‘You’re so full of yourselves…and of each other.’
Oh Christ, if Buckland only knew.
It didn’t take a man of letters to work out that Horatio Hornblower, the young, lithe, still slightly gangling lieutenant was engaged in an illicitly passionate affair with his dear friend Archie Kennedy.
It would take a man of extreme restraint not to want to join them.
William Bush was not, by nature a passionate man, but he was stirred almost to madness by the sight of Hornblower writhing, glistening and naked under the attentions of the ship’s hose. It was the gleaming pinnacle, the sudden sharp pinprick of desire that made him realise that he was about to sail a course from which there would be no turning back. In the split second glance he shared with Third Lieutenant Kennedy, he knew that Kennedy had seen the look of undisguised lust on his face, and that, without a doubt, he understood it.
Later that evening, when the three of them were performing their patrol around the lower decks, Bush found himself in the middle of a tangle of limbs, a ragged drawing of breaths, as two became three in the lamplight, and three became one.