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*****
The pale early morning light crept over his bare skin, slowly highlighting the shoulders dusted with pale freckles. Drying his face, Arthur straightened and looked at his reflection with satisfaction: there was nothing quite like the feeling of being clean, neat, and freshly shaven. The door to his bedroom suddenly flew open, almost making him jump. He expected to see Beckermann but instead there was Sharpe: muddy, ruffled and definitely looking the worse for wear.
Sharpe seemed to hesitate slightly as he took in the sight of Arthur standing in front of the wash basin, wearing nothing but his breeches and stockings. But there was a flash of wildness in the green eyes as he advanced slowly.
"Thought you'd be still sleeping."
"Indeed? Why then do you come in here like a charging bull?" asked Arthur sternly, turning to face Sharpe.
"Sorry," he said shrugging and sounding not at all apologetic, coming ever closer. Arthur edged away and walked back to his bed where the rest of his clothes were laid out.
"I take it the mission was successful?" In his desire to reach for the shirt, Arthur made a strategic mistake of turning his back to Sharpe and suddenly he was pressed up against Sharpe's dusty uniform, his waist encircled by strong arms, and his neck tickled with hot breath heavy with alcohol.
"Arthur..." growled Sharpe, making his breath hitch. But as sudden as the contact had been inflicted on him it was gone again. Slightly dazed, Arthur returned to the wash basin to occupy himself with washing the dust off. The key turned with an ominous sound and then Sharpe was back, hugging him from behind, dust turning to dirt where it touched the water droplets. Sharpe held on to his waist with one hand, while the other cupped his cock through the breeches and started kneading it. Hot kisses were placed randomly on his neck and shoulders, peppered with small nips and wet licks. Arthur swallowed, feeling blood rush away from his head and downwards. Whatever his reception of Sharpe had been, he'd missed him and worried for him all the time that he was gone: not that he'd ever admit it to anyone. He felt his cock starting to strain against the cloth under Sharpe's insistent fingers and let his head fall back to rest on the other man's shoulder. Sharpe took the opportunity provided and kissed Arthur deeply, letting him taste stale brandy. When he broke the kiss both were breathing somewhat raggedly and Sharpe licked a way along his jaw up to his ear, tracing its outline with a wet tongue.
"Need you..." he whispered hoarsely "...now!"
The need in the rifleman's voice made Arthur gasp and he knew he couldn't help but surrender to it, especially now that Sharpe's hand was kneading one buttock as if in emphasis.
Not waiting for a reply Sharpe didn't bother with fastenings: he simply ripped the breeches. Arthur wanted to protest but Sharpe's hand kept sliding up and down his cock, the thumb spreading his precome over the head. Hot breath ghosted over his neck and Sharpe's lips and tongue left moist trails on Arthur's skin, then glided downwards and traced the constellations of freckles on his shoulder. Despite the softness of this caress, Sharpe was not in a gentle mood today: he pulled the breeches down, just enough to bare Arthur's arse and thighs and reached for the bar of soap, working up a lather in the basin. Now-clean, slick fingers glided between Arthur's buttocks, rubbing demandingly over his entrance, spreading the lather. Finally, Sharpe busied himself with his own trousers, and lathering up his cock, nudged the head into position against Arthur's hole. Here, bending slightly forward, the General braced himself on the counter and bucked onto Sharpe, eliciting a surprised gasp from the man. Sharpe grabbed his hips, staining them with soap suds that slid shimmering down his thighs until being soaked up by the cloth of the breeches.
The buttons of the rifleman's uniform scraped against Arthur's back as Sharpe bent over him, one hand around his chest, pressing him close, and finally starting to move, hard and fast. After some minutes he brought his other hand around to caress Arthur's face, tracing kiss-swollen, gasping lips. Arthur began licking and sucking the questing fingers immediately, closing his eyes and moaning around them as if it was Sharpe's cock in his mouth. It being the hand that had not used the soap he could taste sweat, earth and things he did not want to know the origin of, but that only made him lick the callused fingers all the more eagerly. Being in the arms of that rifleman made him lose all sense of propriety at least for a short while.
From Arthur's desperate noises and his own rapidly culminating lust, Sharpe knew that this was not going to last long: he brought the well-lavished fingers to Arthur's cock, and started ploughing into him almost brutally, jerking him off at the same time. Sharpe's claiming thrusts made Arthur grab the counter harder, trying to meet them just as determinedly but rocking the furniture in the attempt, the water from the basin splashing wildly. With a low cry, Arthur came, his semen ending up in long milky threads over the dark wood. Sharpe made a few more strokes then orgasmed with a growl, spending himself deep inside the general, clutching him tight and panting hotly onto sweat-cooling skin.
After a while of silent coming down, Arthur stirred under Sharpe's weight. Reluctantly, the rifleman moved but only so much as to allow Arthur to get up. The General turned and faced Sharpe. He lifted one hand to a dirty cheek, tracing the clean lines sweat has painted into the dust. His fingers brushed over an at least two day stubble. "You need a shave, Richard" he said matter-of-factly. Although his voice did not seem to acknowledge what they had just indulged in, his body would remind him for at least today.
Sharpe was too put out to do much. The strain of the mission and their recent activity claimed their price over both his mind and body. So, when Arthur gently stirred him towards the bed he did not protest and let himself be seated on its edge. Arthur took a damp cloth and started to wipe Sharpe's face, then lathered some soap and spread it liberally over Sharpe's cheeks. He reached for his razor and steadying Sharpe with one hand under his chin began to shave him. Sharpe let all that happen and did not even flinch when Arthur put the blade against his throat, carefully shaving upwards. When he was finished, Arthur brushed his fingers lightly over the now-soft skin.
"Come now, get some sleep".
A few minutes later an immaculate Sir Arthur Wellesley left his bedchamber. Yes, there was nothing like being clean, neat, and freshly shaven after all. A small smile played at his lips. Only he knew that there was a dirty rifleman curled up on his bed.