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As much as I might like to watch naked-to-the-waist-Will rowing a boat in the moonlight, this is merely a figment of my imagination, one which you may feel free to borrow. I make no profit beyond your satisfaction and mine.
The Mocking Moon
Moonlight washed over an expanse of smooth olive skin, straining over sleek masses of muscle. Rich, tangled curls tumbled free, escaping the loose ribbon that no longer held them at the nape of a long neck shimmering with sweat. With every pull on the oars, the muscles contracted and stretched in ripples that were infinitely tantalizing.
Captain Jack Sparrow reclined in the prow of the small boat, basking in the view.
It had, of course, been a complete and utter accident when he’d stumbled and dumped an entire tankard of ale down the shirt and vest of young Will Turner.
And he, Captain Jack Sparrow, had only had his young comrade’s best interests at heart when he’d suggested the lad wash out the offending articles in a trough of fresh water, so as to avoid them becoming excessively stiff from the salt of the ocean.
And he’d only exaggerated his own drunkenness by the tiniest bit, so that he could enjoy sprawling awkwardly, yet delightedly, in the front of the little boat while his younger and more sober companion rowed them back to the Interceptor in the moonlight. Half-naked.
Absolutely riveting.
Latissimus dorsi stretched when he leaned forward, pushing the handles in front of him until his triceps bulged. Trapezoids swelled as he began to pull back, tendons standing out along the graceful line of his neck as the oars dragged through the water. Deltoids shifted under the gleaming skin of his shoulders. Biceps popped out when he gave that final yank on the oars before lifting them out of the water to begin the captivating dance all over again.
The names of those heaving, sweating muscles floated to the front of Jack’s mind from some dark hidden corner, some barely-recalled anatomy class. Art - that was it. Art classes intended to shape him into a well-rounded, sophisticated individual. Bah, that was too far in the past to think about. The present was what mattered.
And the present was far more appealing than mere anatomy.
Now Bootstrap, on the other hand, had not had such a perfect unmarred back. A long, jagged scar – so old it glimmered silver in the moonlight – had extended from the right shoulder, across his tanned back, curving down gracefully, stopping just above a particular bit of skin that happened to be Bootstrap’s most sensitive spot.
That made him awfully vulnerable to attack, having such a sensitive spot in so accessible a location. Jack had only to drag his tongue roughly over that spot, hovering over Bootstrap’s kidneys, and little nip, a small suck, and the man would be putty in his hands.
And when Bootstrap was putty, Jack was in bliss.
Jack inhaled deeply, trying to catch the scent of the man before him. Sweat, yes, but a familiar spice as well. Not even a hint of the earthy ale scent his father had carried, of course. Will refused to touch the stuff. But the spice was there. Nutmeg. And a hint of vanilla. He fancied the boy would taste like a somewhat salty custard. Jack’s favourite dessert, by coincidence. A lovely, smooth rich custard.
One oar skipped over the surface of the water and Will let out a mild curse, which made Jack chuckle. The lad was even virginal in his language.
Oh, yes, virginal. Jack had never in his life seen eyes so wide and so terrified as when that strumpet reached between his legs to handle the goods. Couldn’t really blame the wench for grabbing. After all the scum and wretched dogs that usually frequented that tavern, Master Turner was a prize indeed.
But he was Jack’s prize. Jack had pushed the strumpet away roughly with a growl, and Will had looked at Jack with something akin to gratitude on his face. Excellent.
After the ale-spilling incident, as Will stood at the trough shirtless and angry, the gratitude was gone but Jack didn’t care. It was worth a dash of wrath to have the lad shirtless in front of him. Smooth and hairless but for that teasing line of dark hair in the middle of his belly. Treasure line, indeed.
When the moon struck in a certain way, Jack could see that Will was not as flawless as he’d first appeared. Sprinkled across his broad shoulders were faint marks, small scars that would fade entirely in time. Ah, but they would be replaced by others. They were burns from flying ash, wayward sparks. There was a reason young Will had such a strong frame, a purpose to those forearms bulging in such a provocative manner.
This was no pirate, half-naked in front of him. This was a blacksmith, who was no doubt planning to return to his bellows and anvil when this adventure was done. In that case, it behooved Captain Jack Sparrow to ensure this adventure was one Will would never want to leave behind.
Jack felt, before he saw, the Interceptor looming behind him. Damn, at the ship already. You see, all that remembering and pondering was fine, but it distracted from reality. And reality was that they had arrived at the ship and he no longer had the spectacle of bare flesh in front of him. Damn!
It was a bit awkward, climbing up the rope to the deck, what with his ragingly hard cock and all. Jack clamoured onto the deck after Will, pausing only to enjoy the sight of that perfect ass straining against trousers as Will climbed over the railing.
Will stood in the middle of the deck, wet shirt and vest in hand, wondering what to do next.
Jack lurched his way to Will’s side and took the sodden clothes from his hands.
“Look, I’ll just hang these up here, and they’ll be dry by morning, eh?” Jack slung the clothes over a beam.
Will didn’t move, just nodded. Jack saw him shiver faintly in the breeze.
“Cold, are ye, lad?” Jack stood in front of Will and placed his hands carefully on each of Will’s shoulders.
There were slight goose bumps on the sleek skin. The sweat from his toil evaporating in the night air made Will’s flesh cool to the touch, but the heat from the work he’d just done lurked beneath the surface. The golden, smooth, sleek surface.
Jack dared to tighten his tanned fingers ever so much and slide his hands down over taut muscles. His eyes drifted down to take in the lovely chest, and two perfect brown nipples puckered and hardened in the coolness of the night. Delicious.
He let his thumbs skate over the soft, sensitive skin on the inside of Will’s elbows.
Will shivered, more noticeably this time. Jack looked up sharply to catch those swirling chocolate depths narrowing. Sweet lips parted softly, and Will drew in his breath audibly.
Still terrified, but beginning to understand. Not ready yet, though. There would be another, even more opportune moment. No use in scaring the boy away, Jack thought. He wanted what he wanted to be given willingly. A little seduction was called for.
He smoothed his hands back up the shivering arms, lifted them to Will’s face, and looked deeply into wide eyes.
More delicate than his father. The visual resemblance was remarkable, now that he was looking for it so avidly, but the cheekbones were sharper, the jaw a touch more angular. Jack let his fingers slide carefully over the refined curves of temple, cheek and chin. Will shuddered when a ragged nail edge skimmed down his throat, passing over his Adam’s apple at the exact moment he swallowed hard.
Then he jumped back.
Inevitable. Stubborn. But not to worry. Some men have to be broken slowly, gently.
Jack assured the lad he would keep watch himself. “Go down below, find yerself a blanket and warm up, eh. You’ll need your strength in the morning when we go fetch our crew, so in the meantime rest. Dream of your sweet, bonny lass.” He patted Will’s shoulder in the manliest fashion he could muster and watched him disappear below deck.
From where in hell had this gentlemanly conduct appeared? Jack had certainly not been reserved or chivalrous with Bootstrap. Then again, he’d only had to steal that first kiss and then, bang, they were tumbling in the straw, clothes ripped off, mouths seeking hungrily, loins fit to burst. Jack felt a bit lost.
He snatched up the damp shirt and held it to his face. The rough linen caressed his skin as Jack breathed in.
Fresh water, from the trough.
A hint of sweat and the sea, of course. The boy had been working, fighting the pirate invaders of Port Royal, then breaking him out of jail, walking on the bottom of the ocean, commandeering a ship of the royal fleet – all arduous work. Then sailing here, in the sun, fresh sea breeze and salt spray cleansing Will of the stink of respectable town life.
The spilled ale was still there, faint but teasing Jack. Taunting him about having to resort to such childish tactics to get a mere glimpse of his heart’s desire.
And underneath it all, yes, there it was. Nutmeg. Vanilla.
Essence of young Will Turner.
Jack tossed his body onto a pile of empty sacks on the deck and stared up at the mocking moon. It mocked him because it had shown him so very much tonight, ridiculed his newfound inability to pursue his desires.
He assured himself that he was not paralyzed by any sense of decency or decorum. That was unthinkable. It wasn’t chivalry that stayed his hand; it was greed. That’s all. He didn’t want to have to take. He wanted it offered to him. He wanted Will to want it as badly as Jack did.
Jack slid his hand into his trousers and took his aching cock in hand. So hard he was aching. Just a few flicks of the wrist, then he closed his eyes to picture Bootstrap lying next to him, cheeks flushed with desire, eyes black with need. “William,” Jack whispered greedily. “Please…”
Bootstrap smiled and bent to take Jack in his mouth. The heat, the swirling tongue and the suction. Jack arched back on the deck of the Interceptor and let out a low groan as his hand filled with his seed. Now he would lift his fist to his mouth, lick off the salty cream, and open his mouth so that his lover could drink it from his lips.
Soon, Jack thought. Soon.
Next: Chapter 5 Claustrophobia
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