The hallway’s cooler, quieter, though my pulse don’t settle. I walk steady, making sure no one’s following. Each door I pass,I expect to hear boots behind me, feel a hand on my shoulder, a voice calling me out.
But none comes.
At last I reach our cabin. Hand on the latch, I glance back once more. Hall’s empty. I slip inside. Alice sits up when I ease through the door, lamplight catching her hair loose around her shoulders.
“Where have you?—”
I shut the door soft, lift a hand to cut her short. “Not now.” My voice comes out low, rougher than I mean, but my chest’s hammering like I ran a mile.
She studies me, cautious. “What happened?”
I cross the cabin, set my hat on the peg, blood running hot. “Nothin’,” I lie. “Just had a drink.”
Her brow furrows. “You’ve had more than one.”
“Don’t start.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to will the tightness out of my chest. “Place was thick with men laughin’, singin’. I weren’t fit for it.”
“Then why go?” she asks.
“Why stay here where I ain’t wanted?”
She don’t flinch, though her hands knot in her skirts.
The ship’s timbers creak, water slaps the hull. Finally, I drag a chair close to the bunk, drop into it heavy, elbows on my knees, head bowed. Her hand rests on my neck, warm and steady. For a breath, it quiets the storm inside me.
I look up at her. She tilts her head, studying me. “You look tired,” she says. Then, after a pause, “Do you mean to wash before bed?”
I drag a hand over my face, shake my head slow. “Ain’t thought on it.”
Her lips curve the faintest bit. “Then let me think on it for you.” She rises, moves toward the basin. She freshens the cloth,wrings it, then turns back to me. “You’ll need to take that off,” she says, nodding at my shirt.
I grunt, but I don’t argue. Fingers work at the buttons, my hands clumsy with whiskey and nerves. She steps close, brushing mine aside, finishing the job herself. Each button slips free under her touch till the shirt hangs loose, sliding off my shoulders. She lays it over the chair back, neat as can be.
She works the cloth slow over my neck and ears, gentle like she’s tending to a pup or something precious. It’d make me sick if it didn’t feel so fine.
“Always fussin’,” I mutter. Though my voice is rough, ain’t no bite in it. She works down across my chest, over the scars and dirt, rinsing and wringing, coming back again. Each pass slower than it needs to be, her breath soft.
By the time she drags the cloth low over my torso, lingering at the waist of my trousers, she asks gently, “Do you want me to stop?”
Hell. I couldn’t say yes if my soul depended on it.
I lean back in the chair, chest heaving. “Go on, then.”
She works the button loose, then the next, drawing the fabric open with careful fingers. The trousers slide down enough for her to reach me proper. She takes up the rag again, freshens it in the basin, and kneels at my side. Starts washing me low, thighs first, then hips. Then she slides higher, to the root of me, wrapping me gently in that warm cloth like it’s part of her duty.
I’m already standing hard. Every pass lingers longer than it ought, the rag stroking up and down my length, soap and water slick between us. She keeps her head down like she’s intent on the work, but her hand’s steady, and it ain’t no mistake what she’s doing.
A broken groan rumbles out of me. I settle back in the chair, jaw tight, fighting to breathe as she strokes me. She pauses only to rinse the rag, wringing it clean, then wipes me careful,clearing away the suds. No hurry in her, no shame neither, just that calm, dutiful touch.
And then the rag slips from her fingers, falling back in the basin with a splash. She stays kneeling, both hands on me now. Her eyes lift at last, steady on mine, and before I can draw breath, her mouth closes over me.
Warmth seizes me the instant her lips close over the head, tongue circling like she means to taste every bit. My whole body jerks, a curse torn out low. “Christ.”
She takes me slow, careful, sinking inch by inch, her lips stretched tight around me, every nerve burning. The room narrows, and there's only the wet pull of her mouth, the way her tongue presses against the underside.
I grip the chair arms hard, fighting the urge to seize her hair and drive myself deep. My hips twitch anyway, but she don’t flinch, just hums low in her throat, and the vibration near makes me whimper.
Her hands keep working what her mouth can’t take, stroking the rest of me steady and firm. She pulls back, breathing soft through her nose, then sinks down again, taking more this time, her throat tight and hot round me.
