Chapter 24 The Quiet Between Waves
Desire is no less dangerous than drowning; both press against the lungs until surrender feels like salvation.”
— Excerpt from the forbidden 'Anatole Text', written by the Crimson Scholar
"Ican't. I can't go back down there, please.
Please…Rhyland, I can't.” My own begging echoes in my ears, ghosts.
Whispers under the wind that howls beyond the door.
Being below during the storm is a torture.
I know it would bring flashbacks of the night the Shadow Weaver went down, Màma and I firmly chained deep in its belly. No hope of escape.
I pleaded until he caved and brought me to his cabin above deck.
Rhyland’s quarters warm surprisingly fast. He’s heated the coal within the two large brass brazier’s fixed to wrought iron stands that are embedded in the floor to keep from toppling over.
Soft, glowing red light from their insides flickers over the deep maroon curtains and the pirate’s silhouette, planted firmly in a chair at the end of the bed.
His bed. The one I’m currently occupying, stripped bare and then stuffed into one of his long sleeved white shirts.
It’s far too big on me. I feel dwarfed in it, made worse by the pile of blankets he’s strewn over me, a duvet stuffed with goose feathers, and too many quilts to count.
Since my horrid confession on deck he hasn’t spoken another word.
He’d simply looked at me for a moment before scooping me up and carrying me to his cabin.
Given me a soft teal tonic to help against the cold and the pain, and then tucked me into bed.
The silence is unnerving and uncomfortable.
I resolve to stare at the ceiling, refusing to be the one to break it.
Drips of rainwater come through the boards, but the storm is losing traction. The ship's groaning for the most part has ceased, and it no longer feels as if I'll be tossed from the bed beneath the force of waves slamming into us. Even the dripping from above slows to a distant patter.
Despite it all, I still shiver violently beneath the blankets, as though the heat cannot penetrate through my skin.
“Are you cold?” Rhyland’s deep voice finally breaks the stillness.
I shake my head, too afraid my teeth will chatter if I speak aloud. I think I'm going into some sort of shock.
“Liar,” he sighs. “I can see you trembling from here.”
There's a moment's pause, a hesitation before he stands. Having already shed his boots and damp clothes, traded them for dry trousers and bare chest, nothing stops him from pulling back the thick layers of blankets to slip in behind me.
I almost protest, and the words swell on the tip of my tongue, but instead a moan of pleasure escapes me. Pleasure at the feel of the heat that comes off his firm chest and bleeds into my back. He presses closer, drawing me flush against him before pulling the blankets up to our ears.
“If we’re going to lie together like this, perhaps you shouldn’t make noises like that.” His voice is brisk, clipped. Full of mild irritation and a teasing undertone.
“I don’t want your help,” I snap and start to pull away, but he jerks me back.
“Liar.”
And gods dammit, I am. Because it feels so nice, so safe and comforting after the frigid sea.
As if that wasn't enough, I feel the pulse of power he pushes out. Golden tendrils of sunlight, small and contained, but enough to warm me to the bone.
Such huge risk for such little reward. If Ireus were to see….
“The Nightingale is spelled against my father's vision. Mór strengthened the wards before we left Elaris,” he murmurs as though reading my thoughts. Or maybe it was the way my body stiffened in shock that gave my worry away.
His hand rests across my abdomen and while there is tension in him from holding himself rigid as stone, eventually I begin to thaw.
The chattering stops. The brutal cold recedes.
But the pain. The pain is unbearable. My chest aches and my head’s splitting with it.
My lungs feel like they’ve been rubbed with sandpaper.
I find the strength to squirm some in an effort to get more comfortable and my reward is his hand tightening against my front.
“It would be best if you could refrain from moving like that.”
I freeze, acutely aware of the fact I am bare beneath his shirt and my wiggling has caused the hem to shift up over the cusp of my arse which is pressed quite firmly to a particularly sensitive area for him.
I settle again and after a few moments, he relaxes, his grip on the front of me loosening. Another wave of agony wracks through me. It’s everything to push it down, to not surrender to the pain and beg for something more to make it stop.
“Rowan,” I groan gently, voice hoarse from the burn of saltwater. “Is she alright?”
Another deep sigh pulls from him. “Your friend is fine, tucked below deck with Sabre, wearing your enchanted cloak. Your job is to rest now.”
I would. I really would. But in spite of the pain his warmth has my blood humming again.
And his nearness…well, that does something else to me.
Something I'd like to deny with every fiber.
I close my eyes in defiance of it, though I'm still hyper aware of the solidness of his chest. The rough heat of his palm spreads across the tight plain of my belly, holding me firm to him.
I cry out as another blinding wave claws through my head and radiates down my chest where the beam struck me.
He sits up and I immediately mourn the warmth of him.
The world seems to shift and darken. I reach blindly for him. Find nothing and start to panic, great heaving breaths swelling inside of me. It’s like drowning all over again.
Help me. Help me.
I don’t know how much time passes—minutes, a lifetime? Then he returns, a glowing green potion in his hand.
Cool fingers capture my jaw. “Drink this, Nymph. Drink this and still yourself.”
I don’t bother fighting it, just open and let the bitter medicine drizzle over my tongue. It coats my mouth, and the pain dies to an annoying but faint pulse buried away in my skull.
He settles back behind me and the world is warm and distant.
I close my eyes. Darkness pulls at me, sucks me down deep into its clutches.
I think I'm on the brink of sleep when there's a sudden urge to turn and study him. To explore the unnaturally handsome features of his face while he’s open and vulnerable.
To run my hands along the valleys and scars on his chest. The glowing runes on his arms. I imagine my thumb tracing over his lower lip.
Lacing my fingers through his coal black hair, my breasts pressed firmly into his front.
An ache shoots through me at the idea. It travels deep between my legs so that I have to press my thighs together for a small measure of relief.
Rhyland’s hand, now relaxed in sleep, is inches away from the front hem of the shirt.
Inches away from quieting that ache for me.
Heat rushes to my cheeks. Gods, I should be ashamed of these dark thoughts.
Perhaps I've left my good sense behind in the sea…
I was moments from death and this is what my body wants? Ridiculous.
It doesn't stop me from shifting again, wiggling against his front, this time on purpose.
He makes a small noise in his sleep, something caught between a moan and groan, and clutches me tighter to him.
I still myself, afraid that I'll disturb his gentle slumber. But a shock of desire sparks to life through me again because I can feel what the movement’s done to him.
Something very long and solid presses into the fabric of his trousers, caught against my arse.
Stop this, I tell myself.
The other part of me wants to take it further. So much further. To wake him with my mouth pressed against his. To let him pull my leg up over his hip so I may sit astride him.
A pleasant shudder rips through me. It's like burning from the inside out. Painless, delicious fire coursing through me. I wiggle again, but this time I can't help it. The friction it causes is my only relief.
He lets out another groan and grows rigid once more, his hold tightening but this time it slips beneath the shirt hem and his fingers press into my bare flesh.
“Nymph.” His deep voice is sleep laced. Full of quiet warning. “Sleep.”
“I cannot.” Evidently, his potion didn’t fix everything. It hurts to speak. My throat is raw and swollen. My lungs burn but still the words spill out, “I need, I need—”
He sighs, his breath tickling over my hair. “What do you need? I can go down for laudanum if you're still in pain.”
Before I can stop myself, my hand moves over his, urging it lower. Pressing it there.
He tenses and for a long moment doesn't move at all. I know that any second he will pull away. Tell me off for my foolishness. I can already feel the hollow disappointment carving into me. The sting of rejection.
He does move, then, but not away like I expect. Slowly, his middle finger slips down, finding me slick with excitement. The feel of it sends a low groan through his chest that vibrates into my back.
Our world is fractured starlight. Hazy and beautiful and warm.
I whimper at the sensation of his rough callous meeting the sensitive spot above my opening. Languidly, he begins stroking it in small controlled circles, a pleasing rhythm that has my breaths coming fast.
I want him. Want him more than I've ever wanted anything. The ache grows and I press myself into him, hips stirring to the rhythm of each stroke. He pauses, and I could cry at the loss that echoes through me at the stillness.
Please, I want to gasp. To beg.
There's a moment's warning in the way his muscles brace.
The way he shifts to tighten his grip on me and then we're rolling, him onto his back, me securely in his lap, laid over him.
His long legs snake down mine and then press simultaneously into my inner ankles, spreading me wide.
I gasp, almost sitting up but his right hand, now freed from beneath the pillows, wraps over my chest, bringing me back down to him while his left resumes its position between my wet center.
“Tell me to stop.” His words are low, hungry, whispering into my ear.
“No,” I say breathlessly. “I'd rather be thrown back to the sea.”
He groans.
I'm panting as two of his slick fingers move to spread me while the one in the middle finds that sensitive spot again.
He begins the sensual strokes, pressing more firmly now, his breath hot in my ear.
I moan, hands traveling up his thighs, wishing they were bare so that I might dig my nails into them.
“Tell me to stop, Nymph.”
“I can't. I don't want you to.” It’s nearly a sob, a desperate sort of keening. If he stops now, I'm not sure I could bear it. My heart might cease its beating.
Without warning, his right arm moves to push the hem of my shirt up, exposing my abdomen.
His touch leaves fire in its wake everywhere it meets and his hand travels to my breasts.
Gently, he cups one, and then his practiced fingers slip over the tip to roll my hardened nipple, tugging in a way that sends thrills of pleasure shooting into my core.
His touch explores every inch of me, a claiming. A promise.
His mouth brushes my ear.
“You're mine, Nymph. Mine to keep you safe. Mine to protect.”
I can't muffle the sharp cry that escapes me. My hips buck into his hand, a pleasure growing within me, bringing me to the brink of something. A cusp I could climb over and fall from if he just—
I gasp. Two of his thick fingers have moved down to my opening and slipped inside, coated by the wetness that drips from there. Carefully, he thrusts them in and then back out, groaning into my ear.
His length, pressed hard against my arse, is throbbing in tandem with his heart.
I imagine that it’s working deep inside of me the way his fingers are.
His rough palm continues stroking my sensitive center as his fingers move in and out at a perfect, steady tempo.
When he curls the tips of them, finding a hidden spot within me to caress with every brush, I nearly go mad.
My legs are pinned firmly beneath his but my hips still lift to meet each thrust.
The ship rises and tips slightly but he holds me steady, his right hand continuing its clever assault on my breasts.
My back arches up, neck exposed, and he seizes the moment to move his right hand to it, cupping my throat. Squeezing gently as he continues to fuck me with those fingers.
“Submit to me.” The low gravel of his voice in my ear sends me over the precipice.
For once, I cannot deny his command. Wouldn't want to, even if I could.
Every muscle in me tightens. I feel myself clench down on his probing fingers and the sensation only grows.
My blood rushes so sweetly; the world around me dims.
“Pirate!” I gasp.
He doesn't stop moving within me until the waves of pleasure recede and my body relaxes, melding against him like softened clay.
I'm panting and there's a tremble to my legs as he moves his off of mine, freeing me.
I shift slightly and look up in time to see that he's brought his two fingers to his mouth, tasting the evidence of what we've done.
The sight makes my stomach spasm with quiet need and he smirks at me, his eyes pools of cloudy midnight, his face more heartbreakingly beautiful than I remember.
No one has the right to look that good—not even a god.
“Sleep, Nymph,” he says huskily and rolls me once more, this time back onto my side where I'm pulled tight against him again.
Pain gone, muscles now firmly relaxed, and my desire satiated, I do.