Page 87 of Captive of the Pirate King
Rebellion flames through my heart. I’m no virginal simpering girl—I’m the runaway blood mage from Ivris who let him plow me on the prow of theArdentat night. I reach behind me, between my rear and his crotch, and I palm the bulge in his pants. He’s softer now, but as I begin to rub him, he hardens again.
“Veronica,” he hisses warningly, but he doesn’t actually tell me to stop. My hand is mostly hidden by our bodies and his cloak, so I keep rubbing him, giddy at the licentious nature of what I’m doing. When I teased men back in Ivris, I had to be subtle when we were in public—the tiniest touches and the most furtive looks, until I got them alone. I loved the thrill of the process, the risk of getting caught—but after the act I always felt let down, because I cared about those men as much as they cared about me—not at all.
With Locke, it’s different. The hiss of his breath through his gritted teeth, the tension of his body, the single soft groan that slips through his control—I savor it all.
“Fuck,” he says hoarsely. Abruptly he steers Caliper aside into an alley. There are a few bodies knotted together halfway along it, but we pass them and move deeper into shadow.
Locke swings from the horse and drags me off as well. He takes a minute to tie Caliper to an iron bar protruding from the wall, and he removes his mask, tucking it into the satchel at his side.
Then he shoves me into a dank recess and grabs my face, his hot mouth searing mine. I respond eagerly, desperately, releasing a whimper over his tongue as my body ignites into roaring heat.
The fierce lash of his tongue through my mouth turns my insides molten, and I slam my lips against his, meeting him with equal savagery until he finally breaks the kiss. His breath comes in harsh bursts, and his eyes scorch my soul with white fire.
He’s yanking down my trousers. Dislodging his length from his own pants. With a broad, commanding hand on my shoulder he turns me around, slides his palm between my shoulder blades, and bends me over.
“Stop me,” he grits out. “Last chance.”
My pulse is kicking high and frantic, blood throbbing in my ears, and my body has never felt so alive. “I don’t want to stop you.”
With a string of swears, he grips my waist and sheathes himself inside me. He pumps ferociously, each sucking thrust so powerful I have to brace my hands against the wall. The friction, the illicit nature of this moment—it ratchets up my own desire until I can’t bear it. I use one hand to work myself while he slams into me.
“More, harder,” I cry softly. “Oh gods,Ruen—”
A harsh huff of surprise from him, and at the sound of his first name his warmth jets through my body. He pulls me tight into him, pulsing deep inside me, and I fracture again, pleasure rolling through my belly.
When we separate I’m trembling, fragile with ecstasy. I fix my clothing while Locke does the same—and then he takes my face again and pulls me close for one more kiss before putting on his mask.
We don’t discuss what just happened, or what it means. But I’m giddy inside, terrified and thrilled because we’ve broken through a barrier we erected days ago, aboard theArdent. It’s the first time we’ve been together like this, knowing the full truth about each other. And though I still have reservations, I can’t help admitting to myself that our joining felt deeply, refreshinglyright.
68
As I ride in front of Locke to the end of Riddle Street, I relish the sensation of sated warmth that permeates my body. I feel loose and relaxed, both from the bath earlier and from my interlude with Locke in the alley. There’s a pleasant ache between my legs, a phantom fullness from when he was inside me. I lean back against him, and he shifts the reins to one hand so he can enfold me with his other arm.
He said he wants me for a long time—for the rest of my life. And I want him. If we commit to each other, I’ve no doubt we’d have our share of fierce arguments. We’d fight constantly about his decisions and life choices—either that, or I would have to learn to pick my battles. But in between those fights we would havethis—the heights of feral passion and the moments of contented peace, together.
Would those moments be enough?
Locke turns down yet another narrow side street and circles to the back of a large building. There’s a square of muck and paving stones, hemmed in by the surrounding buildings. I dismount when he does, and after securing the horse in a tiny shed, he unlocks the back door with an ornate key from his pocket.
“Is this where you perform the tattoo magic?” I whisper.
“Yes, and you can’t go into the tattoo room with me. No pirate can know which mage inks them, and your presence would give me away. You understand, right? The secrecy protects me and the other mages from being threatened or tortured into removing a tattoo we’ve placed.”
“I understand.”
“Good. There’s a back room where you can observe the process.”
He leads me inside and closes the door behind us, locking it again. The room we’ve entered has a single guttering lamp, and it’s plastered with sketches of elaborate tattoos. Threadbare cushioned chairs surround a heavy table, where an array of masks stare blankly at the ceiling. Along one wall hangs a row of cloaks, and a shelf holds pairs of thin gloves.
Locke switches out his mask and cloak for different ones, and then he tugs the rings from his fingers. “Hold onto these for me, would you, Nick?”
I accept the tumble of jewelry he pours into my hands, and I stuff the rings into my pants pockets. Locke’s tanned hands show bands of white wherever the rings were. He pulls on a pair of thin gloves to cover the telltale marks.
With that done, he pulls open another door, leading to a hallway so narrow I can barely walk it without turning sideways. “Go down to the third door and enter that room,” he orders. “There’s a panel on the wall. You’ll be able to see through the painted glass.”
I squeeze along the passage until I reach the room he indicated. It’s little more than a closet with a cushioned chair, but when I shift aside the panel halfway up the far wall, it reveals a pane of dark glass. Through it, I can see another room, well-lit by a bright lamp. The shelves along the walls hold pots of colored ink and trays of needles. There are other bottles, too—potions, maybe, or magical ingredients necessary to the inking of vows, or to magic like the crown tattoo on Locke’s back.
In the center of the room, sitting on a table of yellow polished wood, is one of the sailors from theWending Willow. He’s a scrawny man with a patchy beard and a crooked nose. His work-worn hands twist together and his knee jiggles as he waits.
