Dark of the Moon (16/?)
Apr. 1st, 2006 04:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dwgmMore Dark of the Moon, in which our heroine wakes to her second morning aboard the Black Pearl, post kiss. ;) Again, many thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
hereswith for the sharp-eyed edit.
[16]
Letty woke just as Jack Sparrow was leaving the cabin the next morning. Drowsily, she became aware of his booted feet moving quietly about, then heard the slight creak of the cabin door as it opened, then shut again. Gone. Her eyes blinked open to pale predawn light.
As she had on waking the previous day, she lay remembering, though, to her chagrin, her deceased husband did not play the central role in this exercise. She pressed her lips together and felt a hot wave of color stain her neck and cheeks. That kiss! How could she have let Jack do it?
Although the more pertinent question was, how could she not?
She frowned, at both the memory itself and at the disconcerting bodily manifestations that were undeniably associated with it, and increasing by the moment in spite of the knowledge that it was so very wrong! This, she knew, had to do with the fact that she’d been consumed with thoughts of him all night. Though she’d been tired, his close proximity as he snored gently, cradled in his hammock so close beside her, had precluded easy sleep; and when she had finally pushed him forcibly from her mind and dropped off, he’d insinuated himself into her dreams in a way that left no doubt about the true nature of her feelings in his regard. Only hints and flashes of these dreams remained to her now, but oh! They were enough. More than enough.
She clenched her fists, firmly resisting the urge to run her hands along the contours of her tingling flesh. Ridiculous! Absurd! He was a pirate, a criminal! And… and why would he be attracted to her? She knew herself to be moderately pretty, but she’d never really been of interest to men. Her marriage had been an arranged one and, though it had worked out well, she had no illusions that Brian’s love for her had been anything but perfunctory. She didn’t blame him. She had little conversation, and flirtation had always been quite beyond her.
And yet, Jack Sparrow had kissed her, and with every evidence of pleasure.
Groaning, she curled onto her side and let her thoughts stray where they insisted on taking her.
Back to the curiosity and longing that the sound of those drums, that wild music, had awakened in her last evening. She had been fearful, and most cautious leaving the cabin, but the lower decks were deserted and she had gained the top of the steps, the big square of starlight and lamplight that let in the cool night air. Heart thudding, she had peeked above the level of the deck. At first she had not seen him – nearly the entire pirate crew was gathered in the waist, a great press of men, milling about, reclining, talking, singing, laughing. So many… she was prepared to bolt back to the cabin at any sign of detection. But then a raucous tune ended with the screech of a fiddle and a new sort of music began, the sort that had drawn her up from the safety of the cabin: drums, low and deep and loud enough to feel in the reverberation of the deck, in the air, in her bones. And then she had seen him.
She had not thought him handsome that first night when he had challenged and then fought the man who had killed Brian. Not handsome… but she was too terrified at first to think about what he was. But last night, when he had joined some of his crewmates in the dance, he had seemed so different from them, so fey and graceful, his movements sure but imbued with something that spoke of… freedom. And joy, too: his laughter, his dark flashing eyes, his expression of delight, all indicated a rare pleasure in life, and in the moment. And in that moment, the word that came to her to describe him was beautiful.
And then he had caught sight of her and, hair rising, she had remembered what else he was.
She had not stayed to see whether or not he followed, but clambered down the steps and along the shadowed passages, praying she did not lose her way this time. She did not – but even as she reached the door and wrenched it open, she was aware that he was nearly upon her. She’d slammed the door and pushed home the bolt and stood panting, then jumped violently at his call, sing-song, again, and slurred with drink: “Oh, Mrs. Granger!”
And then the foreboding knock. Twice, then twice again. He had been drinking a great deal, she suspected, and they had parted in anger earlier… but his words echoed in her head: if you’re slow to open it for me, or get up to any tricks while I’m gone, you will deeply regret it. Well, she had gotten up to tricks, hadn’t she? And as for opening the door…
Biting her lip, she had slowly loosed the bolt and backed away as he came in. His dark eyes were alight with mischief. But not anger, now. Yet, he seemed to loom over her as she shrank from him, the deeply tanned, half naked body glinting like gold in the light of the lantern, his perfection reminding her of a statue she’d once seen of some heathen god. He’d spoken, but she’d barely been cognizant of his words, only the sound of his voice, a rough-edged murmur laced with laughter. A threat. A promise. His elegant hands closed about her arms and suddenly her back was pressed to the bulkhead. For a panicked moment she was reminded of that other, earlier assault on her virtue. But this time it was Jack, informing her she was to be kissed, and going about it with such delicious care… not hesitant at all, but giving her time to adjust to the notion, to the touch of his lips and tickle of his moustache… to the wet, sweet taste of rum and gold. And Jack.
Oh, God!
She had never in her life been kissed like that.
His arms had slipped around her. All so easy. He drew her close, one hand sliding down to caress, then press against her backside, making her mouth open further on a tiny gasp, which he’d seemed to view as an invitation of sorts. And it had been, for she’d not only allowed this intimacy, she’d begun to return it, like some wanton.
But then, finally, it had been too much. She could feel him, fancied she could feel even the heat of his arousal through the several layers of cloth as he moved, sinuous and demanding. It would not do, she was in no way prepared for this…
When he had released her, she had been surprised, and most relieved.
And… disappointed.
But what was that he’d said? Just remember, for next time, eh?
Oh! He was wicked! Threatening her with such a form of retribution.
Why, if she were not a very good and easily cowed sort of female, she would be planning how next to earn it.
Which thought brought first a tiny smile to her lips, then a chuff of laughter, then more hot color to her cheeks, and she drew the tatty blanket over her head. The blanket that smelled, just faintly, of Jack.
*
TBC
hereswith for the sharp-eyed edit.[16]
Letty woke just as Jack Sparrow was leaving the cabin the next morning. Drowsily, she became aware of his booted feet moving quietly about, then heard the slight creak of the cabin door as it opened, then shut again. Gone. Her eyes blinked open to pale predawn light.
As she had on waking the previous day, she lay remembering, though, to her chagrin, her deceased husband did not play the central role in this exercise. She pressed her lips together and felt a hot wave of color stain her neck and cheeks. That kiss! How could she have let Jack do it?
Although the more pertinent question was, how could she not?
She frowned, at both the memory itself and at the disconcerting bodily manifestations that were undeniably associated with it, and increasing by the moment in spite of the knowledge that it was so very wrong! This, she knew, had to do with the fact that she’d been consumed with thoughts of him all night. Though she’d been tired, his close proximity as he snored gently, cradled in his hammock so close beside her, had precluded easy sleep; and when she had finally pushed him forcibly from her mind and dropped off, he’d insinuated himself into her dreams in a way that left no doubt about the true nature of her feelings in his regard. Only hints and flashes of these dreams remained to her now, but oh! They were enough. More than enough.
She clenched her fists, firmly resisting the urge to run her hands along the contours of her tingling flesh. Ridiculous! Absurd! He was a pirate, a criminal! And… and why would he be attracted to her? She knew herself to be moderately pretty, but she’d never really been of interest to men. Her marriage had been an arranged one and, though it had worked out well, she had no illusions that Brian’s love for her had been anything but perfunctory. She didn’t blame him. She had little conversation, and flirtation had always been quite beyond her.
And yet, Jack Sparrow had kissed her, and with every evidence of pleasure.
Groaning, she curled onto her side and let her thoughts stray where they insisted on taking her.
Back to the curiosity and longing that the sound of those drums, that wild music, had awakened in her last evening. She had been fearful, and most cautious leaving the cabin, but the lower decks were deserted and she had gained the top of the steps, the big square of starlight and lamplight that let in the cool night air. Heart thudding, she had peeked above the level of the deck. At first she had not seen him – nearly the entire pirate crew was gathered in the waist, a great press of men, milling about, reclining, talking, singing, laughing. So many… she was prepared to bolt back to the cabin at any sign of detection. But then a raucous tune ended with the screech of a fiddle and a new sort of music began, the sort that had drawn her up from the safety of the cabin: drums, low and deep and loud enough to feel in the reverberation of the deck, in the air, in her bones. And then she had seen him.
She had not thought him handsome that first night when he had challenged and then fought the man who had killed Brian. Not handsome… but she was too terrified at first to think about what he was. But last night, when he had joined some of his crewmates in the dance, he had seemed so different from them, so fey and graceful, his movements sure but imbued with something that spoke of… freedom. And joy, too: his laughter, his dark flashing eyes, his expression of delight, all indicated a rare pleasure in life, and in the moment. And in that moment, the word that came to her to describe him was beautiful.
And then he had caught sight of her and, hair rising, she had remembered what else he was.
She had not stayed to see whether or not he followed, but clambered down the steps and along the shadowed passages, praying she did not lose her way this time. She did not – but even as she reached the door and wrenched it open, she was aware that he was nearly upon her. She’d slammed the door and pushed home the bolt and stood panting, then jumped violently at his call, sing-song, again, and slurred with drink: “Oh, Mrs. Granger!”
And then the foreboding knock. Twice, then twice again. He had been drinking a great deal, she suspected, and they had parted in anger earlier… but his words echoed in her head: if you’re slow to open it for me, or get up to any tricks while I’m gone, you will deeply regret it. Well, she had gotten up to tricks, hadn’t she? And as for opening the door…
Biting her lip, she had slowly loosed the bolt and backed away as he came in. His dark eyes were alight with mischief. But not anger, now. Yet, he seemed to loom over her as she shrank from him, the deeply tanned, half naked body glinting like gold in the light of the lantern, his perfection reminding her of a statue she’d once seen of some heathen god. He’d spoken, but she’d barely been cognizant of his words, only the sound of his voice, a rough-edged murmur laced with laughter. A threat. A promise. His elegant hands closed about her arms and suddenly her back was pressed to the bulkhead. For a panicked moment she was reminded of that other, earlier assault on her virtue. But this time it was Jack, informing her she was to be kissed, and going about it with such delicious care… not hesitant at all, but giving her time to adjust to the notion, to the touch of his lips and tickle of his moustache… to the wet, sweet taste of rum and gold. And Jack.
Oh, God!
She had never in her life been kissed like that.
His arms had slipped around her. All so easy. He drew her close, one hand sliding down to caress, then press against her backside, making her mouth open further on a tiny gasp, which he’d seemed to view as an invitation of sorts. And it had been, for she’d not only allowed this intimacy, she’d begun to return it, like some wanton.
But then, finally, it had been too much. She could feel him, fancied she could feel even the heat of his arousal through the several layers of cloth as he moved, sinuous and demanding. It would not do, she was in no way prepared for this…
When he had released her, she had been surprised, and most relieved.
And… disappointed.
But what was that he’d said? Just remember, for next time, eh?
Oh! He was wicked! Threatening her with such a form of retribution.
Why, if she were not a very good and easily cowed sort of female, she would be planning how next to earn it.
Which thought brought first a tiny smile to her lips, then a chuff of laughter, then more hot color to her cheeks, and she drew the tatty blanket over her head. The blanket that smelled, just faintly, of Jack.
*
TBC
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-04-02 08:04 am (UTC)Wouldn't we all, Letty. Wouldn't we all.
It will be interesting to see how things proceed between them. I think our heroine is beginning to loosen up a little. :-)
no subject
Date: 2006-04-02 08:20 am (UTC)Very happy you're enjoying the story! Thanks for letting me know.