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“It’s alright, I’m just showing her back to her room.” He grins, and I notice his missing top right fang tooth.
“Don’t come near me,” I warn, moving to a defensive position, ready to fight him off if I have to.
When his hand wraps around my bicep I bring my foot up and into his groin.
He groans and drops like bricks off a building and I try not to gloat.
“My balls,” he chokes as his friends laugh.
“She’s got spunk.” One of them grins, his orange beard moving with his smile. “Come on, before the captain has our fingers.”
“Pussies,” Roger says, gasping and gagging as he slowly stands, pushing through the pain.
I start to run, wishing I’d done so sooner but I’m caged in.
I pass between two men, tripping on my laces and falling straight onto another man coming up the stairs.
“You alright, lass?” he asks kindly, helping me right myself.
I brush past him, nearing the door for the captain’s quarters.
I don’t start breathing until it closes behind me and I’m in my corner with a heavy book, the pillow I’ve been finding comfort in, and my knees tucked up to my chin as best as my boobs will allow. Not that I have much boobage.
The sharp, deep, gruff word, “No,” rouses me from my near slumber.
“But… you’re hard,” a raspy female voice whines.
“Not for you.”
I shift, keeping my eyes closed so nobody knows I’m awake.
“Is this because of her? We can go elsewhere, you know I don’t mind it outside.”
“My men told me,” Captain replies and the girl gasps. “Fuck off, Millie, I’m going to sleep.”
“But—”
“I’m not putting my dick in you. Not again. Fuck that. Rather put it in a cat.”
She gasps again, huffs and then the door slams shut and locks with a creak.
“Fucking whore,” he murmurs and I hear him stagger into something. “Shouldn’t ever have let them bring her and her fucking nails.”
He sounds drunk, not a lot but enough to be past tipsy.
Drunk men scare me so I stay curled and pull the pillow to my face, hoping to blend in like a piece of furniture.
He walks past, his feet heavy but steady and I hear him brush his teeth before returning. Clothing drops to the ground and I fight the urge to look at him and his striking back tattoo of a phoenix rising out of a burning ship. The urge wins and I stare at it, following the rippling water that surrounds the black shaded vessel which is near shrouded in smoke. A large phoenix-type bird, with wings that span around his shoulders and a curved beak that touches the bottom of his hair, opens its mouth in a permanent battle cry , and I wonder what the story is behind it.
“I can feel your eyes, kitten,” he says, unhooking the belt of his jeans and letting them drop.
My eyes drift to his rear. It is perfect and round and so toned but I knew it would be. He works out every morning and night usually, so it comes as no surprise that his body is godlike. Not that I watch.
“It’s your tattoo,” I say boldly. “I was just admiring it.”
“Admiring?” He smirks at me over his shoulder before moving to the bed and sitting on it, still facing away from me. “Get a closer look…” His eyebrows wag at me in the mirror on the wall by the built-in chest of drawers. “If you dare.”
I look away again and settle into my corner.
Does he really think I find his charm funny or alluring?
He chuckles at my silence. “Stubborn, aren’t you?” I continue ignoring him. “Brave, perhaps a little naïve.”
“Leave me alone.”
Without moving, he blows out a breath and then with movements that force his tattoo to move, he rubs his face with his hands. “Why don’t you have tattoos?”
A genuine question it seems. “Could never decide on one I liked.”
“So you’re not opposed?”
I peek at him carefully but he’s still facing away, his posture one that translates loneliness and exhaustion. “Tasteful tattoos always look good.”
“Are mine tasteful?”
“That’s not for me to judge.”
“That’s not an answer.”
I roll my tongue over my lip. “Umm… I’ve seen worse?”
He laughs. “Brave, definitely brave.”
“Why did you get the one on your back?”
He seems to hesitate as he stares ahead and a minute passes. I wonder if I’ve lost him to a memory but then he finally speaks, his tone deep and hoarse.
“I was born on a ship to a stowaway fleeing a life of prostitution in Mexico,” he begins, still looking at me in the mirror. I can feel his eyes this time. It sets my body on fire and makes my womb tingle, much to my own horror.
“That’s insane.”
“Beyond borders… and my mother died of sepsis days later.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, finally meeting his striking greens in the mirror.
