoint to the throb of his cock. His hips pushed forward instinctively. His mouth filled with of the iron taste of need. He wanted to be ridden hard, to be ruthlessly used to purge Hal’s anger and despair.
But the silence weighed on him. Hal’s look of desperate endurance weighed on him. He hadn’t done this to prove Hal right, to prove himself motivated by base lust. Not merely to gain a night of meaningless sex. Not to inflict more pain.
“Hal, look at me. Please.”
Hal’s body tensed, unresponsive under Robert’s hands. He turned his face away, grimacing. Robert took him by the chin and turned it back. “Please.”
Hal’s eyes opened and Robert saw a condemned man, taking what comfort he could, knowing he would despise himself for it in the morning. Drunk and despairing, punishing himself.
“Oh,” Robert whispered, gently, his arousal dying in the darkness of that gaze. “You don’t truly want this at all, do you?”
Letting go abruptly of his root-tearing grip on Robert’s hair, Hal turned over, radiating affront. “’M not gonna beg.”
Robert reached out, smoothed a hand along the curve of creamy shoulder. Despite everything he found himself smiling. “You’re such a moody brat, Morgan. I don’t know what I see in you.”
“Don’t know either,” Hal slurred into the pillow. An almost affectionate silence filled the room before Hal sighed, relaxed and plunged into sleep.
Robert put his shirt back on, rejected the temptation to snuggle, and lay down a careful foot away. Pulling the blanket up around his ears, he watched the last drop tremble on the lip of the discarded rum bottle, where it lay on the floor beside Hal’s breeches. Even after he had quietly taken care of his outstanding problem, sleep failed to arrive. If he slept, there would be a tomorrow, and he didn’t dare think about that.
Chapter Nine
Aboard HMS Swiftsure , off Martinique
Hal locked his hands together behind his back and paced as upright as he could beside Hamilton as the captain walked to and fro across the quarterdeck. On the horizon, the distant white speck that was a suspected French frigate had begun to enlarge. She was hull up, and separate sails could now be discerned through a spyglass, even from the deck.
Hal alternated between watching her grow slowly larger as the Swiftsure caught up with her, and watching Hamilton’s serene little smile. The captain was recounting an anecdote about whales to the midshipman of the watch, stopping only when he had to check the sails and murmur a casual order to trim.
The decks were swept bare fore and aft, and beside every cannon a thin stream of smoke rose into the air from the slow-match upright in its bucket. The marines were in the rigging, a rookery of red jackets bristling with rifles, and Hal had not yet lost the feeling of nausea he had woken up with on the morning after Hughes destroyed his last hope.
He should have his mind on the chase, he knew that, although the interminable story about whale-fish and ambergris and how one of the whalers had defrauded the others was doing nothing to help his concentration. He wished he did not still feel so sick. There was no reason for it—they had been at sea a fortnight now, hopping from one island to the next on patrol, hoping to find exactly this—a small and venturesome French vessel, acting the part of privateer or spy.
There should have been plenty of time for the hangover to wear off and his regret at his own actions to dull beneath the bracing discipline of shipboard life. But neither showed any signs of ever shifting again. It seemed he was a hypocrite after all.
He was no more virtuous than Hughes. Less so—God, what a rebuke that was! He would have given Hughes what he wanted, out of mere despair,
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