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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: NC-17. Some torture.
Pairing: Tom Blood/Woodes Rogers, Will Turner/Bartholomew Roberts/Robert Cochrane
Feedback: Anything from spelling errors to concrit.
Disclaimer: Not mine, except for Lord Robert Cochrane.
Notes: AU history, supernatural stuff. I’ve borrowed the names of historical figures without attempting to portray them accurately. For this fic, Bartholomew Roberts looks like Ioan Gruffudd, Woodes Rogers like Christian Bale and Tom Blood like Joseph Fiennes. Robert Cochrane is an OMC that looks like Clive Owen. ‘Ojo de gueche’ is made up out of the Spanish for ‘eye’ and the Zapotec for ‘jaguar.’
Summary: Famous rogue Thomas Blood is recruited. He’s not quite the lightweight he seems.
***
Rob sighed as he picked up his coat. “I said I wouldn’t kill him.”
Of course he did. He’d been writhing so hard his heels had left dents in the walls because Will had had his tongue and fingers alternating in Rob’s arse, and he’d said it because Will hadn’t brought him off until he had. Nonetheless, Will thought it’d be prudent to check again. “And?”
The other man had donned his coat, a spare sleek garment of dark green linen, and was now carefully pulling his lace cuffs out of his sleeves. He held up his wrist to study the hang of one, then tugged until it trailed from his hand in a perfect froth. “And I will not otherwise cripple, maim, or damage him in any way that wouldn’t heal within a week…you realize that Bart already went through all of this with me, don’t you?”
Still left to go was fixing his cravat and taking up that huge blade of his. Will rocked back onto his heels and leaned against the door. And he’d thought that with Elizabeth in Anamaria’s bed, he wouldn’t ever be the one tapping an impatient foot. “Really? Did he cover suffocating? Dunking? Choking with food?”
“And staring at the man until he pissed in his breeches. Honestly. I’m a man, not a demon.” Arranging the flowing folds of his cravat took Robert nearly as long as his cuffs had. He would let it settle one way, take a breath and then let out a low hiss. His eyes would flick to Will’s by way of the mirror. Then he would slip a finger beneath the lace and rub his neck while readjusting it.
All right, watching Robert probe his latest bruises did improve Will’s mood. He looked down at his feet to hide his grin. “It’s not meant to insult you, Rob. We’d just like Colonel Blood in one piece. Or else we’ll have to go through this whole rigmarole again.”
Robert’s shoulders tensed. Then they relaxed and he went on teasing with the same aloof air he always had. “I never said I considered it an insult.”
No, but he was annoyed about something. Once again, Will wished Bart had decided to come along instead of staying back on his ship. His absence alone had Rob fretting, which didn’t help matters. As for what those were, Will knew perfectly well what was bothering Rob, but frankly, he was tired of arguing. When Robert turned around, Will shoved his sword at him. “Thomas Blood conspicuously consorts with both sexes. We can’t—”
“—know which one he’ll go for any given night, so it has to be one of each at least,” Robert finished. He jerked the sword from Will and nearly knocked a hole in the ceiling when he slung it over his shoulder. “Yes, you and Bart and your captain have explained this to me. Repeatedly.”
“Will?” Elizabeth called from outside. “Come on. We’ll miss him if you don’t hurry.”
Robert rolled his eyes as if he’d be happy for that to happen, and he probably would. Will told himself further discussion was useless and pulled the other man out the door.
Elizabeth stood waiting for them in a dress of red silk that clung to her like a caught breath—what little of it there was. She grinned at Will, looked challengingly at Rob, and with a fetching swirl of her skirts, took Will by the arm. He laughed and was playfully doffing his hat to her when he heard a strange growling noise. It died away before he could pinpoint it.
When Will turned back, Elizabeth had a brow arched. She nodded towards Robert, who was heading for his men who were to surround the building. “You did tell him that we’re no longer engaged, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Will muttered, torn between throwing something at Rob’s thick head and admiring his lazy prowl. He re-offered his arm to Elizabeth, twitched his clothes into place, and began to lead them into the heart of Tortuga. “He’s hopeless when it comes to that. But I did make it clear I’d kill him if he did anything to you.”
She tossed her head in an unspoken gesture of disdain for the whole business. Then she smiled brilliantly at the men lounging in the slipshod balconies that clawed from every building. “Actually, his nasty tongue aside, I rather like Robert.”
Will nearly stumbled. He righted himself, stepped over the rum-stinking form strewn across the gutter and ignored the sheep’s eyes one snag-toothed man was making at him. His shirt and coat were extremely tight, which somewhat hampered his movements. “Are you joking?”
“No.” Elizabeth delicately lifted her skirts before crossing a muddy patch, flashing a pretty pair of ankles. She continued to smile slyly at the catcalls they were beginning to attract. “I liked Bart more at first, and I suspect everyone does, but the more I get to know of him, the more I…well, it’s a good thing he seems to feel so strongly about you. I think he’d trade off his parents if the price was right—it’s hard to tell with him, which is why I like him less. Whereas you always know where you stand with Robert.”
Now that was a bit more acidic than Elizabeth usually was. Stung and startled, Will slowed to look sharply at her. “Excuse me?”
She winced. “Sorry, Will. Anamaria and I just had an argument, and I think you can guess the topic of that.”
“I can, but that doesn’t explain your comment.” He helped her up the broken steps of the porch, then paused at the top. After some peering through the wide-open door, he spotted Cotton and gestured him over.
“No, it doesn’t, but do we really have time for this?” she asked, peering over his shoulder. Then she looked at his face and sighed. “All right, I didn’t mean it that bluntly, but Bart’s a very clever man. And very clever men don’t generally care much about other people. But I don’t think you need to worry about that.”
To be honest, Will rather agreed with Elizabeth’s assessment. For all his laughter and welcoming ways, Bart was unrepentantly unscrupulous and dangerous to cross. But he did hold to the Code, so their pact of matelotage would exempt Will from that as long as it held. He didn’t pretend to think that it’d be forever—his previous relationships were good evidence of that—but he didn’t see the point in worrying about it till then.
At least, not much. Living at sea had taught Will some firm lessons about not fretting over what he couldn’t change. He couldn’t change what kind of man Bartholomew was, and even if he could, he probably wouldn’t like the result. Best to just enjoy the run while it lasted. Or so said the seaman in him. The blacksmith occasionally piped up with a different opinion.
Cotton appeared from the chattering mob a pot to wave them into the tavern. Will wrapped his hand around his sword and, keeping his arm firmly hooked through Elizabeth’s, used the hilt to prod a path through for them. The other man pointed at a table far in the back where the people were barely distinguishable in the smoke-filled air, and held up three fingers of his left hand, which Will took to mean third chair on the left. “Thank you, Cotton. See you back on board.”
“And now we’d better get this over with so our respective lovers will stop throwing fits,” Elizabeth said. She surreptitiously plumped her breasts further out of the corset, which looked more amusing than seductive as she had a look of utter distaste on her face while doing it. “God, I hate these clothes. How does he look?”
Will carefully swiveled them around so they’d emerge from the crowd to the left of the table. He scanned about till he’d found the right chair—and found his stare boldly returned. “Eager. At least he won’t give us any trouble.”
* * *
There was a lovely girl curving into Tom’s right arm, an equally lovely youth edging towards his left, and he was laying down the winning hand on the table. His belly was full, his sword sharp and nobody else’s sword was pointed at his head. Life was good. “Well, gentlemen. I believe that concludes our night.”
“With them, perhaps,” cooed the girl. She had beautiful cascades of golden hair, which certainly was an auspicious color, and the way her hand was moving over Tom’s knee was even more auspicious.
“I don’t believe we’ve even gotten started on transacting our business,” said the man. He was of average height, but his build was excellent and his eyes wouldn’t have looked out of home on the face of an angel. And, as he proved by standing, the shape of his rump was delicious.
A warm tongue licked kittenishly at Tom’s ear. “We’ve got a room upstairs,” the girl murmured. “It’s much for comfortable for…business.”
They could be a pair of thieves seeking to catch him off-guard. Admittedly, one of the few things Tom was currently lacking was funds, so that seemed unlikely. In Tortuga, the pickings were far too easy for such a handsome couple to be wasting their time on him for that reason; he could point out three or four more likely targets just while crossing the tavern with them.
So not thieves. However, that still left plenty of other dangerous possibilities…about which Colonel Thomas Blood, lately fled of England, was determinedly not thinking. He was far too busy getting his back to the wall and pulling them after him by a hip each. The girl had a most impressive bosom, and when she fell against Tom, they swelled attractively out of her low bodice. As for the youth, he came somewhat more slowly, but his hand was the first to slide confidently down Tom’s chest.
“And what business would you two very…” Tom tipped his head to kiss the girl’s ear “…very lovely people…” turned to nuzzle the man “…have that would concern me?”
The thing about this part of the staircase was that the railing was loose. If he remembered right, a brawl had broken out a week ago and snapped off a segment. It hadn’t been really replaced; a stick had been nailed across the break, but not secured and even now, Tom could feel it wiggling loose against his back.
“Something that would greatly advance your interests.” Coy smile and steady hand as the girl teased her way closer. She pressed in till their lips were nearly touching.
“Really? And do you have a name, dear? I don’t do business with strangers.” Tom carelessly stroked her from breast to swell of hip as he pretended to look glazed over with lust. Well, actually he was glazed over with lust because the youth, for all his seeming shyness, certainly knew what he was doing with his hand. But that didn’t mean he’d yet given up on self-preservation.
The youth and the girl exchanged a glance, which was telling because that meant they were working him. Then the other man turned towards Tom and opened his mouth. “I’m Will Turner.”
Right then, the railing snapped beneath Tom’s weight and he let himself drop down with it. The girl’s skirts billowed fit to fill the entire narrow staircase, but they were easy enough to push aside. He scrambled through them, making sure to flip them about to block any grabs at him, and lunged free at the top of the stairs. Then he turned around and yanked out his sword in the same motion. “Will Turner? The first mate of the Black Pearl? Currently very good friends with both the governor-commodore of Jamaica and the governor of the Bahamas?”
“You know, it sounds so much more impressive when you put it like that.” The girl had gone from pliant pretty thing to straight sharp and cool-voiced in the blink of an eye. She unsnapped something and stepped out of her skirt to reveal a cutlass that Tom had most certainly not felt. “Will, did you have to tell him the truth?”
Ah. So Tom had been right about that. He’d thought the youth had looked familiar, and the Tortuga gossip-vine had filled in the rest of the details. To hear them tell it, Mr. Turner was one of the fast-risers in the region…and therefore, Tom was carefully backing away from him.
And Mr. Turner had a very, very fine sword of his own, which he now drew. “We would have had to in a few minutes anyway, Elizabeth. He’d never believe a pair of nothings making the offer that we’ve got.”
“Good point. So, Colonel Blood? I’d really rather not negotiate with swords.” Elizabeth daintily wrapped up her skirt and stuffed it beneath her arm, showing off a nice leg. For a moment, Tom regretted not letting things get to bed before he’d pulled off the covers. “We’d like to give you a chance to do a great service to England, and to the Caribbean. You’d get a full pardon in return.”
“And if I don’t, I’ll die. Yes, I’ve had these kinds of negotiations before.” The creaking of the boards beneath Tom’s feet changed in pitch. He faced them a moment longer, then whirled and threw himself out the window.
Thankfully, they hadn’t repaired it from the brawl the other night, so Tom landed on just the rough unplaned planking of the balcony instead of in a sea of broken glass. The wood, however, was rotten and part of it gave way so his foot plunged through it. He’d ended up stabbing his sword into the balcony floor and he used that to hurriedly drag himself free.
Something whizzed by his head. A bullet. Tom cast about and saw a number of men with muskets and cutlasses running towards him; he kept looking and spotted a clear jump to the next balcony over. Which he promptly took and successfully made, landing on the run. A good thing, because from inside the building emerged a tall, swarthy man with one of the biggest, wickedest swords Tom had ever seen.
“Fine claymore,” he panted, skidding back.
“Thank you.” The man smiled thinly before slashing at Tom. Their swords clanged and then there was an ominous snap. When Tom fell against the rail, he discovered that his sword now consisted of a hilt and about two inches of blade, whereas the other man’s blade seemed untouched. He raised it towards Tom. “This will only hurt if you insist on it.”
Below in the street was the yelling of more men, who seemed to be looking towards this one for orders. Not particularly favorable odds, but they didn’t sound nearly as chilly at this man, so Tom made his decision. “Very well, I insist that it doesn’t hurt,” he cheerfully said, starting to lift his hands.
Then he kicked at the other man, and while he was dodging back, Tom flipped himself over the rail. Another musketball whistled somewhere near him as he fell, and then he was on the ground and running.
It was easy to lose the other men in the tangled backalleys of Tortuga, and within a few minutes Tom was able to lean against a ramshackle fence and catch his breath. He wondered who he’d annoyed this time to—
--the fence exploded. He leaped away and tripped over a crate as he did to fall heavily to the ground. His hip was almost certainly bruised and his head was ringing, but he needed to keep going—
--or not, said the gleaming length of sword that’d just buried itself before his face and the shadow that had fallen over him. Very, very slowly, Tom turned over.
“The name’s Lord Robert Cochrane,” said the man from the balcony. His eyes were glowing in the darkness like they were made of foxfire, and like that ghostly phenomenon, they were coldly eerie. “Some acquaintances of mine require your presence, which is why you still possess your head. Now, if you’ll stand without forcing me to chase you further…”
Tom knew when he was beaten. “Of course. You know, you’ve got an…oh, right. Shutting up now.”
* * *
It certainly was interesting company that Tom had found himself for the evening. The captain’s cabin in the infamous Black Pearl, with the captain himself, the notorious Jack Sparrow, pouring out the rum. Holding the glasses for him was pirate-turned-Governor Bartholomew Roberts, while perched on the table before Tom was Will Turner. Much to Tom’s immediate relief, Lord Robert had disappeared belowdecks.
Tom’s long-term relief, however, could’ve done without the tight ropes binding his hands behind his chair and his ankles to the chair legs. He was fast losing the feeling in his fingers, and that meant less of a chance of him freeing himself. “So you’re attempting to gather the major pirates of the Caribbean under one flag. The British flag. A most difficult yet worthy mission. I wish you luck with it, but I fail to see why it would involve me. I’ve done nothing untoward since I’ve arrived in your paradise and…”
“Bart, I admit to not having made personal acquaintance with Captain Rogers, but I’m still wondering if you’re certain he’ll take to him.” Jack topped off the second-to-last…no, the last glass, and reserved the bottle for himself. Well, that explained the queer swaying stance. “I do believe he adds more flourishes than I do.”
“He spent time at court; of course he does,” Bartholomew replied. He was dressed in a rather severe outfit of black and white that accentuated the slenderness of his body—actually, he looked like more of a nobleman than Lord Robert did. And his eyes had the kind of detached cunning that Tom had long since associated with those who had too much money and too little to do.
The second part of that probably didn’t apply here, given how neatly Tom had been bundled aboard. It was clear that Roberts and Sparrow got things done when they wanted them done to instead of procrastinating like nobility. Which in turn worried Tom. “I can speak plainly. I just find that doing so tends to get me into even more trouble.”
“There’s a time for that, and a time for ornamentation,” Will said. He glanced at Bartholomew, who shrugged, and then at Jack, who flipped his hand about in the air like it was a mad seagull. Apparently that was a signal, for Will turned back to Tom and began to explain. “This is the very, very short version, but I’d wager you’ve already heard some of the details ashore. About eleven years ago, Jack here accidentally got himself involved in an Aztec curse. That was finally laid to rest two years ago, but the thing is, he didn’t just wake that.”
Jack raised the rum bottle in objection. “Now, Will. Be fair—nobody ever told me about the rest of it, though they were happy to rattle on about the bloody Aztec gods.”
“I wasn’t saying it was your fault, but you did start it.” Will twisted around and got himself a…flower. A big red one with flared petals and a strong, cloying scent. He showed it to Tom, then held it up so he could stare at it. “Not that we’re sure about what it was, but anyway, that’s not important. The important part is that from then now, the Caribbean’s been…much more friendly to supernatural goings-on than the rest of the world. Certain people seem to have natural gifts for tapping into it.”
And the flower burst into flame. Since Will was holding it over Tom’s knee, Tom jerked back in an effort to avoid any hot ash. His chair scooted an inch before it was stopped by something; he looked up to see Robert’s raised eyebrow. The other man shoved the chair back with his foot, then rounded it to whisper something in Bartholomew’s ear. Sparrow, Tom was interested to see, kept clear of Robert, while Bartholomew seemed to be rather intrigued by the line of Robert’s hip.
“Unsurprisingly, most of these people happen to be pirates,” Will said. He sounded a touch annoyed that Tom had ignored his little trick in favor of watching the men in the corner. Then he put his hand in the flaming flower and pulled off the fire as if he were peeling a fruit so Tom could see the undamaged bloom and Will’s fire-proof hand. A flick, and the flower was in Tom’s lap so it was obvious it was real.
Now, that was worth staring at. “Would seem to have more in common with your lifestyle.”
“Most. Not all. There are a few working for various governments, and it appears that Spain has managed to round up the lion’s share of them. Which is bad for everyone—I don’t think I need to explain that to you, given what’s passed between you and the Spanish before.” Will twisted his hand and the flame went out. Then he took a deep breath, which brought to Tom’s attention how the man had briefly looked tired. Clearly, the talent didn’t come without some drawbacks. “The only way to stand against them is together. We’ve convinced most of the other pirates in the Caribbean to do so, but there are a few still sitting on the fence.”
“Such as Woodes Rogers, whom I’m sure you’ve heard of,” said Bartholomew. He came forward to stand beside Will…and pass him a glass of rum with a quick press of fingers. “For various reasons, we’ve no one suitable for approaching him. You, however, are famed for your powers of persuasion.”
Oh, dear God. One tiny little conversation with the king and forever afterward, people thought Tom could work miracles. It was usually a nice reputation to have, but not now. “I’m flattered, really, but I don’t think—”
“And even more fortunate for you, Rogers turns out to be nearby. He’s laying siege to a small Spanish outpost, which we’ll be at in the morning. You’ve got till then to decide.” Then Bartholomew took Will by the arm and they walked out of the room, closely followed by a bemused Jack Sparrow.
Robert Cochrane lingered another moment. He finished his glass of rum, then regarded Tom as might he would a particularly loathsome insect. “It would be in your best interest to help.”
“Because if I don’t, you’ll have a reason to kill me in some very unpleasant way,” Tom sighed. It was always the same reply.
The other man shook his head and put down his glass. “No. Because if you do, I’ll have a reason not to kill you.”
Although Tom prided himself on being too experienced to be frightened of much, he shivered at that. It wouldn’t surprise him to find out that Robert happened to be capable of raising the dead.
The door creaked, and Will’s head popped in. “Rob? What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” And that was a transformation. From chill menace to perfect innocence, touched with a slight nervousness. So that was the chink in Robert’s armor.
Not that Tom was in any position to take advantage of it. Anyway, now that Robert’s eyes were off him, he could think and he could see that presently there really wasn’t much of a choice. “Mr. Turner? I’ve made a decision. Now, I don’t suppose we could include no ropes and a shave, given my ready cooperation?”
* * *
They could include no ropes, which was heavenly where Tom’s hands and feet were concerned. They could also include a rough bath, a shave and being handed over to Elizabeth and a dusky, violence-inclined woman named Anamaria, who in between sneaking surreptitious gropes at each other seemed determined to invent a new torture out of fitting Tom for clothes. One step towards heaven, two limping ones back towards hell.
“Excuse me, ladies. And colonel,” said a voice from the stairs. Bartholomew ducked in, spinning a rather large golden bracelet from one fingers—or perhaps it was a small necklace. He smiled so charmingly at them all that Tom felt the corners of his lips twitching.
Elizabeth actually grinned, while Anamaria hmphed with slightly less nastiness than previously. But, Tom noticed, they weren’t too keen to get near Bartholomew as they went up on deck.
“Are we there?” Tom carelessly asked, keeping his own distance. He took off his coat, which fit him so tightly that he doubted he could breathe with it buttoned, and began to rummage through the pile of discarded finery. There’d been a nice, understated gray one…
“You’ll want the blue,” Bartholomew said. He tugged out that coat and handed it to Tom, who cautiously began to take it.
Bartholomew’s hands, however, weren’t what Tom should have been watching, but his feet. In the blink of an eye, the other man had him pressed against the wall with his hands trapped over his head. There was a knee digging hard into his left thigh, but Bartholomew left his right leg free. Not that Tom was stupid enough to believe that was anything but deliberate. “Pardon me, but won’t Will and Robert be a little offended?”
“What? Oh, now you are quick. I’m beginning to feel better about this.” The smile on Bartholomew’s face showed all his teeth, shark-like. He casually pivoted himself so he could lean on Tom’s shoulder and spin that damned bracelet before Tom’s face. Then he snapped his fingers together, stopping the bracelet so Tom could get a good look at it.
Creepy-looking thing. Obviously pure gold, it had been worked in the Aztec manner so that the ends were of flattened, snarling cat-heads, which were set with lurid ruby eyes. Tom had the feeling it wasn’t meant as a gift. “I swore that I’d do what you wished,” he muttered, forcing himself to relax.
“And I see that you really mean that.” Bartholomew glanced down at the tentative knee Tom was rubbing against his leg, then laughed. He put down his hand and pressed Tom’s leg back— “Not that I’m asking for that, thank you. I’m well-satisfied in that regard” –before yanking down Tom’s trousers.
Reflex made Tom buck and twist, but in his panic he did so in the wrong way and so did not avoid the bite of cold metal against his skin. He bit his lip and willed himself to calm down, to not make it worse till he had better odds. Then he looked down.
Glowering jeweled eyes stared back up at him; Bartholomew had snapped the bracelet around his thigh and was now pulling Tom’s trousers back up, taking care that the jewelry wouldn’t show. “On the other hand, you’re on the ship where we can see you. This should see to it that you’re still of the same mind off the ship.”
“What happens if not?” Tom asked. He was vaguely annoyed to hear a thread of fear in his voice.
“Tom, I used to be a pirate. Now I’m a pirate with a royal mandate. I’m certain you have plenty of experience with those.” Bartholomew let go of Tom and stepped back, leaving Tom to do up his trousers. The other man strolled towards the stairs, then paused with his hand on the rail. In his own way, he exuded an even more dangerous air than Robert had, for he obviously had the patience to postpone vengeance until the right moment. “Try not to mess up.”
Then he went up, while below Tom felt at the bracelet through the fabric of his trousers. He told himself it was his imagination making the jaguar fangs seem to wriggle beneath his touch.
* * *
As it turned out, they didn’t go into the bay. Bartholomew and Robert went off in their own ship while the Pearl proceeded to the very edge of it. There they dropped Tom over the side in a rowboat with instructions about how to get to Rogers’ ship the Duke and, once there, how to get taken aboard without getting shot outright.
“At least I’m already dressed so they won’t have to scramble for burial clothing,” he muttered, tugging at the oars. Danger aside, it was turning out to be a damned uncomfortable adventure. The gold clamped around his thigh was perpetually chilly, no matter how he pressed his legs together, and his wrists and ankles were still raw from the ropes.
By the time he sighted the Duke, blisters were starting to rise on his hands. He gratefully dropped them for a moment to get his bearings: ship, crescent of white sand that was the harbor, and then the squat dank toad of a Spanish fortress on the shore. The light of dawn had already swelled to fill the skies, but there still lingered an unnaturally thick fog about the Duke. And around the fort crackled lightning that was wholly unaccompanied by anything resembling a thunderstorm. Occasionally a bolt would rip over the water to crash into the strangely impenetrable fog.
Well, there certainly were spectacular things happening in the hidden corners of this world. For a moment, Tom wondered how he’d managed to miss them after nearly three months in the Caribbean, but then he realized he hadn’t. He’d merely assumed they were part and parcel of the usual exaggerated nonsense that surrounded any little-explored region.
A shout hailed him. When he looked about, he saw the stern-end of the Duke emerging from the mist, and with it several men aiming a small cannon at him. At the moment, he was slightly out of range, but the attention a cannon-shot would draw was probably a bad idea. A lightning-strike on water would be just as bad as a dead-on cannonball. Tom hailed them back as convincingly as he could, given that he hadn’t really understood half the jargon that Will had had him memorize. But something must have been right, because the next thing he knew, he was being invited aboard.
While he didn’t know much about ships, he had been on enough of them to have a feel for the expected shapes and lines. Rogers’ ship didn’t resemble in whole any style of which Tom knew, so he guessed that, like the Black Pearl, Rogers had extensively customized his vessel. The curves of it certainly boasted a swift muscularity that was entirely absent from either merchant ships or the bulky vessels the Royal Navy used.
“William Dampier, navigator,” introduced the man that had hauled Tom on deck. He was a lean, restless-eyed man who had somehow managed to keep his original pale complexion, though from his accent he’d been long in the Caribbean. “Colonel Blood, correct?”
“That would be me. Though it seems a bit silly to keep using the military rank,” Tom absently replied. Not that Dampier was hard on the eyes, but of more importance was the man striding up the deck. Half-a-head taller than most of the crew, rangy build that seemed all leashed tension, wolf-like dark eyes and what seemed like the shadow of a sneer hanging about the corner of his mouth. Woodes Rogers. “I didn’t realize I was so well-known here.”
Dampier grinned. His humor didn’t reach his eyes. “You aren’t. But we’ve some mutual acquaintances back in England. Did you know there’s been a club formed of all the people you’ve undercut? They offered the position of secretary to me before I left.”
Well, this was going to be a wonderful escapade into the exotic side of the Caribbean. Tom gave up on Dampier and concentrated on not looking as if he didn’t have the faintest clue what he was doing. Which was exceptionally important, because he really didn’t have the faintest clue as to what he was doing. He wasn’t a professional diplomat; he just happened to be better at most of them at accidentally falling into diplomatic situations. Probably why they never found themselves suddenly staring at the tip of a cutlass.
It seemed Woodes didn’t waste any time. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”
“He’s Thomas Blood, captain. Tried to make off with the British crown jewels about two years ago,” said Dampier. The man sauntered wide of them and headed for the bow. Along the way, he took up shouting the crew back to their stations. A good thing, because just as Tom was replying, a particularly large bolt of lightning smashed against the fog—which really was acting quite peculiar—hard enough to rock the ship.
The sword-tip jerked forward and Tom jerked back to fall against a cannon. He started to lean forward again, only to find that Woodes had advanced with the rocking and now had the cutlass nudging quite close to Tom’s throat. “A pleasure to meet such a famed gentleman,” he carefully said. Poking at the sword with his finger didn’t get it away from his throat, or clear up the worrying opacity of Rogers’ eyes, or really do much except sliver his finger. He bit down a curse and sucked it into his mouth. “I would be that Thomas Blood, but I assure you, I’ve rather lost my taste for thievery.”
Rogers tilted his head and something flickered in his face. After a moment, Tom took another lick at his cut finger and he saw the flash again. He also saw Rogers smile, which revealed one silver-edged tooth on the left upper jaw. “That answers who you are.”
It wasn’t a very encouraging smile, even if now Tom thought he had something with which he could work. And in other circumstances, he wouldn’t have minded the challenge because Woodes Rogers was a very handsome man, but currently the weather didn’t seem terribly favorable. “I’m here on peaceable grounds, sir. Captain. Woodes? I’m afraid the sea is not my forte…”
“Woodes will do.” The ship rocked again, and this time that was accompanied by the roaring scream of a cannon firing. Rogers glanced over his shoulder, then lowered his cutlass. He waved towards the cabin door. “For the moment, you may consider yourself a guest. May I offer you a drink?”
“I don’t suppose you’ve got some decent sherry? Or port?” Tom hopefully asked. He edged from the cannon and went around before Rogers, as the other man indicated. A gust of wind snatched at his coat and he began to smooth it down, then thought the better of it and merely flapped his hands at it. He did have an arse worth looking at, and if Rogers’ attention was there then it wouldn’t be wondering how best to slice up Tom’s neck.
There was indeed sherry, and also some exquisite Madeira, which was a lovely break after nothing but piss-poor rum and home-made rotgut. Tom braced himself against the wall of the cabin, which was considerably less ornate than Jack Sparrow’s but no less spacious, and saluted the other man. “My thanks, Woodes. Excellent stuff.”
“You’re welcome.” Though still cool, at least Woodes had unbent enough to take a glass himself. He finished it in one swallow, then returned the glass to its holder. “Now, why does Bart want to see me?”
Tom choked. Pity, because it was very, very good Madeira. He willed himself to swallow the rest, then wiped at his mouth. “Pardon?”
“Please don’t insult my intelligence.” The voice was sleek, quiet menace and the man was damnably quick, crossing the room to crowd Tom against the wall before Tom had fairly finished raising his head. Woodes took the empty glass from Tom, held it up between them, and then tossed it at a table of maps. It splintered on impact, but the slivers embedded themselves in the top map only around the Bahamas. “I know he sent you.”
Then Woodes pushed in so his breath steamed the side of Tom’s face and deliberately sniffed. He started with his nose nearly touching Tom’s collar and then slowly moved his head up to end with his mouth by Tom’s ear. “I can smell him on you.”
The man threw off a remarkable amount of heat, as if he had a furnace within him. It seeped through his clothes to soak into Tom’s, turning the space into a sweltering torment. Tom clamped down on his nerves, kept his hands against the wall, and tried to speak as nicely as he could. “In truth, I am partly his ambassador. But the proposal I’m empowered to make you is not only from him but also from the governor of Jamaica and Captain Jack Sparrow.”
“The one’s a stiff-necked fool and the other would be a genius if he weren’t so addled with rum.” Woodes was still crooning into Tom’s ear, breath steaming a flush to the skin of Tom’s neck. And now his hands were pressing over Tom’s wrists, grinding the bones together and reminding Tom of exactly how raw they still were. Tom winced and Woodes instantly leaned forward to take the soft flesh of Tom’s earlobe between his teeth.
Oh, damn. It’d been forever since anyone had come at him like that, and it’d always been Tom’s secret weak point. Just happened that usually, he didn’t come off as the type who’d like it, so people didn’t bother trying. “Yes, but the Spanish don’t really care whether they kill a genius or an idiot, do they? They’d prefer to see anyone that isn’t one of them dead.”
The other man chuckled, deep and dark in his throat, and for good reason: Tom’s voice was rising like a young girl’s, and despite all his best efforts, his knees were sliding apart for Woodes. With a sudden, devastatingly effective push, they were pressed together from breast to calves. “It’s that one, is it? And Bart doesn’t want to risk talking to me himself, so he sends you? I don’t even rate one of his matelots now?”
“Matelot?” Tom repeated uncomprehendingly. The damn gold wrapped around his thigh had not only warmed up in the past few moments, but was hot enough to be making him squirm. Which of course didn’t—or did, depending on how optimistic he was—help his position with Woodes.
“Never mind that. I think I’ve heard about as much as I need to.” Woodes abruptly released Tom and stepped back, not a hair out of place nor the slightest sign of red in his cheeks. He dusted himself off, as if he’d just finished some onerous chore, before taking Tom by the wrist and dragging him outside. “Circumstances mean that I am amenable to listening to whatever Bart has to offer, but it’ll have to wait. As you can see, I’m in the middle of something.”
Yes, Tom could see that. He could also see that he was frustrated, still a little breathless, and all too aware of the knowing looks being shot around them. God damn it, but even if he was being played as a pawn, it didn’t mean he was a pawn. It was clear he was in this affair too deep to extricate himself, but he damned well wasn’t going to sit back and let himself be pushed around forever. And that bracelet the bastard had put on him was an unpleasant weight on him. He didn’t like being weighed down. “Taking a while for you, isn’t it? I heard you were quicker than this.”
That hit Woodes deep, and wasn’t going to make him any better disposed towards Tom, but at least he was looking at Tom like he saw some brains and not just a message. “I am every bit as quick as you’ve heard, Thomas. But the Spanish have started staffing their forts with people that actually present a challenge.”
“Captain? I think it might not be a person, in point of fact.” Dampier came trotting up from the bow just as a bolt of lightning from the Duke crackled over the water. It didn’t strike home, but it did provoke a flurry of counterbolts. “It’s too regular—if they had someone, they would’ve changed patterns by now. Probably they’ve just got an ojo de gueche set up.”
“Ojo de gueche?” Tom said.
Woodes spared him a cool look. “A great big emerald from Mexico, treated specially so it can carry out a working even while no one’s there to direct it. Franco! Peter! Show Colonel Blood to a spare cabin.” Then back to Dampier. “Well, that still doesn’t help us get closer.”
The two of them were still discussing various ways to get around the fort’s defenses when Tom was forcibly escorted off the deck. He supposed the treatment was still fairly cavalier, given everything, but it only increased his annoyance. Perhaps he wasn’t a seaman, but obviously piracy involved more than that, and he wasn’t completely ignorant, or incapable. He certainly was better than the locks on the window.
“And so stung pride spurs you to greater stupidity,” Tom muttered, crawling awkwardly around the ship. He soon spotted his boat, which hadn’t yet been drawn up—there wasn’t room for it because of all the cannon—and painfully lowered himself into it. Now his fingertips were scraped bloody to match his wrists. “But damn it, I will not be taken for granted.”
* * *
It helped that part of Woodes’ new plan consisted of darkening the sky. Under cover of that and the fog, which had spread to fill the whole harbor, Tom easily made his way ashore. He dragged the boat up and hid it best he could with foliage, then set out for the fort.
Though he didn’t know anything about magic, he assumed that it would be sensible to keep this ojo de gueche near the waterfront. People generally preferred to be able to see things working—it’d be better for morale, and the Spanish always had problems with that.
They also had problems finding decent guards. Tom came across the first near a tiny door in the thick stone walls that opened onto a small pier. The man was taking a piss, so Tom graciously let him finish before snapping a long piece of driftwood into his head. That got him some weapons and a uniform, which wasn’t nearly as becoming as the clothes he had to discard, but at least he didn’t feel so damned manipulated in them. He happened to touch the gold circlet as he did, and it felt a good deal warmer, but not painfully so. Still…“I’m going back, damn it. I’m just going to prove a point first.”
Tom might have been imagining things, but the gold seemed to cool a little. He put that aside and got on with things.
His past failures had taught him a few things about breaking and entering, which he put to good though needless use; it was clear the Spanish had all their trust in their pretty new stone and thus weren’t even bothering to keep watch. A far cry from the dogged, conscientious Englishmen against which Tom usually made mischief. By careful whacking of hard things on heads, he managed to get himself all the way up to the fort’s walls, where as he’d thought, the ojo de gueche was set in what appeared to be a converted gun-carriage. Lightning was flying all around, so Tom dropped to his belly and crawled as quickly as he could towards it, betting that it wasn’t made to shoot lightning at itself.
It really was a “great big emerald,” about as large around as Tom’s eye and a match for any of the crown jewels. If he managed to get that back to England, he probably could live comfortably…for a few months. Tom grinned at himself. He had no illusions about his ability to manage money, and didn’t really care.
Now, the problem was getting the thing out without breaking it. He looked over the settings, then as an experiment, ripped off a piece of the jacket facings and threw it on the emerald. Instant ash.
“Well, then. I see you don’t want to be touched.” Another look round it revealed a small lever. But no matter how Tom stared at it, he couldn’t discern what its purpose might be. For all he knew, it might shock him to death, it might stop the stone, it might alert the Spanish.
On second thought, it seemed that the Spanish had already been alerted. From the doorway onto the walkway came several shouts, quickly followed by the gleam of bayonets.
“Oh, to hell with it.” Tom rattled off what prayers he could remember and snapped the lever. His breath caught in his throat—
--and nothing. Not even any more lightning. He snatched the emerald out of its settings and stuffed it into a pocket, then knocked the chucks out from beneath the gun-carriage’s wheels just as the first soldiers charged him.
While they were preoccupied with not getting run over, Tom made a dash for the other door. He yanked it open and, thankfully, saw that no one had yet gotten there, but there were voices nearby so he crashed down the steps. Inside the fort was a maze of cramped passages that he had not memorized, so he just tried to head vaguely forward, turning whenever the shouting got louder on one side. That worked for a while, but then one group of soldiers burst into the passage ahead of him. Another group was quickly coming up the other end, which left Tom with just the door beside him. He put his shoulder to it and rammed it open.
“God damn it.” Tom had fallen on his knees, and hard so they rang with agonizing pain. He gritted his teeth through it and kicked the door shut, then took stock of his surroundings.
It appeared to be an empty storeroom. There was nothing with which he could jam the broken door, he only had a sword, and if he wasn’t going to get the emerald, then neither were they. He scuffed about till his boot caught on a paving stone; Tom dropped down and hurriedly clawed it up, then wrapped the emerald in a rag and stuffed it beneath the stone. When the door burst open he was on the other side of the room. “You really, really don’t want to shoot me,” he called in his best Castilian.
“We’ll see about that, you bastard Englishman,” snarled the Spanish officer who walked inside. He had an ominous squint and his hand kept dancing over his sword-hilt all the while his soldiers searched first Tom—with very rough hands—and then the room. When it was clear the emerald was nowhere to be found, he produced the nastiest smile of the week. Didn’t care for his teeth very well. “Well, you are right. We won’t shoot you, Englishman.”
“Irish, really, but—gyarh!” Someone stuffed a dirty rag into Tom’s mouth and knotted its ends behind his head. Two other soldiers had his arms, and a further two were yanking the boots off his feet.
The officer turned and barked an order into the hallway, which shortly saw a pair of ankle-stocks dragged into the room. They were two old, dented, massive pieces of wood with rough circles cut into them; as Tom stared in growing dread, the stocks were locked around his ankles.
Then, hands bound behind his back, he was dropped onto the floor and his feet were raised to about waist-level. One of the soldiers handed the officer a small horse-whip, which he then used to tickle the soles of Tom’s feet. “This, in case your heathen nation hasn’t yet felt the scourge of it, is the bastinado,” he said.
And then he swung his arm and the first lash fell across Tom’s feet. Tom’s soles went numb.
Then they exploded into agony.
* * *
After ten lashes, they ungagged him and asked where the ojo de gueche was. By then, the sweat had started to bead on Tom’s brow and he was feeling distinctly lightheaded. He asked them where their mothers had been last week.
The next ten lashes were even more brutal, coming as they did on already lacerated skin. Each blow jolted up Tom’s legs so he jerked, banging hips and head against the floor, and then came back down to end in excruciating pain. At one point he thought he could feel all the bones and tendons outlined in screaming nerves.
He tried to concentrate on freeing his hands, but frankly, he didn’t take pain well. Wasn’t his strong point. Screaming might have made him look contemptible to the Spanish, but to hell with it. Tom wanted to scream and so he did, and it actually did help a little. Anyway, it kept him conscious enough to remember what he’d been doing. God damn it, he was an idiot. Trying to impress a bunch of pirates that probably didn’t even remember his name. And especially Woodes—what had been the point? Rogers had said he’d talk with Bartholomew, so that was Tom’s mission all done. But no, he had to—
--God, that hurt. And he was gasping through a raw throat, and the Spanish officer was bending to yell at him again. Tom mumbled. Nonsense, really, but a moment later the pain had dulled enough for him to realize the officer thought he was saying something important. Reflex prompted Tom to play along, loll his head and moan, and instinct made him keep working at his wrists. Pressed as they were between his body and the floor, he could still feel the ropes begin to give. They were slippery with something, which aided matters.
“You’re faking,” the officer finally said. He spat in Tom’s face, then got up and walked around to look at Tom’s feet. After picking a spot, he raised the whip.
Tom closed his eyes and twisted sideways, hoping that the loosened rope would slash out to strike one of the soldiers flanking him. It didn’t, but the door slammed the officer into the wall. Which was fun to watch after Tom had gotten over his shock.
“You came here?” Woodes said, every inch of him disbelief. Then he had to scramble back into the hallway as the soldiers charged him.
Well, as one of them did. The other tripped when Tom tried a second throw of the rope. He grabbed the man’s arm, beat his head into the floor and then yanked out his sword to cut down the stocks.
That wasn’t quite a brilliant idea, as the thump of them hitting the ground jolted his bloody feet and temporarily paralyzed him. When he came to, he found himself smacking a hand over his face to scrape off spit and sweat, and that son of a whore officer starting to stand. Tom seized the musket from the downed soldier and shot at him, but the damn thing misfired. He disgustedly flung it at the man, who easily beat it aside. “For the love of God—”
“—and country,” Woodes snorted, roaring back in. He beat the officer back with his first sweep, then ripped open the man’s guts with his second. Though the Spaniard wasn’t yet dead, Woodes stopped there to take away the man’s pistols. One of them he tucked into his belt, and the other he used to shoot off the lock of the stocks. “My God, what were you doing?”
“Well, I did bother to act as messenger, but as it looked like I wasn’t even going to get a tip, I thought a short side-trip might be in my best interests.” Tom pulled off the stocks. Then he simply stared for a moment, for it seemed as if all the skin around his ankles had been rubbed off by his struggling. It didn’t look as if he’d be taking any more trips in the near future. At least, not on his own two feet. “Oh, that sounds ridiculous even to me. I came out here because I was bloody tired of depending on what everyone else was doing and didn’t feel like waiting around on your ship while you figured out how to beat the Spanish by your damned self. You can’t. You’ll win a few battles, but they’ll crush you eventually if you don’t learn to accept some help. Gracefully.”
The other man had squatted to look at Tom’s feet. Dampier appeared in the doorway and started to call to Woodes, but then he saw Tom and he was rendered temporarily speechless.
“Collect the men and get them started on loading the ship,” Woodes said in a crisp, thoughtful tone. He pulled a hip-flask from his coat and uncapped it with his teeth, then gently lifted Tom’s right foot from the stocks. “And make sure that emerald’s brought to me.”
“Actually, I’ve got—” Tom started to say. He was interrupted by a brief spell of unconsciousness when Woodes poured something burning and hissing onto his foot and ankle.
When he woke up, Woodes had wrapped that foot nearly halfway up the calf in strips of linen. In the corner, the Spanish officer was beginning to sob while scrabbling at his guts, and next to him, the second soldier had gotten his throat slashed open. “What did you say?” Woodes asked, lifting Tom’s other foot.
Tom sat up and grabbed the other man’s wrist before he could pour. He twisted about so he could pry up the stone and retrieve the emerald, which he flashed at Woodes before stuffing it in his clothing. “I’ve got it. And I think, considering what I’ve suffered, that I deserve some compensation.”
Woodes raised an eyebrow, a faint smile playing about his lips. Then he yanked his hand free and sluiced the stuff over Tom’s foot.
First time burned, second time wary. As soon as the first burning drop touched Tom’s flesh, he threw his arm around Woodes’ neck and jerked the man in for a kiss. Mashed their mouths till he could feel teeth cutting into his lip, but Tom didn’t let up because God damn it, the man had to be pouring acid on his ankle and if he stopped kissing, he was going to pass out again.
He didn’t. Instead, Woodes put down the flask and then took Tom by the hair and showed him exactly what he was provoking. It was fortunate Tom was already sitting down, since it more or less finished his knees.
“You really should not keep that emerald unless you know what you’re doing,” Woodes said, curling his fingers over the back of Tom’s neck. He scratched lightly with his nails and stroked his thumb up the side of Tom’s throat, gently urging Tom to let his eyelids close halfway and his breath to hiss. “And I doubt you’ll be able to climb out any windows till your feet heal.”
“Ah, but they will soon enough. I don’t think you pirates understand exactly who I am.” Was Tom purring? Possibly. He did find Woodes interesting enough to contemplate more than a night, and he did need to learn things that Woodes seemed best placed to show him. And most importantly, he very much wanted a few days where someone wasn’t trying to kill or hurt him in exotic fashions.
Well. Not the kind of kill or hurt that didn’t result in him waking up in a nice fluffy bed the next morning.
Woodes’ mouth curved very slightly, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he moved down to wrap Tom’s left foot. Then he did the same for Tom’s wrists, which were nearly as bloody, and then—Tom tried to pull away, but that hurt and so he had to let Woodes bind his wrists together. “What are you doing?”
“Making sure—” Woodes stood up “—that I do have time—” walked behind Tom, who was acutely aware of how little he could move “—to figure out exactly who you are. Once you find a capable man, holding on to him is usually the intelligent thing to do.”
And up went Tom, grabbed by the waist and thrown over a shoulder. He was embarrassed to hear himself squawk his protest. It didn’t help that Dampier was still in the hallway, laughing, or that Woodes carried him all the way back to the ship like that. Tom had his attacks down to an art, but it seemed he still needed to work on his exits.
* * *
“Stop sulking,” Woodes ordered, coming into the cabin. He tossed something onto the bed.
The bed, on which a freshly-washed and doctored Tom happened to be indeed sulking. He had two good reasons to be: one was strong hemp rope knotted around his wrist bandages, and the other was a second rope likewise tied around his ankle wrappings. That one trailed a few feet of slack before its end tied securely around the bedpost. “Considering my current state, I fail to see what other options are left to me.”
The object Woodes had tossed was a little packet of silk, which when unwrapped proved to hold the emerald. Tom rolled onto his back and held it up to the light, examining it for flaws. There were none.
While he was doing that, Woodes was apparently preparing for bed. He discarded boots and coat, and then various weapons and bits of clothing until he was clad only in loose shirt and trousers. Then he climbed onto the mattress and kneeled beside Tom. “Considering that you nearly were whipped to death by the Spanish, I’d say you’ve more options than you could reasonably expect.”
“Really?” After folding the emerald into his hand, Tom flopped about again and awkwardly drew himself into a sitting position. The ache in his feet momentarily bloomed into a sharp stabbing pain, which distracted him for the moment Woodes needed to pull Tom onto his lap. Knees sprawling, Tom got up his hands between them and held off the other man. He tapped the emerald against Woodes’ mouth, now relaxed from its tight cool line. “Since last night, I’ve been held against my will three times by as many people, manipulated into various unsavory exploits and tortured.”
“And?” If Woodes had ever, or ever did decide to take up thieving, he certainly had the hands for it. They were clever and full of touches, ranging from long hard strokes down Tom’s back to short curving squeezes of his arse to the lightest feathering over the sensitive skin of his nape. And they were constantly moving, arousing a warm tingling here and provoking a gasp there, but never letting Tom catch his breath.
Tom traced Woodes’ mouth with the emerald. He was about to say something clever involving it and Robert Cochrane’s terrifying way of looking at a man, but then Woodes turned his head and nibbled at the tips of Tom’s fingers. He fixed his eye on Tom’s face and slowly drew Tom’s index finger into his mouth, teasingly wrapping his tongue around it and then pressing it hard against the roof of his mouth. Running his teeth over the scraped pad so Tom hissed and found himself rocking closer. Honestly, Tom did that sort of thing enough to be used to it, but in this case he was desperately on the receiving end. “And now I think you’re trying to coerce me.”
One hand ran down Tom’s side to rest its heel at the small of his back and let its fingers drift into the cleft of his buttocks while the other lazily pulled down his trousers. Woodes took his time about that, caressing Tom’s thighs and hips and arse till Tom was fairly panting before he finally let his hand undo the rope around Tom’s ankles. Immediately Tom’s legs decided they were all for it and splayed him over Woodes’ lap. “I am coercing you,” Woodes murmured, nuzzling his way from Tom’s jaw to ear. “And I think you like it.”
“Very probable,” Tom was forced to agree. He wriggled till he’d gotten his arms looped around Woodes’ neck, then tilted his head so that the man’s tongue could keep mapping his ear and cheek. A little lifting, and Woodes’ hands were well on their way between Tom’s legs when the other man suddenly stopped. Stiffened.
Woodes leaned back and looked down at Tom’s leg, finger tracing lightly over the gold encircling it. The side of his mouth lifted in a snarl.
“Oh, right. Bartholomew Roberts put it on and said it’d make sure I actually went and talked to you.” Tom sounded casual. He even managed to make his sliding his prick against Woodes’ belly seem matter-of-fact. But in truth, he was feeling rather vulnerable, what with the feet and the lack of trousers and the silently raging bedmate.
“He would. And it would.” It looked as if Woodes and Roberts must go a long ways back, for at last Woodes sighed the way one would at a misbehaving little brother. Hooked his hand around Tom’s hip and pulled him forward so that that was an extraordinary crushing press of their bodies around Tom’s prick. “Never mind. I have to pay a call on him anyway. Damn him for running off after he dropped you with me…I’ll have to chase him all the way back to Nassau.”
But it clearly was still on Woodes’ mind, what with the increased ferocity with which he applied his mouth and hands to Tom’s body. Very soon, Tom was thoroughly convinced of the advantages of his present position. Back arched, throat under a hot mouth, prick taken well in hand and arse deliciously straining to take Woodes’ cock. He moaned, twisted in his eagerness and got a laugh tickling his throat for his pains. Woodes held him in place, half-full and desperate for the rest of it, while he toyed with Tom’s nipples through Tom’s sweat-soaked shirt. The emerald dropped from Tom’s nerveless fingers as he breathlessly pleaded; Woodes deigned to pull down his trousers enough for his prick to press against Tom’s thigh, but then he dallied, rasping his callused fingers over the thin skin of Tom’s balls. “God, please…let me move…”
“I wonder how long it’s been since you said that to anyone,” Woodes chuckled. He hefted Tom’s buttock, lifting him off so Tom whined, then let go and let Tom squirm the rest of the way down. His hand on Tom’s prick was just as lazy and tormenting, and the new favorite target for his mouth seemed to be the various small bruises and cuts Tom had acquired over the past two nights. “So you still are a thief. A rather good one, except for the end bit.”
Tom clutched at the man, source of frustration and pleasure, and tried to roll his hips in a way that would make Woodes shut up and get on with it. But damn him, Woodes seemed to be a fount of self-control. He let Tom go for a few moments before, just as they seemed to be getting somewhere, grabbing Tom’s hip and forcing him still while his fingers worked Tom’s prick mercilessly but stopped just short of merciful. “Jesus Christ…”
“I could use one. And I could use this.” Woodes shoved himself up into Tom’s body so deeply that Tom swayed, felt himself begin to split. Then, God damn him, he stopped. Kissed lightly at the edges of Tom’s open groaning mouth. “And I’d wager you have other talents I could use.”
“Please…” Tom chased Woodes’ mouth, and when it withdrew beyond reach he tucked his face into Woodes’ shoulder. He couldn’t even feel his feet anymore, for it and everything else had disappeared into a haze of sheer want. Heat. Lust and sweat and fuck. The bastard, what was he waiting for?
At least Woodes was starting to sound a little ragged himself. “So, are you staying?”
“Yes. Yes. Fine, now fuck me,” Tom hissed, wrenching his hips loose and slamming himself down with a last effort.
Thank God, Woodes took over from there and Tom could let himself go in a blinding tangle of Woodes’ tongue in his mouth and Woodes’ prick so deep in him that the pressure squeezed out his own cock in a long, jerking convulsion that left him hanging helplessly from Woodes’ arms. Pliant as melting butter while the other man leisurely fucked him till his insides, already slack, went to jelly and his nerves were so overwrought that Woodes’ come dripping down his thighs made him whimper and writhe. It was a miracle Woodes managed to hold them both up, let alone put down Tom as carefully as he did. Then he flashed a smile that was not at all satisfied and spread Tom’s legs. Climbed up between them to take Tom’s mouth at his pleasure before lying back and delicately licking at the white splatters on Tom’s stomach and legs.
Tom let his head fall back and shivered uncontrollably, unable to do much else but that. He hadn’t even caught his breath. “You’re very persuasive.”
“And you’re very slippery.” Woodes drew a finger through the spit and come on Tom’s thigh, then slowly sucked it off. “Are you staying?”
“Till I can walk at least. After that…” Tom worked up enough energy to grin at the other man “…you’re welcome to take up the matter again and make me.”
Woodes hummed thoughtfully. While his mouth was pressed hard against the highly sensitive skin between Tom’s arsehole and balls. Eyes rolling back into his head, Tom gave up.
***