Page 8 of Captive of the Pirate King
I shrug, my face burning. I’m glad for the cooling effect of the rain.
“You can learn to handle it,” he says. “With practice. You have to be willing to stretch yourself, to expand. To try new things.”
Stretch myself, expand—oh gods.
Is it my imagination, or is there a smile in his voice? I twist around, but his face looks impassive. This close I can tell that under the grime and the eye-patch and the dark scruff along his jaw, his features are handsome.
Locke lets go of the rope and takes a step back.
“Slide your hands down a bit,” he says quietly. “And pull.”
I’m melting inside, throbbing and tingling, but somehow I manage to do what he asks. I’m not strong enough, of course, and he has to step in to help me. Which means his arms are folded around me again, and as we pull the rope together my rear bumps his crotch lightly. He emits a low huff.
“Move,” he orders, and I duck under his arm and skitter away, frantic and fluttering. He’s a beautiful sight, his forearms flexing and gleaming in the rain, his long legs braced and his lean body tightened with effort as he hauls on the rope.
He ties it off and turns to me, looking me up and down. “You’re wet.”
Yes. Yes I am.
I have no excuse, except that I’ve never been around a man like this—a man unencumbered with social expectations and the niceties of proper behavior. Locke is raw masculine power, more handsome and less smelly than most of the seamen I’ve encountered.
Gods, my bar is set very low.
“You need to go take care of that?” Locke points to my pants, and I nearly sink into the deck, certain that somehow he can smell or sense that I want him. But when I look down, I see that the cloth I knotted around my hips has gone crooked, and is now poking out way farther than it should. It looks as if I’m—aroused. In a very male way. Also it looks like I have a very crooked penis.
“Nothing to be ashamed of.” Locke looks perfectly serious, but his one eye sparkles. “Nerves, excitement—and you’re young. I remember when I was your age I would yank my piece every few hours if I got the chance.”
“Oh, um—yes. I love—I love yanking it and—and squeezing it—”
He arches an eyebrow. “Squeezing?”
“I mean, no—um—Excuse me.” I start to walk away. Then I turn back. “Where’s the head?”
“At the bow of the ship. But it’s probably occupied—Binton gets the runs whenever a storm’s brewing. Just do it over the side.”
This is possibly the most humiliating moment of my life. Because I do have to pee, and I need to adjust my makeshift underclothes so it won’t look like I’m sporting the world’s weirdest erection. But I need to do all of that without completely undressing, and without being caught.
Stiffly I walk to the side of the ship. Then I move along the railing until a collection of tied-down crates shield me somewhat from Locke’s view.
Partly hidden by the darkness, the crates, and the misting rain, I manage to crouch and do my business with more or less accurate aim. Then I fix the cloth wrapping and stand up, refastening my pants.
As I round the pile of boxes, I come face to face with Jinks, the mustached navigator of theWending Willow.
He puts a hand to my chest and shoves me back behind the crates.
6
“Clever little wench, aren’t you?” says Jinks. “Tricky. I like my women tricky. Usually means they’re wilder in the sack.”
“Hush!” I say desperately. “You can’t tell anyone I’m not a boy. They’ll throw me overboard if you do.”
His hand snakes around my waist, pressing my lower back, and he rolls his hips against mine. “The way I figure, you and I should be able to come to a little arrangement,” he says. “I keep your secret, and you—” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.
“No.”
His small eyes harden. “You don’t have a choice, love. You can’t scream, or as you said, they’ll toss you over the side. So be quiet and take your lovin’ like a good girl.”
“Look, just—wait. We can work something else out. I have access to the galley—I can get you the best food and drink—”
