journey’s end

Sir Arthur Wellesley had always felt older than the men around him.

Even as a young officer, when the mess rooms rang with laughter and boasts and the sort of confidence that seemed to come naturally to other men, he had never quite shared in it. While his contemporaries gambled recklessly and chased amusement wherever it could be found, Wellington had always been thinking three moves ahead – of supplies, of routes, of consequences. It was an exhausting way to live, but he knew no other.

The years had only made it worse.

Now he was a Field Marshal, burdened with responsibilities that would have crushed lesser men, and he often felt every one of his forty-odd years. Old injuries complained whenever rain threatened. Long days in the saddle left aches that lingered for far longer than they once had. His patience, never particularly abundant to begin with, had been worn thin by decades of correcting other people's mistakes.

Training officers was perhaps the greatest trial of all. There were days when he was convinced that half the British Army possessed only enough sense to avoid walking directly into a river. The other half required supervision.

And then there were his aide-de-camps. He knew perfectly well what they called him when they believed themselves safely out of earshot.

Old Nosey.

As though he were deaf as well as aging.

The nickname had begun years ago and stubbornly refused to die. Whenever he caught fragments of it drifting across a campfire or through a tent flap, the offenders always developed a sudden and intense interest in whatever paperwork happened to be nearby. Wellington generally allowed them their amusement.

Generally.

Still, he could not deny that the title stung slightly less these days than it once had. One eventually grew resigned to such things.

What he had not resigned himself to, however, was the sight of a set of perky tits shoved in his face as a pretty French girl bounced on his cock with more enthusiasm than he remembered ever being shown, even by his wife.

But he wasn’t complaining.

He enjoyed watching her impassive façade shatter as she sank onto his cock, inch after inch, bullying her cunt open with his girth.

Frankly, it was absurd.

And yet there she was, panting and trembling with effort as she fucked herself on his cock, and Wellington almost chastised her for the unnecessary strain she was putting on her knees.

But he decided to be nice to her and instead, he snapped his hips up to meet hers in a single powerful thrust that had her head falling back and mouth tipping open breathlessly. He was loathe to give the French credit for anything, but even he was willing to acknowledge excellence when it presented itself.

And she was, undeniably, excellent.

“Oh, mon Dieu,” she moaned, pussy fluttering with shock as a tear rolled down her cheek.

“You like that, my girl? You want my cock so badly you’re crying for it?” He almost wanted to laugh – how could she sound so innocent while taking his cock like she was made for it?

Innocent she may have been, but naïve she was certainly not. She possessed the sort of confidence that ignored obstacles entirely.

It did not seem to matter that he commanded the army marching through her homeland. It did not matter that men throughout Europe spoke his name with a mixture of respect, irritation, and outright fear. It did not matter that he was older than her by a considerable margin, stern by reputation, and rarely approachable even by his own officers.

She had seen what she wanted, and marched directly toward it.

The first time she appeared outside his tent, he had assumed it was a coincidence. The second time, persistence. By the third, he realised she had no intention whatsoever of being discouraged.

Wellington could admire that. After all, stubborn determination had carried him through most of his life. He had been the second son of an Irish peer, an unremarkable young man whom few people had expected much from. He had entered the army without the brilliance of a prodigy or the charm of a favourite son. Whatever success he possessed had been earned through relentless effort, discipline, and a refusal to accept defeat.

No one had ever looked at him the way she did. Not when he was young and handsome, and certainly not now.

So he indulged her.

Or perhaps, if he were being honest, he indulged himself.

It’s why the only response he had when she tired herself out again – going still on his lap and huffing in frustration – was to smirk. Because he knew he was the only one who got her like this.

And when she dug her nails into his chest and gave him a petulant glare before complaining about how she was doing all the work, he just shook his head and said, “Well, my dear, don’t blame me when you can’t walk straight tomorrow,” before fucking her into the mattress of his campaign cot until she screamed.

Because for all his complaints about age, responsibility, and the endless burdens of command, she gave him something precious that he had not realised he was missing.

With her, he was not the victor of Salamanca or the defender of Portugal. He was not the man responsible for thousands of lives, nor the commander expected to have answers for every disaster and solution for every impossible problem.

He was simply a man. A tired one, perhaps. A stubborn one certainly. But a man nonetheless.

And whenever she appeared at the entrance of his tent, eyes sparkling with determination and utterly unconcerned by rank or reputation, he found himself looking forward to it more than he ought.

And when she crawled into his lap and demanded his attention and his cock, when she moaned and cried his name – Arthur – in his ear, the sound of it never failed to undo something inside him.

For a few precious moments, the weight he carried seemed lighter.

The maps could wait.

The reports could wait.

The war itself could wait.