Page 14 of Captive of the Pirate King
“I could ask you the same question.” His voice is low, heavy with meaning.
With the towel wrapped halfway around me, I freeze, my nerves buzzing with alarm.
Silence curls between us, growing thicker, extruding thorns of suspicion.
He knows.
He must have figured out what I am.
I don’t know how to respond. All clear thought seems to have fled my brain.
But the next second Locke clears his throat and says jovially, “Gods’ bones, you must have an oddly shaped cock if you’re that intent on hiding it. But you know, lad, it’s all in how you use it. And to be honest, the fingers and tongue work best for pleasing women. You’re a mite young to be doing anything of that sort yet, but when the time comes, try a little of this.” And he flicks his tongue rapidly, an illicit motion that sends hot chills over my skin.
So he’s not into boys or men—or at least not exclusively. My heart jumps with ridiculous, impossible hope, even as my nether regions turn melty and warm. I can imagine what it would feel like to have that lithe tongue of his on me, and the idea makes my skin prickle with longing.
“You want to move quick over the little nub at the top,” Locke says. “Light and delicate, and then do long slow sweeps awhile, like this.” His broad tongue slides out again, performing a lazy lapping motion. “And then fast again. Don’t be afraid to dive right in, too, if you get my meaning. And never underestimate the power of a nibble in the right spot.”
My nipples stand at attention as I wrap my chest tightly and tie the bindings. I’m desperate to get out of here, away from Locke’s deep sultry tones and his wicked tongue. Maybe he thinks he’s being kind, teaching a genitally deformed teenage boy how he can have successful trysts—but there’s only so much a girl can handle, and I’m five seconds away from touching myself right here, with him sitting blindfolded across from me.
10
Quickly I pull on my clothes and tie the extra binding cloth around my head. My chopped-off red hair sticks out wildly around the makeshift headband, but hopefully I still look boyish enough. Plenty of the pirates have longish hair, like the captain with his lengthy braid.
I approach the galley door, clutching my boots to my chest. “I’m done,” I choke. “Thank you for—thanks.”
Locke rises to his full height, towering over me as he removes the blindfold. His eyes skim my body from top to toe.
I can barely breathe. When I washed off the dirt and old dried blood, I scrubbed away part of my disguise, part of what made me look like a grubby boy. All that’s left to protect me are my bindings, my baggy clothes, and my splatter of freckles. I hope it’s enough.
Locke is still in front of the door. I stand mute, holding my boots, while his gaze travels down to my small feet. Even they are spattered with a few freckles.
“Like someone sprinkled you in brown sugar,” Locke murmurs, as though he could hear my thoughts.
“May I—may I leave?” I venture.
“Of course.” He shakes himself, stepping away from the door. When I look back over my shoulder, he has replaced his eye patch, and he’s busy concealing his hair with a fresh bandana—a blue one this time.
I slink back to my bunk, my heart pulsing rapidly and my mind repeating his words, over and over:Like someone sprinkled you in brown sugar.
It’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said about my skin.
Barely an hour later, Cook wakes me—or at least I pretend to wake, though I wasn’t really sleeping. I was lying in my hammock, aching to touch myself and relieve some of the pressure that built up inside me during the interlude with Locke. But I can barely bring myself to sleep in the roomful of pirates—no way am I indulging in private pleasure while they snort and snigger in whatever disgusting dreamscape they inhabit.
The day passes much like any other. No one comments on my cleanliness, except Dez, who wrinkles his nose and says, “You washed? Now Cook’s going to make me wash too.”
But when I carry the noontide servings of food up on deck to the men on duty, Captain Neelan is standing on deck nearby, almost like he’s been waiting for me. His glossy black hair isn’t braided today; it’s flowing free over his shoulder, the ends tossed by the brisk sea air. Like the other pirates, he wears black paint around his eyes to help deflect the sun.
He’d be a stunning sight if it weren’t for the cold, malevolent purpose shining in his eyes.
“Nick, Nicky, Nicholas—is that your full name, Nicholas? Dear boy, you and I have a problem.” The Captain twirls his hat on one hand.
My lungs seize up and my heart lurches, kicking into a panicked rhythm. What did I do? Did someone figure out what I’m hiding? Did they find out about Jinks?
“Problem, sir?” I wheeze.
“I keep a close eye on the inventory aboard ship, Nicholas,” says the Captain. “And those clothes you’re wearing are part of the inventory. Part of the cargo. Very fine fabric, exquisite weave. You have excellent taste.”
The Captain snaps his fingers at another sailor, who comes forward to take the food tray from me. Without it, I’m not sure what to do with my shaking hands.
