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Edgar steadied himself against the bulkhead as the wake of a passing yacht sent his own ship to wallowing and scraping against the dock. He was hunched over the sink in the closely confined space, space being at a premium even in a Latitude 44 such as he'd sailed from Marseilles to the harbor town of Horta on Azores' Faial Island. He believed that he could find exactly what he wanted here, and he'd been preparing himself for the greater part of the morning to make the most of himself.

He was pleased enough with his form, fancying himself as looking a decade younger at least than his well-pampered fifty-two. He sighed at that thought, though, a decade younger not really making the difference he sought. It got no easier the older he got, although he found that a thick wallet helped considerably. He was leaning into the small mirror over the basin in the eternal search for gray hairs and plucking at the most noticeable ones; he was years beyond eradicating them all, and in Marseilles Tony had said his graying temples were distinguished, so maybe he should just make do with that thought. The wallowing of the ship certainly wasn't helping him in his quest, and at least he still had a full head of hair. There were men far younger than he was who couldn't say that.

He stood back as far as he could and peered into the mirror. Yes, everything seemed to be in as good an order as he could expect. He was really quite presentable. The thought of what he was about to do was arousing, and he felt the knob of his cock rub against the cotton of ...

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