His Midshipman (The Regency Lords Book 0.5)

And a lot fewer constables who lurked, had a come-off with customers, then arrested them for gross indecency.
Reid had nearly been nabbed last June, thus the change of venue. White suggested the location earlier that evening, ‘To get you out of your rut, old man.’ And that stroke of genius led to this moment with the lovely Midshipman Smith.
The Pig in a Poke, or the Poke as it was often called, welcomed men like Reid—and apparently men like Midshipman Smith—who appreciate a fine set of shoulders.
Reid had visited the Poke a few times before while between lovers. But those evenings always ended with him walking home alone shortly before sunrise.
Not tonight.
Tonight was different. Greatly different.
The evening really began when a young man eased his slender frame into the next seat and set down his drink. He looked barely twenty, with unruly shoulder-length hair confined at his neck, and dressed in a rumpled suit. Something about the man’s bearing—his erect posture, the set of his features that gave away none of his thoughts or emotions—told Reid that here was a sailor. An officer, most likely.
“Good evening.” The man’s greeting could barely be heard over the roar of drunken revelry. “Terribly 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. I’m grateful for your company. Seems my friend deserted me for a livelier companion. Knowing him, he will be otherwise occupied for… Well, most of the evening, I presume.”
The comment was not some platitude to ease the young man’s mind about any intrusion. White left not five minutes earlier with a large, hairy man, 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 Reid’s cup of tea; otherwise…otherwise, he might not be here chatting with this naval officer.
And that would be a shame because the man sitting next to him, eyes focused on his hands cradling his ale until he glanced sideways, almost shyly, 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…” Reid glanced at his companion’s recently misused but otherwise expensive clothing.
“Midshipman—” A large swallow of ale. “—Smith.” The young man’s lips formed a slight smile as he slid Reid one of those reserved glances before returning his gaze to the long oak table.
Reid’s insides were doing little fluttery things, and he realized he was staring at the newcomer when a couple of men sitting across them raised their tankards in a boisterous toast. There would be no more introductions until the well-wishing subsided. A moment later, the barmaid plunked another pewter mug of dark ale on the table.
“There you go, dearie.”
Smith dug through his small money bag and, as he fumbled a few coins onto the table, she snatched the largest one.
“Ooh, I do love a man what gives a generous tip.”
Smith stared as she strutted off, hips swaying under heavy skirts. He shrugged and slid the coins back into the pouch.
So, Smith was flush and could afford to lose a few pennies. Family money then. Reid doubted a midshipman earned a good wage.
Just then, Smith raised his mug and nodded to the men across the table.
Reid 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 Poke background chatter.
“To His Majesty. May his years be as countless as the stars in the night sky.”
Did Midshipman smile, or was that a smirk? Entranced by the dark eyes, Reid laughed at what must be subtle humor, which had escaped him, and raised his mug in return.
“Tell me,” he asked. “When did you join His Majesty’s Navy?”
“At twelve.”
Twelve! He’d joined the navy what must have been some ten years ago when Reid was…two years shy of twenty. The navy. A breeding ground for tyranny, violence, and drunkenness. All of a sudden, he felt spiders crawl up his spine. The poor bastard. A naval ship was no place for any child.
“Do tell me your name, sir.” Smith said. The ale obviously loosened his tongue.
And apparently the drink fogged his own brain, as he had forgotten to finish the introductions. At the Poke, he typically picked the name of one of his favorite adventure novel characters. 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 Reid suddenly wanted more than a quick rub-off.
“You may call me Blair.”
The boy’s eyes and nostrils widened, and Reid 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 lull. 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 eyes brighter after his second and then third mug.
“Which would you rather command,” Reid asked, “a ship of the line or a frigate?”
To which Smith replied immediately, “The nimble 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, he likely wears his wig to bed.” The boy slurred his words and, after a pause he giggled.
Foxed. Smith was absolutely foxed. And since Reid had a nice whole-body tingle as well, it was time to move things along.
Reid tossed an arm over firm shoulders, blurting out the only thing that came to mind that didn’t involve sex, just to keep the conversation running along while he pressed his suit. “What do you think of those scandalous plays at the smaller theaters?” God, but he was in his cups. Normally he directed conversation much more skillfully.
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 hired help.” Smith slowly licked ale foam from his upper lip.
An image of that tongue licking his prick flashed in Reid’s mind. His cock, took over and directed his body, his mind was a mere spectator. Truth be told, not quite hesitant, because about an hour ago, lust banished whatever misgivings into the deepest recesses of his conscious thoughts. “Tongue…” His face heated. “Er, I mean…those sordid affairs shunned by Lord Howe.”
“But not by us, the refined patrons of our illustrious Pig in a Poke.” Smith’s eyes bored into his, when he said ‘us.’
Reid’s breeches grew overly tight as Smith held his gaze, and gently placed a hand on Reid’s thigh and applied the lightest pressure.
A shiver ran up his leg and along his spine.
Making up more ridiculous chatter to cover his next move, he said, “Will the insubordinate American colonists,” he placed his hand on Smith’s, ”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 further up his thigh was brazen, but Smith did not complain. The simple caress was scorching and exquisite, until, in a very bold move, his hand slid farther until lightly brushing Reid’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 eyes and full, wide lips.
There was a gentle squeeze on his yard. Reid 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 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 Reid lift his hand off his painfully ready member.
Reid’s shoulders dropped with relief and disappointment. “Only a mile from here, in Soho.” And knowing he was still overly cautious from his near run-in with the law, he added as he glanced around the table. “It’s best that we leave separately and meet at the first corner to the right.”