"I need, Mr. Hornblower." His voice is thick and rough with drink and the thick smoke that clogs the air of the establishment. Hornblower waits for further comment, his eyes taking in the rumpled and wrinkled appearance of Bush's shirt beneath his open jacket and waist coat, the hem of it untucked and his stock loosened at his throat.

"Need? Mr. Bush?" He moves forward, drawn by something in Bush's eyes or needs of his own, no longer quelled by reason and logic but compelled by the burn of rum and ale and the scent of sex that is as thick in the air as smoke.

Bush stands there, swaying slightly as Hornblower approaches, his eyes never moving, never blinking. Hornblower stops inches from him, his hands tugging Bush's shirt completely free of his breeches. The air is thick and hot with the flash of impatience and promise as Bush sheds his jackets and, in a smooth, seemingly practiced motion, Hornblower sinks to his knees.

Bush groans and hits his head on the door as it falls back, his eyes closed as Hornblower's hands unfasten his breeches, pushing the fabric away with long fingers, brushing the dark hair on Bush's thighs. Bush lifts his head, his eyes back on Hornblower as the younger man moves his hands from Bush's thighs to the swell of his arousal, graceful long fingers stroking the flesh, the intense gaze Bush knows so well focused on the sensitive skin.

Horatio runs his fingers the skin at the base of Bush's cock before trailing them along the shaft, tugging back the loose foreskin to trace the flushed head. Bush's body arches away from the door toward Hornblower with every successive touch, the movements of Hornblower's hands like marks on the log, detailed and precise.

Catching his breath, Bush reaches down and fists his hand in Hornblower's hair, pulling Hornblower gaze up to meet his own. There is no indication that Bush is senior in the moment, no thought of rank or rating as he meets Hornblower's eyes. Bush licks his lips and huffs out the last of his breath. "Please."