Standish by Erastes

Author:Erastes [Sheri]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 19

Ambrose allowed himself to be talked out of his cabin by a persistent Christopher and sat with his back to the crew, resisting the temptation to watch them. He talked, but mostly listened to the Dunstans, learning more about their life, the little school, their work, and their faith. Not having any himself, he found it fascinating, the way they clung to the belief of a higher power in the face of the immense suffering and degradation they encountered daily. His sisters both believed, but in a different way. With them it was a belief that God was in his Heaven and all was right with the world. Theirs was a God who was as remote from them as was the Emperor of China, who conducted His business and did not involve them in it. With the Dunstans, it was a pathetically sweet love, giving everything and receiving nothing in return, in the simple trust that the meek would inherit the earth as a reward for their suffering. Ambrose longed for the gift of belief, but found both points of view impossible to reconcile with his own knowledge, both of science and of humanity.

They gently quizzed him for his religious standpoint, and when he changed the subject for fear of getting into a theological argument with them, they backed away and did not force theirs onto him. He was simply grateful to be among gentlepeople again. His life until the previous summer had been peaceful, and although filled with a longing for Standish and all that it entailed, had had few peaks and troughs. With Rafe, he had found himself out of control, run away with passions of which he was hitherto unaware, like a rider on a horse that has the bit firmly between its teeth. There had been no peace with Rafe, not in the joy or in the despair, although, and his heart jolted to remember it, there had been tenderness, such tenderness that only such a truly powerful man had it in his gift to bestow.

So his days improved, but alone in the dark, his nights remained a trial and a torment. His traitorous hands skimmed his own flesh as he imagined they were Rafe’s roughened palms, learning every bump and curve of his own skin, perceiving his body through Rafe’s touch, and attempting to remember how Rafe’s had felt beneath his own senses. He doubted he would ever forget that first touch of Rafe’s abdomen, the silken tautness of his muscles, the warm adamantine of his manhood. The feeling he had had when Rafe first kissed him, Rafe’s tongue trailing down his stomach.

Every night Ambrose grasped his own hardness, feeling the familiar burning pressure at his groin. It was not Rafe’s Fire, as that was sweeter. This was a heat that even when doused was dormant and smoking, having no vent to it but his own manipulation. Wrapping his fingers around his length, he caressed himself softly, remembering a rainy afternoon in Paris, Sebastien

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