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Pearl Tales
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a Turnabout by Hereswith |
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The
tale thus far... |
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~ Epilogue ~ (Rated 'R') The first thing he said, after they entered the cabin and he tossed his mantle over one of the chairs, was quite matter-of-fact, and certainly not what she imagined was foremost in his mind. “Let me see your arm.” Elizabeth snorted, surprised, but obliged him. She removed her coat and sat by the table, rolling up the bloodied sleeve of her shirt. “It’s nothing. Really.” He hummed noncommittally and examined the graze, then went and fetched a few pieces of cloth and a bottle. “Rum,” she observed, as he poured some liquor on a cloth. “Isn’t that a waste?” “Far worse to burn it.” He flashed her a smile. “Hold still.” She grimaced, keeping her gaze on him in order to distract herself from the smarting pain while he thoroughly cleaned the wound and bandaged it. His skin glowed golden, bathed in candlelight and set off by the vivid blue of the silk, and the neckline revealed just enough to tantalise. By rights it shouldn’t have been possible for him to be bewitching in that costume, but he was. A restlessness stole over her, and a sharp anticipation. When he straightened and would have stepped aside, she hindered him, and he looked at her inquiringly. “The colour suits you.” His brows winged up, and she added, “It does, you know.” “Thanks kindly,” he replied, but quieted as she began to peel off his left glove. He did not move, or speak again, until she had discarded it and leaned to kiss his wrist, where the pulse beat the strongest. “What are you doing, love?” He sounded amused, but there was no mistaking the quiver of tension that ran through him. “I’m seducing you.” Elizabeth repeated the process with the other glove, pressing her lips to the tattooed bird, and then to the pirate’s brand, her tongue tracing the circumference of it. “Am I succeeding?” His jaw clenched. “Aye.” She got to her feet and, in mid-motion, caught him by the hair and pulled him to her, entangling herself like she often did, because the sensation of the beads and baubles on her hands foreshadowed the sensation of them on her body; because he was the quicksilver ocean to her, and had always been, and those matted locks and braids were the seaweed that dragged her down. “Jack,” she said. “Captain Jack Sparrow,” with her mouth so close to his that his moustache tickled, so close that their breaths mingled, “I want you out of that gown and inside of me.” He nipped at her lower lip. “Undress me, then.” Sliding out of her grasp as easily as any creature of the deep, he turned his back to her. She could have unbuttoned her breeches and told him to hitch up his skirts, and she did not doubt that he would do so, if she asked him to, or that she would derive great pleasure from it. He flexed his fingers, spreading them wide, and the sudden tremble in her thighs almost swayed her, but the waiting, the wilful delay of the inevitable, had its own rewards. And she would rather have him naked against her. With firm determination Elizabeth started on the lacing, a commonplace task, though there was nothing ordinary about it when it was Jack who was standing in front of her, Jack she was disrobing. They were both silent, the noises of the ship and the slap of the waves was all that could be heard, and the air was thick between them; it seemed to her that a reckless glance would suffice, a gesture or a single word, and the fuse would be sparked. His shoulders were set, like he was restraining himself, but he only fidgeted once, and not for long. As soon as she was done, she helped him take the garment off, still maintaining her distance, as if it was a game and those were the rules, and Jack, for his part, did not touch her, even though his eyes swept over each hidden curve with frank familiarity. The dress fell to the sole with a whisper, but the corset ties were knotted, and she could not loosen them, try as she might. Muttering an oath, she reached for the knife that she carried, but a twinge of remembrance caused her to hesitate, after she had brought it out. Jack, upon noticing, said, “Now, that’ll make us even good and proper, eh, Lizzie me girl?” It shook her from her musings, and she gave him a pointed stare, but did not gainsay him. Though she had no recollection of it, she knew he had assisted her in much the same fashion, if for a more urgent cause. Focusing on the present, and on Jack, she sliced through the cords, slitting the corset open, and he promptly inhaled with a relief she well understood. When he was down to his shift, at last, she paused, regarding him. The shape of his sides and legs was visible, where light sifted through the fine weave, and the sight was intensely arousing. “We might’ve the whole night, in theory, love,” he reproached, after short while, frowning at her over his shoulder. “It doesn’t necessarily follow you should take the whole night to finish it.” Her lips quirked. “I’m merely admiring the view, Captain Sparrow.” She used the blade to cut a tear in the neckline, then sheathed the knife, grabbed the edges of the fabric and ripped, baring him to the small of his back. And she said, in complete sincerity, her voice harsh with emotion, “You’re beautiful.” Jack let out a rumble of laughter, but it dissolved into a groan as her hands roved over the ridges of his shoulderblades, down his spine, and along the slanting, broken lines of scars. She took her time, making very sure he was shuddering by the end of it. The moment she stopped, he twisted round, and his own hand shot out, gripping her arm below the elbow. And something snapped in her. Neither she nor Jack endeavoured to be gentle about it. The kiss was voracious, greedy and uncontrolled, and, as when they sparred, he cheated and she refused to yield. Teeth clashed, and the frenzied exchange of licks and bites, the heated dance of tongues, had her gasping, and she stumbled backwards, tugging him with her, until her calves hit the bed. Jack stripped off her vest, throwing it aside while she drew the shirt over her head. He proceeded to unfasten and unwind the slight linen binding around her chest, his fingers ghosting over her through the rapidly thinning layers, and her breathing shallowed even further. When he had disposed of the binding, he cupped her breast, raw desire written across his features, and the tightness that had built within her flared into a heavy ache that radiated from where his roughened palm caressed her to her belly, and lower. “God, Jack,” she said hoarsely, and he did not reply, or perhaps, deemed that what he was doing with his thumb, and his mouth, which had strayed to the dip of her collarbone, was answer enough. She revelled in his attentions for a spell, but eventually grew impatient and pushed down his tattered shift. He released her, lithely shrugging out of it, and with his aid she got the rest of her clothes off. They crashed onto the bed, Elizabeth on top, aware of every inch of him, warm, solid and sinewy, beneath her. “Ow!” he exclaimed. “Sorry!” She rubbed the spot where she had accidentally struck him. “You did that on purpose,” he said. “Admit it.” “I admit to nothing, Captain Sparrow,” she responded. He shifted a little, with obvious intent, and a fierce stab of longing compelled Elizabeth to raise herself to her knees, so that she straddled him, and their gazes locked. With a fluid motion, she took the entire length of him into her, and was unable to stifle a moan. Jack cursed, his hands coming up to circle her waist. He looked positively feral, and she wondered if she did, too, because that was how she felt. Feral and fevered with need. She bent forward, freeing the remaining pins in her hair and allowing it to stream over them both. “Say my name,” she demanded, the tips of her breasts brushing over his flesh. “Elizabeth.” She kissed him, playing with the braids in his beard and rocking her hips against his in a slow, measured pattern. “Again.” “Minx,” he grumbled, and on a laboured sigh, as she licked along his earlobe and throat, “Lizzie.” Her grin was a pirate’s grin, as roguish as his was wont to be, and she stretched upright with a lazy grace that riveted him, quickening her movements. He steadied her when she might have unbalanced, but in all else surrendered to her, his expression changing like the sea depending on the angle and the rhythm she set. It was magic, dark and age-old, and if he dragged her down, she ensnared him, and this was how they drowned. Jack arched up, crying out, and she was near that selfsame precipice, though not so near that she could take the plunge, like he did, but she savoured the nuances of his reaction to the full. “Sweet bonny lass,” he said, having regained his wits, and he stroked her legs the way he sometimes stroked the weathered wood of the Pearl. “Left you behind, did I? Well, we can’t have that.” He deftly reversed their positions and slipped out of her, inching downward, and she protested, “Jack, what—oh!” Beads trailed over her thigh and the bone nudged against the sensitive inner side, then his mouth was on her, and she flung her head back at the shock, the wicked, sinful thrill of it. He teased her until she was writhing, barely conscious of the frantic sounds she made, and what had been in danger of abating rose in a rush that burned her clear through and to her toes. She let go with a leap and throb of the heart, tasting copper and seeing stars. As she returned to herself, Elizabeth noted that he had flopped on the bed beside her and that he, in that instant of rare unguardedness, seemed as tired as she was. “You should sleep, Jack.” He glanced at her. “So swift a recovery, eh? Must be losing my touch.” “You haven’t. I can vouch for that,” Elizabeth said, reddening a bit as her candour made him smirk. “Honestly, though, you should.” “Later,” he replied. “After I’ve been on deck. And talked to Gibbs.” “Would they hunt us,” she asked, troubled. “Lynch and his men?” “Not likely, now, but our fortune mightn’t last if we dawdle in these waters. No reason you shouldn’t take a nap,” he continued, “you’ve earned the rest.” Rising, he lightly squeezed her knee. “Damned obstinate woman.” He said it fondly, rather than in distemper, and it did not pique her, as it might have done under other circumstances. She sat up and watched as he rummaged through the bag, her coat pockets, and then a chest by the farthest wall, donning the various accoutrements that defined the legend of him, as much as the man. When he was clothed, he lifted the crumpled dress, shook it out and hung it over his mantle on the chair. “I expect we can find some future use for it,” he commented, with a hint of challenge, “if you’re so inclined, Mrs. Turner.” “I ruined the shift,” Elizabeth reminded him. “That you did,” he acknowledged. “It could be mended, however, or mayhap replaced.” She chuckled. “I assume I did it right, then?” “Aye, love,” he said, and she had meant it more as banter, but his tone was like the silk he had worn, and there was a banked fire in those hooded, kohl-lined eyes. “Just right.”
Finis
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