bottom line, we made it out the first time still in love and half alive
The slam of the cabin door and the scuffle of hurried footsteps are familiar rhythms to her; she has felt them countless times through plank and beam. What is new is the way the air inside the cabin seems to tighten the moment they are alone, the heat no longer diffused by open sky but contained and concentrated. When Jack's hands seize her waist and drive her back against the desk, the rush of sensation that follows is immediate and undeniable. His mouth on hers no longer feels foreign; it feels claimed, expected, something she is beginning to believe belongs to her as much as to him. She answers him without hesitation, small, breathy sounds spilling from her throat as his tongue moves against hers, as his hands map her waist and ribs with that practiced certainty of his.
The silk of her blouse parts under his fingers, and the cool air against her skin only heightens the warmth spreading through her. Each brush of his hand along the lace of her bralette sends a pulse downward, and when she feels the firm press of his arousal against her through the leather of her pants, curiosity overtakes her. Her fingers slide down between them, the flat of her palm pressing against him, testing the heat and hardness there. The sensation is unmistakable, a mirror to the ache building low between her own legs, and the recognition draws a soft, startled exhale from her lips.
She huffs a breath that might have been a laugh if she were not so breathless, eyes dark and bright all at once. "Lesser men have had their hands on me before," she murmurs against his mouth, not in defiance but in simple fact. Her gaze lifts to his, ocean-deep and unwavering, and there is no doubt in her when she continues. "But I’ll only ever be yours." A wicked grin curves her lips as her fingers remain firm against him. "And they all know it."
The silk of her blouse parts under his fingers, and the cool air against her skin only heightens the warmth spreading through her. Each brush of his hand along the lace of her bralette sends a pulse downward, and when she feels the firm press of his arousal against her through the leather of her pants, curiosity overtakes her. Her fingers slide down between them, the flat of her palm pressing against him, testing the heat and hardness there. The sensation is unmistakable, a mirror to the ache building low between her own legs, and the recognition draws a soft, startled exhale from her lips.
She huffs a breath that might have been a laugh if she were not so breathless, eyes dark and bright all at once. "Lesser men have had their hands on me before," she murmurs against his mouth, not in defiance but in simple fact. Her gaze lifts to his, ocean-deep and unwavering, and there is no doubt in her when she continues. "But I’ll only ever be yours." A wicked grin curves her lips as her fingers remain firm against him. "And they all know it."
we didn't die, but no guarantees this time, but fuck it lets do it again
Siren's Wake | After she leaves a space, traces of her presence linger briefly: a faint scent of salt, the sound of distant water, a restless feeling in the chest. People rarely notice it consciously.
