Anthony, Prince of New Rome, stared out into space, sighing. He, his contingent of men, and his father, the King, were on a fortnight flight to the realm of Outer Yunjalia, a peace delegation consisting of the two most important men of their realm, some of the finest soldiers, and myriad diplomats and traders. Gaining the favor of the ruling party—not to mention the military—of the Yunjalians was absolutely vital to New Rome.
Government–supported brigands from West Prochley had blocked their trade routes, keeping New Rome lean and hungry. They’d struggled along for a while, but a radical decision had been made. The King’s younger half brother—Donald, called Ducky by the media and their subjects—would stay behind in New Rome while Anthony, his father, the King, and the others appealed to the Yunjalians.
Anthony had been chosen because he had “the knack.” Advisors had argued his inclusion, led by the infuriatingly stubborn Captain of the Guard, a man with a flinty-eyed stare called Gibbs. He’d taken over when Mike Franks had been slain in an assassination attempt.
But “the knack” was an important and vital quality. Anthony always got his way—no negotiation was beyond his charms and his easy negotiating skills. And they would have to rely on him if they had a chance of succeeding.
But Anthony wanted something that was proving hard to secure. He’d been fixated by Gibbs for years, admiring the other man’s muscular form from afar, stroking himself to blistering climax in the night, with the man’s name spilling from his lips.
And Gibbs, well, he didn’t seem interested in the least.
Anthony had tried everything short of a Royal order to garner the man’s attention, and Gibbs seemed unmoved. Anthony had flirted, cajoled, even brushed against Gibbs in the narrow corridors of the ship, but the other man didn’t so much as react. He’d even brewed the man’s favorite drink, the rare Earthen coffee, just as Gibbs liked it.
“Thanks, Princeling,” Gibbs had replied.
Princeling? As if Anthony was some soft-cheeked child instead of a grown man, military service behind him. Where was the Royal respect? In his grandfather’s day, even Captain of the Guard would have been whipped for such impertinence.
Anthony watched as Gibbs spoke with one of his most senior men—Fornell. They were just far enough down the corridor that Anthony was comforted by the rumble of Gibbs’ voice, the spice of his shaving soap hanging heavy in the air. His back was to Anthony, the tight military pants hugging his ass. Damn, he had great musculature, Anthony thought, his own body beginning to rise, thoughts of them tangling in the sheets driving his sudden need higher.
Anthony couldn’t hide the small sound of need he emitted, and when Gibbs turned around, Anthony knew he was flushing, every bit of Royal restraint fleeing him.
“Need something, Princeling?”
“N-no.”
“Well, when you figure it out, let me know. Let’s leave Princeling to his…devices,” Gibbs said to Fornell. As Anthony struggled to find the right thing to say, Gibbs gave him a smirk and sauntered away down the corridor, moving swiftly until he was out of Anthony’s sight. Fornell turned around to give Anthony a fleeting smile, then he, too, was gone.
“Yes, I need you,” Anthony managed to say when the other man had turned a corner. Why was it so hard to speak when Gibbs was around. The gift of speech was something that came so easily to him, but with Gibbs he was a stammering loon.
Perhaps Princeling was indeed a name that suited him.
“What are you going to do about it, Sir?” another voice asked at Anthony’s elbow. He turned to see the sympathetic green eyes of his chief advisor, Timothy McGee. Though he’d tried to hide his feelings for Gibbs from everyone, Timothy and James Palmer, Anthony’s other chief advisor, seemed to know all.
“I don’t know. Will you help me win him over?”
“If he is who you want, Sir.”
“He is.”
“Very well, then. Let’s work on a plan. Gibbs will be yours for the taking when we’re done. He doesn’t stand a chance with the combined efforts of you, me and James, Sir.”
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Princeling
Date: 2012-07-29 02:09 am (UTC)Government–supported brigands from West Prochley had blocked their trade routes, keeping New Rome lean and hungry. They’d struggled along for a while, but a radical decision had been made. The King’s younger half brother—Donald, called Ducky by the media and their subjects—would stay behind in New Rome while Anthony, his father, the King, and the others appealed to the Yunjalians.
Anthony had been chosen because he had “the knack.” Advisors had argued his inclusion, led by the infuriatingly stubborn Captain of the Guard, a man with a flinty-eyed stare called Gibbs. He’d taken over when Mike Franks had been slain in an assassination attempt.
But “the knack” was an important and vital quality. Anthony always got his way—no negotiation was beyond his charms and his easy negotiating skills. And they would have to rely on him if they had a chance of succeeding.
But Anthony wanted something that was proving hard to secure. He’d been fixated by Gibbs for years, admiring the other man’s muscular form from afar, stroking himself to blistering climax in the night, with the man’s name spilling from his lips.
And Gibbs, well, he didn’t seem interested in the least.
Anthony had tried everything short of a Royal order to garner the man’s attention, and Gibbs seemed unmoved. Anthony had flirted, cajoled, even brushed against Gibbs in the narrow corridors of the ship, but the other man didn’t so much as react. He’d even brewed the man’s favorite drink, the rare Earthen coffee, just as Gibbs liked it.
“Thanks, Princeling,” Gibbs had replied.
Princeling? As if Anthony was some soft-cheeked child instead of a grown man, military service behind him. Where was the Royal respect? In his grandfather’s day, even Captain of the Guard would have been whipped for such impertinence.
Anthony watched as Gibbs spoke with one of his most senior men—Fornell. They were just far enough down the corridor that Anthony was comforted by the rumble of Gibbs’ voice, the spice of his shaving soap hanging heavy in the air. His back was to Anthony, the tight military pants hugging his ass. Damn, he had great musculature, Anthony thought, his own body beginning to rise, thoughts of them tangling in the sheets driving his sudden need higher.
Anthony couldn’t hide the small sound of need he emitted, and when Gibbs turned around, Anthony knew he was flushing, every bit of Royal restraint fleeing him.
“Need something, Princeling?”
“N-no.”
“Well, when you figure it out, let me know. Let’s leave Princeling to his…devices,” Gibbs said to Fornell. As Anthony struggled to find the right thing to say, Gibbs gave him a smirk and sauntered away down the corridor, moving swiftly until he was out of Anthony’s sight. Fornell turned around to give Anthony a fleeting smile, then he, too, was gone.
“Yes, I need you,” Anthony managed to say when the other man had turned a corner. Why was it so hard to speak when Gibbs was around. The gift of speech was something that came so easily to him, but with Gibbs he was a stammering loon.
Perhaps Princeling was indeed a name that suited him.
“What are you going to do about it, Sir?” another voice asked at Anthony’s elbow. He turned to see the sympathetic green eyes of his chief advisor, Timothy McGee. Though he’d tried to hide his feelings for Gibbs from everyone, Timothy and James Palmer, Anthony’s other chief advisor, seemed to know all.
“I don’t know. Will you help me win him over?”
“If he is who you want, Sir.”
“He is.”
“Very well, then. Let’s work on a plan. Gibbs will be yours for the taking when we’re done. He doesn’t stand a chance with the combined efforts of you, me and James, Sir.”
“I hope not.”