13. Seas the Day
Seas the Day
We say nothing, settling into a strange, heavy silence.
But loud, unavoidable thoughts are barreling through my mind, begging to be heard.
And it’s as if I can feel every touch we’ve shared.
His hand at my elbow as I jumped into the shallow water, his fingers gripping my waist as I nearly toppled from the boat, the brush of my pinky over his hand, the feel of his breath on my skin, every press of his foot against mine.
Captain Silas Night is both a coy bastard and a fucking gentleman, and I think I’m officially losing my shit.
I haven’t felt like this about anyone since Julian, and even though I know nothing can come of it, that he can’t possibly feel the same way, that I’ll have to return home, I can no longer push these feelings away.
I bite down on the inside of my cheek again, and the skin there is raw, the tinge of copper on my tongue telling me to stop.
But I can’t. If I don’t bite down, I’ll say or do something I’ll regret.
I keep my gaze carefully trained on the table until I see his hands slide over its wood, and suddenly an ordinary action seems incredibly sensual.
I look at my hands in my lap. I want to take in his posture, taste that frown, savor the spot at the corner of his mouth where hair doesn’t seem to grow.
Damn it. He’s a pirate—hell, he is a pirate captain—and I have seen him kill a person, seen the look of anger as he sliced a blade across a man’s throat.
I have felt the tip of that very same blade against my own skin, felt his fury as he and his crew pulled me toward the edge of the ship and threatened to throw me over, seen the merriment in his eyes as he made me dance to the tune of his ship.
And still.
Still.
My focus slides to his stomach, the way the scars move as he slouches back in his seat. There’s a thin line of hair traveling up to his chest, to the black ink of a star chart over his right pec and the warped scar over his left.
And then, I betray myself. I glance up. He takes my breath away.
No matter how hard I try to hide these feelings and ignore the thoughts that force their way into my mind, this strange, beautiful, angry man has, by some miraculous fate, been nothing but kind to me.
He has hidden his actions beneath the weight of that coat, but I’ve seen them all the same, and they make me want him more, not less.
I should know better after Julian, after all the heartbreak he caused.
He took what I feared most in the world and shoved it down my throat.
He took all the trust and tenderness I offered him and tore it apart for the world to see.
I should know better than to trust someone like a pirate captain, but there’s something about Captain Night that’s different.
He’s different. He has that spark I loved in Blake, a sense of being open, yet grounded.
He knows exactly what he’s about. But there’s something else, too, this fear beneath the surface that I didn’t notice at first, something I wouldn’t have recognized if I hadn’t experienced it myself.
Captain Silas Night has helped me stand, has kept me safe aboard his ship and found a position for me that, while grueling, isn’t out of my range of ability.
And when I was at my weakest, he saw to me, helped me to his bed, and took care of me.
These things, these kind, soft, gentle things are a side to him I know his crew has seen. Because I am a part of his crew now.
I could belong with them, if I wanted to.
Belong with him.
And I find that I desperately want to. It’s hardly been a week, but already I am falling.
“Can I ask you something, Captain?” He raises a brow but nods, gesturing for me to go ahead. “Has there ever been anything you wanted so much that the moment you get it, you worry it won’t live up to your expectations?”
His expression is unmoved, and I think he won’t answer. But he leans forward, and I feel his foot pushing harder against mine as he comes closer.
“When I was younger, I was terrified to dream. Terrified that, should any of my dreams come true, I would … squander them.” Captivated, I can’t look away.
“But now, now that I’ve let myself dream, and now that some of those dreams have been realized, I try not to deny myself anything.
I would rather take a chance than regret it the rest of my life. ”
Maybe I’m reading too much into this. I mean, he’s leaning toward me, and it’s clearly a physical cue that I should lean toward him, close the bit of distance between us, right?
But when I catch sight of the blue coat hanging over the silk screen behind him, part of me wants to grab it, to see if he’ll stop me.
Though I know I’ll have to return to London, to my time, I’d much rather stay here in this room with him and see if he can live up to my expectations. To discover why, against all odds, the one person I’ve allowed myself to open up to in years happens to be from a different time.
It’s wild, it’s impossible, but I. Want.
To. Kiss. Him. Everything in me wants to surge forward, tangle my fingers in his hair, and pull him toward me.
I want to run my hands over his chest and arms and feel the roughness of his calloused hands touching me everywhere.
I want his fingers in my hair and his mouth at my neck and him to promise that things will get better.
But I am a coward, and I sit frozen, my hands shaking from the mere thought.
How can I fear him so much, but be pulled to him all the same?
How can I worry that any wrong move could lead to my demise, yet be willing to risk it all for one kiss?
When I was younger, I never shied away from anything I wanted.
The me who rolled around in paint with Blake, high and content and living life, the me who spent a night with a stranger on her houseboat in Amsterdam and never got her name.
Those are all versions of me who never stopped to worry about the consequences, a me who lived in the moment.
Can I live in the moment with this man? Can I stop thinking about what could happen tomorrow, and instead think of what could happen tonight if I just took a chance?
When I make no move, he hesitates.
I swallow, and I think of Louise, so in love with her friend for years and never acting on it, instead opting to run away. I don’t want to know that kind of regret. And maybe this is some cruel game of fate I’ve been thrust into, but how much longer can I deny this feeling?
His hand twitches on the table, almost as if he’s reaching for me.
And that’s all I need.
Fuck it.
I lean forward, my hands sliding over his chest. My eager fingers dance across the tiny black stars, up to his throat, and across his jaw.
And, yes, I’ve imagined what it would feel like, how coarse this stubble would be, but the reality has far surpassed my imagination. And he doesn’t push me away.
His long, thick eyelashes flutter as my nails skate through his stubble before sliding into his hair and tangling in his dark locks.
This close I can see the sprinkle of gray in his scruff, in his hair, the soft dots of freckles from the sun scattered across his suntanned skin.
Before I can think better of it, I press my lips to his.
At first, the kiss is soft, his lips moving slowly against mine, his hands splayed frozen on the table before him.
And I have never had a thing for stubble, but when I finally close my eyes and kiss him, really kiss him, and he kisses me back, the feel of it scraping against my skin coaxes a moan out of me.
The sound seems to flip a switch in us, because the softness is gone, replaced by urgency and heat.
One of his calloused hands slides up my neck and cups the side of my face, and it is so gentle, so sweet, that my chest squeezes.
I have never been held like this, never been cradled like I might break.
And I wonder how long it’s been since someone kissed me like this, since someone made me think that I could be worth ruining everything for. As if he senses the same urgent feelings, his free hand fists the fabric of my shirt, making me gasp.
“You smell terrible,” he whispers against my lips as he stands and pushes away his chair, pulling me with him.
“Sorry,” I mumble as I find his lips once more. I only faintly recall where I found these clothes and who they belonged to before me. My mind is foggy with want.
It’s impossible to think of anything but him.
We stumble toward the bed, him steering and me following, Captain Night the leader even in the act of kissing, and when I settle onto the edge of the bed, his other hand finds my hip, nudging me backward on the mattress before he straddles my lap.
His hands never leave my face, his lips never stop on mine, as eager for me as I am for him.
In seconds, my shirt is untucked, and a thumb brushes across my stomach, sending a flurry of shivers over my skin as it drags down to the waistband of my pants.
I hesitate for a moment, but not for long, because he breaks the kiss and tilts my head back, seeking the tender place just below my ear.
And god, he is bliss. I don’t want this to end.
Years. I have been searching for years for someone who can make me feel like he does.
Someone who can make me feel appreciated, welcomed.
Wanted, wholly and completely.
His lips dip down to my throat, gently nibbling. I groan, rocking my hips against his, seeking the bulge in his pants. His fingers tug on my hair in response, making me gasp and open my eyes.
“Is this all right?” he asks against my skin.
“Better than all right.”