a prompt fic
as my post of yesterday indicates, i'm low on bunnies of late. so i asked Daz for a prompt. since she was doing it, i figured i'd have a go at it. see if it would jar anything lose. not sure on that yet, so i'll let you know. anyhow, the following is what i got from Daz's prompt.
Title: Need
Fandom: Marvel Universe
Pairing: Dare and Tony Stark
Rating: adult. smut and language. a mild mention of violence.
Completed: yes
Prompt: "That's when you'll need me."
Description: a companion piece to Flight of the Valkyrie, meaning this is set in 1600 England. an interlude between the pirate and the privateer, with typical results.
"You should learn to control your temper better, my sweet," his voice slid over her as she stared out the window at the burning village. Her revenge for their hospitality. She'd set the whole thing a blaze as soon as they'd rolled past the last of the village. It wasn't much of a village, only a few buildings; a church, an inn, a jail of sorts, and a few run down cottages that had seen better days long before she was born. She was glad to see it burning. "If you hadn't had a fit, this wouldn't have happened."
"`Twas a pit. They're lucky I didnae burn them," she snarled, refusing to turn into the shelter of his arms. Refusing to seek solace in his embrace. She'd watch the fires until she could no longer see them, remember this day. Damn him for picking such a small village for a tryst.
"You're lucky I showed up when I did. Other wise, I'd be watching you dance at the end of the hangman's noose. If you were lucky, that is. I shudder to think of you tied to a stake, my sweet."
"Och, aye. The stench would upset yer fine sensibilities," she snapped.
"Alasdare," he said gently, drawing her close to him. She tried to prevent it, curled her fingers around the edge of the seat. But he tugged her into his arms anyway, as if she wasn't as strong as any man, and folded her in his embrace. She wasn't ready for this, didn't want to hear him say the words.
"Dinnae say anathing, Anthony," she warned him, refused to look at him.
"How long will you hide from this, Alasdare? How long will you pretend that there is nothing between you and I?" he asked softly.
"There's nary a thing between you and I, Anthony," she spat, tried to pull herself from his embrace. Anthony tightened his arms around her. She stopped fighting him only when she became too weak to do so. He made a noise of triumph before dragging her into his lap. Deft hands tucked a blanket around her form, as if she were a small child and not a notorious pirate. He always left her feeling as if she were little more than a weak child. Except when he took her to his bed. Then she was a woman grown. She shoved that thought aside. She knew better than to think he'd want anything to do with her now.
Instead, she focused her attention on the scenery passing by the window. He'd literally tossed her into his conveyance, said a few words to the village folk then followed in behind her. Thumping his fist against the roof had started his driver forward. Now they were moving further and further away from her living nightmare and she was glad of it.The carriage rocked as the wheel dropped into a rut before pulling back out. The motion saw her swaying closer to him, bringing his arms around her all the tighter. She heard him sniff and knew what was coming.
"You are in desperate need of a bath, my sweet. You smell of the peasants, of dirt and filth," he informed her with that same superior tone he always took with her. "As soon as we reach the inn, you will give yourself over for a bath and let some tavern wench scrub you clean. I've brought the appropriate wardrobe for you to change into."
"I dinnae wish tae stop at yer inn. All I want is the feel o' the ship beneath m' bare feet again. I want the smell o' the sea in m' nose and the wind in m' hair!"
"You will have to give up your willful ways some day, my sweet. You are, after all, a woman. A woman with extraordinary talents, but a woman none the less. That means such events like pregnancy and childbirth. Marriage. You cannot tell me that you'd skip marriage if the right man were to come along." She thought she detected something in his tone, a note of anxiousness, but it was gone before she could be sure. Marriage. She wanted marriage as much as he and well he knew that. How many times had he spouted the inability of a woman to fully commit to a man, of her duplicity, as his reasons for never taking a bride?
"I dinnae want tae get married. I dinnae want anathing other than tae sail the seas the rest o' ma days," she told him, though there was less force in her voice this time. With each length of road that trailed out behind them like a ribbon unspooling, she felt some of the fear and tension drain away. She'd never tell him, but the strength in his arms, the muscles that made up the ridges and planes of his chest, were soothing and welcome. She'd never tell him, but she loved being held the circle of his arms and the safety it represented.
Safety was the one thing, the only thing he could give her that no one else could. If she hadn't known that before, she did now. She'd only been in that small pit of humanity a day or two. Still, the villagers had discovered her secret and had determined that they would deal with her as set down by the Church and God. She didn't know how they'd known, but someone had called her witch and the local authorities had stolen her from her room at the shabby inn, cowards who had come in the middle of the night and dragged her from her bed in naught but her over sized shirt. They'd taunted and leered at her, told her of the way she was to die. But not before they'd had fun "punishing" her. Nearly every part of her body ached from the beatings she'd withstood. She'd seen from her cell in their pathetic jail the funeral pyre they'd been assembling for her. Great heaps of wood piled around a center stake. They'd planned on making sure she would die in the fire. They'd been almost maniacal about it.
She'd been preparing to finally end her days when she'd heard the jingle of a harness, the creaking of a carriage. Cold, hungry, beaten and unwilling to let them force her to lash out at them, she'd waited for the moment they put her to the torch. She'd wondered if they'd give her a chance to escape or if they'd hang her as soon as they realized that the fire wouldn't touch her. She was relatively sure they'd never have given her a chance to fight her way out. The only way Anthony had gotten her away from them was by promising that the queen would mete out the appropriate punishment. It was the only way they'd let her go without trying to roast her alive.
She'd been closer than ever to death. And Anthony had saved her. Perhaps this once, she could let go some of her pride in order to take comfort from his touch. Perhaps, if only for this one moment, she could let him be the hero to her that he always wished to be. Anthony would let nothing happen to her, no matter what trouble came their way. She was sure of it. As if he knew what she'd been thinking, his hand stroked through the tangle of her hair. "Rest, my sweet. You're safe enough now. I'll wake you when we come to the inn."
She fell asleep, his words rolling through her skull. For reasons she refused to get into, she believed him.
~*~
Her nose twitched with the scent of fresh heather and clean linens. The softness of a pillow cradled her cheek while the mattress beneath her was as fine as any she'd laid on in her family's castle. The room was pleasantly warm, a hint of freshly cut lumber clinging to the air. Shifting brought a groan to her lips as pain seared across her nerve endings, pulling muscles tight. A body rolled toward her, strong hands appearing to help her sit up. She found herself pressed against Anthony's bared chest. A glance at the room told her that this was no inn. "Bastard!" she hissed.
"You know my parentage is without question, my sweet," he chuckled.
"What did ye give me?"
"Just something to allow you uninterrupted rest. You were in dire need," he said near her ear. She wanted to pull away from him, but she felt weak as a newborn kitten. Even with his arms around her, her limbs shook with effort. "Those villagers were quite abusive. How you remained conscious as long as you did surprises me."
"Where are we?"
"We're in Ophelia's rooms at the Black Unicorn, my dear. She was kind enough to offer them to us when I arrived with you last night." There was authority in his voice. It told her that he'd taken Ophelia's rooms, considering them his by right of birth.
"I want tae go back tae the ship," she told him, trying to pull away from him. He tightened his hold on her.
"Alasdare," he sighed quietly. He allowed a faint hint of his worry and fear touch his words. That, alone, was enough to freeze her in place. She'd never heard him speak to her in such a manner. "You're in no shape to go back to sea right away. You've been beaten and God only knows what else. Bloody peasants. There's nothing you can do, my sweet. If you don't rest up, you won't be able to pirate your way into infamy."
"I cannae let them go without me."
"I have already sent word to Morgan. She knows where you're at and that I'll deliver you to them as soon as you are fit," he informed her, his lips nuzzling her shoulder.
"Sae I'm no' fit tae sail, but I'm fit tae fuck? Is tha' it?" she asked him softly. He froze behind her and she felt the first stirrings of his anger. Good. She wasn't planning on making this easy for him.
"You know that isn't it at all, my sweet. Why must you always do this? Why must you always try and sabotage what we have?" His voice was soft, but she felt the steel in his hands, felt them shake with the urge to shake her and perhaps more.
"Because we dinnae have anathing, Anthony," she told him quietly, not a single emotion coloring her voice. It had the desired effect. His hold on her loosened and she slid from his embrace, slid out of the bed to wobble unsteadily across the floor. A decanter of cut crystal rested on a small side table, filled with Ophelia's best rum. She headed straight for it and poured herself a glass. She needed the warmth it would provide. "I'm naught more than a tool fer ye and tha' red headed bitch who sits the throne. This..." she motioned around the room with her empty hand. "Ye and I. Us. Tis naught but a fantasy. And ye ken it as weel as I."
She was naked but she didn't care. She watched his eyes rake her bared frame, noted the way his gaze lingered in certain places. More than likely cataloguing each and every bruise. She didn't care. Not even when the anger melted and the narrowness of his eyes was replaced with a lazy, knowing look filled with heat and desire. She felt muscles respond to that look, tighten with want, but she ignored it. He tossed back the thick velvet coverlet on Ophelia's large bed and set his feet on the floor.
She was proud of herself when she allowed her eyes to drift over his frame and study him with as neutral a look as she was capable of. Even though they were fighting, he was eager for her, his shaft stiff and thick as it jutted from its nest of black curls. Or perhaps it was because they were fighting that he was so aroused. Some of the best couplings had come after a particularly heated verbal sparring. "What a heartless bitch you are, Alasdare. What could have possibly happened in your life to make you so hateful?"
It was an idle question. He didn't expect an answer, so she didn't give one. Chances were good he knew what her response would have been anyway. Instead, she tossed back the rest of her drink and set the glass on the table. She stood loosely, arms at her sides, waiting for him. She knew what was coming. It had happened more often than it hadn't.
He advanced on her and she considered for a moment making him work hard for what he expected of her. But she was still weak and didn't have the strength to hold him off long. And, if she were being honest with herself, she didn't want to keep him from her. She wanted the feel of his hands on her body, his skin against hers, his body moving inside of hers to remind her that she was still alive. Still, when he reached for her, she danced out of his grasp. The game would only last so long. They both knew it. So she was going to make the best of it while she could.
She dodged him, skirted back from the brush of his fingertips on her cheek, ducked under his arm as he tried to catch her. Each action was accompanied with sweet words meant to woo her to his side, promises of what he was going to do with her when he caught hold of her. Each bit of speech saw her actions becoming less and less focused. She didn't fight it when he finally caught her up in his embrace. In fact, she went eagerly into his arms.
His mouth was hot against her own, taking control of her and taking what he wanted. He kissed her hard, lips firm and demanding. She melted into him, pressing flesh to flesh while he drank the taste of rum from her lips, licked it from her tongue with his own. One hand fisted in her hair, the other drifting lower to wrap tightly around her waist, to shove her body into his. The evidence of his arousal prodded the soft flesh of her belly, pulsed and throbbed each time she shifted against it.
"This is all there is between us, Stark," she ground against him while reverting to his family name. She knew what such a move would do to him. She'd employed it against him before a time or two. Coupled with the answer she gave, she knew he would attempt to prove her wrong. "The hardness o' yer cock is all that keeps us together, my laird."
The wall shuddered when he slammed her back against it, pinned her between it and his body. Anger flashed in his eyes, darkening them until they were almost black. "You know that isn't true. You know it as well as I do, my sweet. There's more than the physical between the pair of us. I'll thank you not to cheapen our stolen moments together with such tawdry words."
"`Tis truth, Anthony. Ye ken it as weel as I," she sneered at him. Bitterness and rage boiled beneath the surface. She could feel it as it scalded her skin. As long as she could keep this between them, she'd never have to admit to him that she felt something. She'd spent too much time on a ship to think that anything good could come of their relationship. He was one of the queen's chosen and she... She was a criminal, a fearsome pirate who'd committed unspeakable acts of terror and murder on the high seas. He deserved someone far better than her.
One day, he'd see it, too.
He launched an assault on her body and her senses, his mouth eating from hers angrily. She melted against him, moaned softly as his hands stroked her greedy flesh. When his fingers pinched her breasts, she gave him her cries. His body drew back to tug at the hardened tips, pulled them until she tore her mouth from his to let go a cry of such pain and need that she was sure everyone in the place had heard her.
His lips, so finely sculpted and beautiful, twisted into an expression harsh and raw. It was an ugly look, but she'd earned it. With her insistence that there was nothing emotional between them, she'd won every inch of his disgust. She didn't want him to care, didn't want him to say those three words that wenches such as herself could only dream of. She wasn't going to let him tie himself to her. All there would ever be between them was this. Physical pleasure. Nothing sentimental. She couldn't let him tie himself to her. Not when her life didn't even belong to her.
Thoughts fled when his lips moved from her mouth to her neck, his teeth worrying at the flesh there until she knew he'd left an imprint behind. He kissed, licked, bit and sucked a trail down her body. He left bite marks everywhere, small pricking pains that brought her to life in ways that even being caught in the midst of a battle couldn't. She speared her fingers through the silken length of his hair, clasping his face against her.
He dropped to his knees, edged her legs apart with his arms, and planted his hands against the wall. Slowly, he spread his arms until she was caught with her legs bent over them and she had to curl her hands around his shoulders. When her legs were wide enough. his tongue touched her and she spasmed, her body going tight almost immediately. She lost herself in the feel of his mouth and teeth and tongue moving over her, fell deep into a well of pleasure that only he'd ever managed to help her find.
When she came, it was with a loud cry that could be heard over the dull roar that floated up from the bar on the first floor.
"Only physical, my sweet?" he asked softly, rising to his feet. Her arms were still caught over his arms and she found herself curled up between him and the wall. The position left her open to him, wide and wet and weeping. She wanted him with such desperation, she thought she could die from it. "If this is only physical, Alasdare, then we're both caught in one another's trap."
He thrust himself inside of her, taking advantage of the position he'd put her in. And then he started moving. Hard. Deep. With an intensity she'd never seen in him before. Keening cries of pleasure bubbled up her throat until she could only gasp and beg and whimper and shudder against him. And still he thrust, fucked her so hard that she couldn't think or move. She could only feel and silently plead for more.
Everything slid away from her. All thoughts of the sea, of what she knew was best for both of them. He was hard and thick inside of her, his mouth moving against her ear, calling her all manner of foul names as he used her. She loved it, every last bit of it, found pleasure in his crude words and his painful actions. She would be stiff and sore in the morning. But she'd have a memory of him that no one would believe of the Earl of Whitmore. She'd been allowed to see a side of him that he showed to no one. It was a gift that she didn't think he'd show to just anyone. If anything told her how he felt about her, that did.
The two of them strained against one another, each seeking their release. On days when they fought one another, days like today, their first coupling was always hard and fast. Painful. Later, after they caught their breath and had a chance to relax, they would spend the entire night wrapped around each other, exploring all their most sensitive spots, rediscovering them over and over again until they were too limp and spent to do aught else but drift off to sleep tangled in one another's arms. And then they'd do it all over again.
Not this night.
"You cannot deny the rightness between us, my sweet," he groaned into her ear, his hips moving so fast that she couldn't catch her breath. It was the only time he could talk to her and she couldn't contradict him. He knew it, bastard that he was. "Feel how the passion swells between us, each and every time we're in one another's presence. Feel what you do to me. Feel how much I want you, my sweet. Why do you fight this? Why do you fight us?"
She could say nothing, could only hang on to him and ride him, ride the waves of pleasure he was giving her. She needed to reach that final peak, needed to shatter and fall apart so that he could put her back together when he released himself inside of her. Her nails dug into his shoulders, silently urging him. Begging for more. For everything.
His words continued, fed into that building pressure inside of her. Then he was shoving deep, driving himself into her until pain exploded outward from where they were joined. It spread across her body, bringing her muscles tense and taut. She let go a soft cry as she felt herself break apart in his embrace. His groan mingled in the air with her own sounds of completion. She could feel him deep inside of her, feel him filling her with himself. She wanted more. "Perhaps tonight will be the night that I plant my seed within you, my sweet. Perhaps tonight will be the night when you fully become mine. You will marry me, should my child grow in your belly. And then you'll give up this foolishness. You'll take your place at my side, as my wife. You'll be a proper woman."
"And ye'll hate me for it," she whispered, her heart squeezing tight in a pain that would never quite go away. He cradled her close, held her against him as he turned for the bed. She hated herself because she let him hold her as he would a cherished woman, the love of his life. They both knew she could never be either one of them. But for tonight, just tonight, she could pretend that she was.
The bed was soft beneath her back as he settled her on it. He hadn't allowed her out of his arms and tugged her closer as he took his place beside her. "Haven't you realized yet that I could never hate you, my sweet?" He asked the question before dropping a kiss to her cheek. She wasn't given the chance to answer. Instead, he tucked her head against her shoulder and dragged the covers up over them. "Sleep now, my sweet. There will be time for more fun and games later."
The three words she dared not utter rang in her ears, following her into slumber so that she was forced to wonder if he'd actually said them or if she'd imagined them. She was so tired that she didn't know if she'd really heard him whisper them in her ear or if some part of her simply wanted to hear them and had conjured them out of thing air. But it was a moot point. Morpheus stole over her and sucked her down.
Maybe he had witch powers of his own, because he'd told her to sleep and she slept.
~*~
Dawn was creeping up over the edge of the world when the slightest sound woke him. Anthony sat up to find that the bed beside him was empty. Frowning, he flung the covers back and climbed from the bed. Damn, but the wench was stubborn. He didn't need to check the wardrobe to know every last piece of her clothing was gone, right down to the matched pair of swords she carried and the black handled dirk that she'd used to threaten his manhood a time or two.
He strode to the window, uncaring about his state of undress, and watched the road that made its way to the harbor. Soon enough, a solitary figure sauntered arrogantly up the center of the dirt path, feet bare and clothes covered with filth. He sighed. At least she'd had a bath before she'd left.
It was getting harder to pin her down, harder to keep her from running from him. She was always running, always hiding from the truth. He couldn't imagine what it was that had happened to her that kept her so neatly cut off from him. She refused to admit it, but she needed him almost as much as he needed her. He wasn't going to stop following her. He wouldn't ever let her go, no matter how long it took to convince her that they were meant for one another.
Alasdare. Pirate. Wench. Murderer. Woman. His.
"One day, my sweet," he told the figure that walked away from him as if he meant nothing to her, watching as she grew smaller and smaller, drew nearer and nearer the harbor and her freedom. "One day, something terrible will happen. Something that you won't be able to escape. And you'll need help. I'll be there for you, my sweet, my love. I'll be there. Then, my sweet, then you'll need me."
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Title: Need
Fandom: Marvel Universe
Pairing: Dare and Tony Stark
Rating: adult. smut and language. a mild mention of violence.
Completed: yes
Prompt: "That's when you'll need me."
Description: a companion piece to Flight of the Valkyrie, meaning this is set in 1600 England. an interlude between the pirate and the privateer, with typical results.
"You should learn to control your temper better, my sweet," his voice slid over her as she stared out the window at the burning village. Her revenge for their hospitality. She'd set the whole thing a blaze as soon as they'd rolled past the last of the village. It wasn't much of a village, only a few buildings; a church, an inn, a jail of sorts, and a few run down cottages that had seen better days long before she was born. She was glad to see it burning. "If you hadn't had a fit, this wouldn't have happened."
"`Twas a pit. They're lucky I didnae burn them," she snarled, refusing to turn into the shelter of his arms. Refusing to seek solace in his embrace. She'd watch the fires until she could no longer see them, remember this day. Damn him for picking such a small village for a tryst.
"You're lucky I showed up when I did. Other wise, I'd be watching you dance at the end of the hangman's noose. If you were lucky, that is. I shudder to think of you tied to a stake, my sweet."
"Och, aye. The stench would upset yer fine sensibilities," she snapped.
"Alasdare," he said gently, drawing her close to him. She tried to prevent it, curled her fingers around the edge of the seat. But he tugged her into his arms anyway, as if she wasn't as strong as any man, and folded her in his embrace. She wasn't ready for this, didn't want to hear him say the words.
"Dinnae say anathing, Anthony," she warned him, refused to look at him.
"How long will you hide from this, Alasdare? How long will you pretend that there is nothing between you and I?" he asked softly.
"There's nary a thing between you and I, Anthony," she spat, tried to pull herself from his embrace. Anthony tightened his arms around her. She stopped fighting him only when she became too weak to do so. He made a noise of triumph before dragging her into his lap. Deft hands tucked a blanket around her form, as if she were a small child and not a notorious pirate. He always left her feeling as if she were little more than a weak child. Except when he took her to his bed. Then she was a woman grown. She shoved that thought aside. She knew better than to think he'd want anything to do with her now.
Instead, she focused her attention on the scenery passing by the window. He'd literally tossed her into his conveyance, said a few words to the village folk then followed in behind her. Thumping his fist against the roof had started his driver forward. Now they were moving further and further away from her living nightmare and she was glad of it.The carriage rocked as the wheel dropped into a rut before pulling back out. The motion saw her swaying closer to him, bringing his arms around her all the tighter. She heard him sniff and knew what was coming.
"You are in desperate need of a bath, my sweet. You smell of the peasants, of dirt and filth," he informed her with that same superior tone he always took with her. "As soon as we reach the inn, you will give yourself over for a bath and let some tavern wench scrub you clean. I've brought the appropriate wardrobe for you to change into."
"I dinnae wish tae stop at yer inn. All I want is the feel o' the ship beneath m' bare feet again. I want the smell o' the sea in m' nose and the wind in m' hair!"
"You will have to give up your willful ways some day, my sweet. You are, after all, a woman. A woman with extraordinary talents, but a woman none the less. That means such events like pregnancy and childbirth. Marriage. You cannot tell me that you'd skip marriage if the right man were to come along." She thought she detected something in his tone, a note of anxiousness, but it was gone before she could be sure. Marriage. She wanted marriage as much as he and well he knew that. How many times had he spouted the inability of a woman to fully commit to a man, of her duplicity, as his reasons for never taking a bride?
"I dinnae want tae get married. I dinnae want anathing other than tae sail the seas the rest o' ma days," she told him, though there was less force in her voice this time. With each length of road that trailed out behind them like a ribbon unspooling, she felt some of the fear and tension drain away. She'd never tell him, but the strength in his arms, the muscles that made up the ridges and planes of his chest, were soothing and welcome. She'd never tell him, but she loved being held the circle of his arms and the safety it represented.
Safety was the one thing, the only thing he could give her that no one else could. If she hadn't known that before, she did now. She'd only been in that small pit of humanity a day or two. Still, the villagers had discovered her secret and had determined that they would deal with her as set down by the Church and God. She didn't know how they'd known, but someone had called her witch and the local authorities had stolen her from her room at the shabby inn, cowards who had come in the middle of the night and dragged her from her bed in naught but her over sized shirt. They'd taunted and leered at her, told her of the way she was to die. But not before they'd had fun "punishing" her. Nearly every part of her body ached from the beatings she'd withstood. She'd seen from her cell in their pathetic jail the funeral pyre they'd been assembling for her. Great heaps of wood piled around a center stake. They'd planned on making sure she would die in the fire. They'd been almost maniacal about it.
She'd been preparing to finally end her days when she'd heard the jingle of a harness, the creaking of a carriage. Cold, hungry, beaten and unwilling to let them force her to lash out at them, she'd waited for the moment they put her to the torch. She'd wondered if they'd give her a chance to escape or if they'd hang her as soon as they realized that the fire wouldn't touch her. She was relatively sure they'd never have given her a chance to fight her way out. The only way Anthony had gotten her away from them was by promising that the queen would mete out the appropriate punishment. It was the only way they'd let her go without trying to roast her alive.
She'd been closer than ever to death. And Anthony had saved her. Perhaps this once, she could let go some of her pride in order to take comfort from his touch. Perhaps, if only for this one moment, she could let him be the hero to her that he always wished to be. Anthony would let nothing happen to her, no matter what trouble came their way. She was sure of it. As if he knew what she'd been thinking, his hand stroked through the tangle of her hair. "Rest, my sweet. You're safe enough now. I'll wake you when we come to the inn."
She fell asleep, his words rolling through her skull. For reasons she refused to get into, she believed him.
~*~
Her nose twitched with the scent of fresh heather and clean linens. The softness of a pillow cradled her cheek while the mattress beneath her was as fine as any she'd laid on in her family's castle. The room was pleasantly warm, a hint of freshly cut lumber clinging to the air. Shifting brought a groan to her lips as pain seared across her nerve endings, pulling muscles tight. A body rolled toward her, strong hands appearing to help her sit up. She found herself pressed against Anthony's bared chest. A glance at the room told her that this was no inn. "Bastard!" she hissed.
"You know my parentage is without question, my sweet," he chuckled.
"What did ye give me?"
"Just something to allow you uninterrupted rest. You were in dire need," he said near her ear. She wanted to pull away from him, but she felt weak as a newborn kitten. Even with his arms around her, her limbs shook with effort. "Those villagers were quite abusive. How you remained conscious as long as you did surprises me."
"Where are we?"
"We're in Ophelia's rooms at the Black Unicorn, my dear. She was kind enough to offer them to us when I arrived with you last night." There was authority in his voice. It told her that he'd taken Ophelia's rooms, considering them his by right of birth.
"I want tae go back tae the ship," she told him, trying to pull away from him. He tightened his hold on her.
"Alasdare," he sighed quietly. He allowed a faint hint of his worry and fear touch his words. That, alone, was enough to freeze her in place. She'd never heard him speak to her in such a manner. "You're in no shape to go back to sea right away. You've been beaten and God only knows what else. Bloody peasants. There's nothing you can do, my sweet. If you don't rest up, you won't be able to pirate your way into infamy."
"I cannae let them go without me."
"I have already sent word to Morgan. She knows where you're at and that I'll deliver you to them as soon as you are fit," he informed her, his lips nuzzling her shoulder.
"Sae I'm no' fit tae sail, but I'm fit tae fuck? Is tha' it?" she asked him softly. He froze behind her and she felt the first stirrings of his anger. Good. She wasn't planning on making this easy for him.
"You know that isn't it at all, my sweet. Why must you always do this? Why must you always try and sabotage what we have?" His voice was soft, but she felt the steel in his hands, felt them shake with the urge to shake her and perhaps more.
"Because we dinnae have anathing, Anthony," she told him quietly, not a single emotion coloring her voice. It had the desired effect. His hold on her loosened and she slid from his embrace, slid out of the bed to wobble unsteadily across the floor. A decanter of cut crystal rested on a small side table, filled with Ophelia's best rum. She headed straight for it and poured herself a glass. She needed the warmth it would provide. "I'm naught more than a tool fer ye and tha' red headed bitch who sits the throne. This..." she motioned around the room with her empty hand. "Ye and I. Us. Tis naught but a fantasy. And ye ken it as weel as I."
She was naked but she didn't care. She watched his eyes rake her bared frame, noted the way his gaze lingered in certain places. More than likely cataloguing each and every bruise. She didn't care. Not even when the anger melted and the narrowness of his eyes was replaced with a lazy, knowing look filled with heat and desire. She felt muscles respond to that look, tighten with want, but she ignored it. He tossed back the thick velvet coverlet on Ophelia's large bed and set his feet on the floor.
She was proud of herself when she allowed her eyes to drift over his frame and study him with as neutral a look as she was capable of. Even though they were fighting, he was eager for her, his shaft stiff and thick as it jutted from its nest of black curls. Or perhaps it was because they were fighting that he was so aroused. Some of the best couplings had come after a particularly heated verbal sparring. "What a heartless bitch you are, Alasdare. What could have possibly happened in your life to make you so hateful?"
It was an idle question. He didn't expect an answer, so she didn't give one. Chances were good he knew what her response would have been anyway. Instead, she tossed back the rest of her drink and set the glass on the table. She stood loosely, arms at her sides, waiting for him. She knew what was coming. It had happened more often than it hadn't.
He advanced on her and she considered for a moment making him work hard for what he expected of her. But she was still weak and didn't have the strength to hold him off long. And, if she were being honest with herself, she didn't want to keep him from her. She wanted the feel of his hands on her body, his skin against hers, his body moving inside of hers to remind her that she was still alive. Still, when he reached for her, she danced out of his grasp. The game would only last so long. They both knew it. So she was going to make the best of it while she could.
She dodged him, skirted back from the brush of his fingertips on her cheek, ducked under his arm as he tried to catch her. Each action was accompanied with sweet words meant to woo her to his side, promises of what he was going to do with her when he caught hold of her. Each bit of speech saw her actions becoming less and less focused. She didn't fight it when he finally caught her up in his embrace. In fact, she went eagerly into his arms.
His mouth was hot against her own, taking control of her and taking what he wanted. He kissed her hard, lips firm and demanding. She melted into him, pressing flesh to flesh while he drank the taste of rum from her lips, licked it from her tongue with his own. One hand fisted in her hair, the other drifting lower to wrap tightly around her waist, to shove her body into his. The evidence of his arousal prodded the soft flesh of her belly, pulsed and throbbed each time she shifted against it.
"This is all there is between us, Stark," she ground against him while reverting to his family name. She knew what such a move would do to him. She'd employed it against him before a time or two. Coupled with the answer she gave, she knew he would attempt to prove her wrong. "The hardness o' yer cock is all that keeps us together, my laird."
The wall shuddered when he slammed her back against it, pinned her between it and his body. Anger flashed in his eyes, darkening them until they were almost black. "You know that isn't true. You know it as well as I do, my sweet. There's more than the physical between the pair of us. I'll thank you not to cheapen our stolen moments together with such tawdry words."
"`Tis truth, Anthony. Ye ken it as weel as I," she sneered at him. Bitterness and rage boiled beneath the surface. She could feel it as it scalded her skin. As long as she could keep this between them, she'd never have to admit to him that she felt something. She'd spent too much time on a ship to think that anything good could come of their relationship. He was one of the queen's chosen and she... She was a criminal, a fearsome pirate who'd committed unspeakable acts of terror and murder on the high seas. He deserved someone far better than her.
One day, he'd see it, too.
He launched an assault on her body and her senses, his mouth eating from hers angrily. She melted against him, moaned softly as his hands stroked her greedy flesh. When his fingers pinched her breasts, she gave him her cries. His body drew back to tug at the hardened tips, pulled them until she tore her mouth from his to let go a cry of such pain and need that she was sure everyone in the place had heard her.
His lips, so finely sculpted and beautiful, twisted into an expression harsh and raw. It was an ugly look, but she'd earned it. With her insistence that there was nothing emotional between them, she'd won every inch of his disgust. She didn't want him to care, didn't want him to say those three words that wenches such as herself could only dream of. She wasn't going to let him tie himself to her. All there would ever be between them was this. Physical pleasure. Nothing sentimental. She couldn't let him tie himself to her. Not when her life didn't even belong to her.
Thoughts fled when his lips moved from her mouth to her neck, his teeth worrying at the flesh there until she knew he'd left an imprint behind. He kissed, licked, bit and sucked a trail down her body. He left bite marks everywhere, small pricking pains that brought her to life in ways that even being caught in the midst of a battle couldn't. She speared her fingers through the silken length of his hair, clasping his face against her.
He dropped to his knees, edged her legs apart with his arms, and planted his hands against the wall. Slowly, he spread his arms until she was caught with her legs bent over them and she had to curl her hands around his shoulders. When her legs were wide enough. his tongue touched her and she spasmed, her body going tight almost immediately. She lost herself in the feel of his mouth and teeth and tongue moving over her, fell deep into a well of pleasure that only he'd ever managed to help her find.
When she came, it was with a loud cry that could be heard over the dull roar that floated up from the bar on the first floor.
"Only physical, my sweet?" he asked softly, rising to his feet. Her arms were still caught over his arms and she found herself curled up between him and the wall. The position left her open to him, wide and wet and weeping. She wanted him with such desperation, she thought she could die from it. "If this is only physical, Alasdare, then we're both caught in one another's trap."
He thrust himself inside of her, taking advantage of the position he'd put her in. And then he started moving. Hard. Deep. With an intensity she'd never seen in him before. Keening cries of pleasure bubbled up her throat until she could only gasp and beg and whimper and shudder against him. And still he thrust, fucked her so hard that she couldn't think or move. She could only feel and silently plead for more.
Everything slid away from her. All thoughts of the sea, of what she knew was best for both of them. He was hard and thick inside of her, his mouth moving against her ear, calling her all manner of foul names as he used her. She loved it, every last bit of it, found pleasure in his crude words and his painful actions. She would be stiff and sore in the morning. But she'd have a memory of him that no one would believe of the Earl of Whitmore. She'd been allowed to see a side of him that he showed to no one. It was a gift that she didn't think he'd show to just anyone. If anything told her how he felt about her, that did.
The two of them strained against one another, each seeking their release. On days when they fought one another, days like today, their first coupling was always hard and fast. Painful. Later, after they caught their breath and had a chance to relax, they would spend the entire night wrapped around each other, exploring all their most sensitive spots, rediscovering them over and over again until they were too limp and spent to do aught else but drift off to sleep tangled in one another's arms. And then they'd do it all over again.
Not this night.
"You cannot deny the rightness between us, my sweet," he groaned into her ear, his hips moving so fast that she couldn't catch her breath. It was the only time he could talk to her and she couldn't contradict him. He knew it, bastard that he was. "Feel how the passion swells between us, each and every time we're in one another's presence. Feel what you do to me. Feel how much I want you, my sweet. Why do you fight this? Why do you fight us?"
She could say nothing, could only hang on to him and ride him, ride the waves of pleasure he was giving her. She needed to reach that final peak, needed to shatter and fall apart so that he could put her back together when he released himself inside of her. Her nails dug into his shoulders, silently urging him. Begging for more. For everything.
His words continued, fed into that building pressure inside of her. Then he was shoving deep, driving himself into her until pain exploded outward from where they were joined. It spread across her body, bringing her muscles tense and taut. She let go a soft cry as she felt herself break apart in his embrace. His groan mingled in the air with her own sounds of completion. She could feel him deep inside of her, feel him filling her with himself. She wanted more. "Perhaps tonight will be the night that I plant my seed within you, my sweet. Perhaps tonight will be the night when you fully become mine. You will marry me, should my child grow in your belly. And then you'll give up this foolishness. You'll take your place at my side, as my wife. You'll be a proper woman."
"And ye'll hate me for it," she whispered, her heart squeezing tight in a pain that would never quite go away. He cradled her close, held her against him as he turned for the bed. She hated herself because she let him hold her as he would a cherished woman, the love of his life. They both knew she could never be either one of them. But for tonight, just tonight, she could pretend that she was.
The bed was soft beneath her back as he settled her on it. He hadn't allowed her out of his arms and tugged her closer as he took his place beside her. "Haven't you realized yet that I could never hate you, my sweet?" He asked the question before dropping a kiss to her cheek. She wasn't given the chance to answer. Instead, he tucked her head against her shoulder and dragged the covers up over them. "Sleep now, my sweet. There will be time for more fun and games later."
The three words she dared not utter rang in her ears, following her into slumber so that she was forced to wonder if he'd actually said them or if she'd imagined them. She was so tired that she didn't know if she'd really heard him whisper them in her ear or if some part of her simply wanted to hear them and had conjured them out of thing air. But it was a moot point. Morpheus stole over her and sucked her down.
Maybe he had witch powers of his own, because he'd told her to sleep and she slept.
~*~
Dawn was creeping up over the edge of the world when the slightest sound woke him. Anthony sat up to find that the bed beside him was empty. Frowning, he flung the covers back and climbed from the bed. Damn, but the wench was stubborn. He didn't need to check the wardrobe to know every last piece of her clothing was gone, right down to the matched pair of swords she carried and the black handled dirk that she'd used to threaten his manhood a time or two.
He strode to the window, uncaring about his state of undress, and watched the road that made its way to the harbor. Soon enough, a solitary figure sauntered arrogantly up the center of the dirt path, feet bare and clothes covered with filth. He sighed. At least she'd had a bath before she'd left.
It was getting harder to pin her down, harder to keep her from running from him. She was always running, always hiding from the truth. He couldn't imagine what it was that had happened to her that kept her so neatly cut off from him. She refused to admit it, but she needed him almost as much as he needed her. He wasn't going to stop following her. He wouldn't ever let her go, no matter how long it took to convince her that they were meant for one another.
Alasdare. Pirate. Wench. Murderer. Woman. His.
"One day, my sweet," he told the figure that walked away from him as if he meant nothing to her, watching as she grew smaller and smaller, drew nearer and nearer the harbor and her freedom. "One day, something terrible will happen. Something that you won't be able to escape. And you'll need help. I'll be there for you, my sweet, my love. I'll be there. Then, my sweet, then you'll need me."
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