I stare after her for a moment, my heart racing with adrenaline and disbelief. Holy hell, what have I gotten myself into? I've barely been on this ship for a day, and I've already made an enemy with the resident pirate prostitute.
I glance down at the clothes in my hands, wrinkling my nose at their musty odor.
I'm pretty sure these things are practically marinated in pirate jizz. Just hand me a black light, and I'll make my case with glowing, unsavory proof.
But beggars can't be choosers, and right now, I'm definitely in the begging category.
With a heavy sigh, I peel off my salt-crusted leathers and wipe myself off the best I can. I can already feel a scratchy rash taking hold on parts that shall not be named. I go to put on my new outfit, and isn't that just freaking great—it's an exact copycat of Izabelle the Pirate Whore's getup.
I start with the off-the-shoulder blouse, made of flowy white fabric that feels surprisingly soft against my skin. As I pull it on, I realize that the neckline is so low that it's practically an invitation for my girls to break free. The only thing keeping them tucked in is a simple tie in the front.
Next up is the tight leather corset, which looks like it was designed by someone who has a serious grudge against the female respiratory system. I struggle to get it on, cursing as I try to figure out how the hell I'm supposed to lace this thing up without dislocating a shoulder.
After what feels like an eternity of tugging, pulling, and some creative contortionism, I finally manage to get the corset on and sinched. And holy mother of cleavage, my rack is nearly spilling out—like I'm trying to smuggle a pair of cantaloupes onto the ship!
I'm not exactly lacking in the chest department—I've always been blessed with a decent set of sweater puppies that could stop traffic. But this corset is taking my already ample assets to a whole new level of 'in-your-face!'
I wriggle into the high-waisted leather pants, which are very comfortable, and damn, do they make my ass look good.
I can't help but think that no matter where I go, I always find myself in outfits that belong on the more risqué side of the tracks. It's like the universe conspires to ensure I'm always one wardrobe malfunction away from a full-blown scandal.
I slip on the thigh-high boots and fasten the silver-studded belt around my waist, finishing my new ensemble. As I slide my daggers into the belt on each side, I glimpse myself in the mirror and nearly do a double-take. Holy mother of all things scandalous, I look like I'm about to star in"Pirates of the Caribbean: After Dark Edition"!
I gape at my reflection, my eyes wide with shock and amusement.
I can just imagine the field day Izabelle and the rest of the crew will have with this. I can practically hear the lewd comments and wolf whistles already. Just what I need—a bunch of horny pirates leering at me like I'm the catch of the day.
I let out an exasperated groan. I mean, really? These are my options? It's like choosing between the lesser of three fashion evils.
On one hand, I could rock this absurd getup and risk looking like a reject from a low-budget pirate porn. On the other, I could stick with my crusty, salt-encrusted leathers and spend the day itching and scratching like a flea-ridden dog. Or, I could say, "screw it," and go au naturel, giving these horny pirates an eyeful they'll never forget.
I snort at the thought, shaking my head. As tempting as it might be to scandalize the crew with my birthday suit, I'd rather not put on an impromptu strip show. I've got standards, even if they are buried beneath layers of snark and sarcasm—not to mention, Rhyland would have my ass bent over the first rum barrel, punishing me for even considering it.
I try to comb out the knots in my salt-crusted hair the best I can with my fingers, and it's like snagging a fishing lure. I give up and try to fluff it up over the girls the best I can, hoping that the whole "just rolled out of the sea" look is in style on this floating fashion disaster.
Just as I'm coming out from behind the changing wall, in walks Captain Sterling, and I'm already bracing myself for his inevitable "appreciation of the female form" in this damn costume.
But before I can even open my mouth to deliver a preemptive snark attack, my eyes land onRhylandandErik, who are coming in behind the Captain. And just like that, all thoughts of witty comebacks fly right out of my head.
I don't hesitate. I launch myself atRhylandlike a heat-seeking missile, throwing my arms around his neck and clinging to him like a koala on a eucalyptus tree. I burymy face in his neck, inhaling his scent like it's the sweetest perfume, and I swear I could stay like this forever.
"Rhyland," I breathe against his neck.
Rhyland's arms come around me, holding me tight, and I feel like I can finally breathe again. He's here. He's real. And for a moment, everything else fades away—the ship, the pirates, my ridiculous outfit. It's just me and him, and nothing else matters.
I pull back just enough to look up at him, my eyes searching his face for any sign of injury or distress. "Are you okay? Did they hurt you? I swear, if anyone laid a finger on you, I'll—"
Rhylandcuts me off with a chuckle, his hand coming up to cup my cheek. "I'm fine,baby. I promise. I'm just so fucking glad you're safe and that I can hold you in my arms again."
I lean into his touch, my eyes fluttering closed momentarily as I savor the feeling of his skin against mine. It's like a balm to my frayed nerves, a reminder that we're together despite everything we've been through.
"I was worried after we entered here; you weren't moving, and..." I trail off, the words sticking in my throat as the memory ofRhyland's lifeless form flashes through my mind.
Rhylandquickly settles my nerves, his voice low and reassuring, with a hint of his usual alpha male swagger. "I'm fine, sweetheart. Just zapped of everything."
I nod. I know the feeling.
I quickly kiss Rhyland, needing to feel his lips on mine—but with an audience watching, a full-on make-out session will have to wait.
