My Rosamund. My Fiancé’s soon, my wife. Moreover, she was my life, my reason for existence.
I ran my hand through her hair and cursed my other useless arm. It was a special kind of hell on earth to need to touch her, and one had one working hand. I brushed my thumb over her porcelain cheek.
“Where you go, I go from now on. You are the compass I worship.” I said.
Silver glistened in her eyes, and I knew then that I would never understand what I’d done to fall into her orbit. That she chose to allow me was a feat worthy of the history books.
Her lips gave way to a smile that stole all air from my lungs, but even that gave way when she took me into her mouth, finally satisfied with her negotiations. The urge to throw my head back radiated through me with the pleasure of her mouth, but I didn’t want to miss a fucking second of this.
Her head bobbed as she took me deeper, working me with effortless ease. My grip in her hair tightened as my spine tightened, working into a ball of energy that was as chaotic as her mouth. God, she was beautiful and perfection incarnate, the way she used her tongue while her hand gently squeezed my shaft. I was going to lose this battle quicker than I’d have liked.
Like the demon she was, she knew and picked up her pace. A moan broke from my mouth against my will. I shouldn’t let herfinish me off like this. I should make her stop and throw her against the bed, finishing inside her warmth.
Clearly, she could sense my internal battle because she groaned around my cock, sending all thoughts of anything except her mouth from my mind.
“Rosamund,” I begged, pleaded, worshiped.
She moaned once more, and this time she released my shaft in order to take me deeper. She was brilliant, intoxicating. That pulsating pleasure unraveled, and without any more warning, my body gave way to her ministrations. Power erupted along my spine as my cock stretched with release. Everything I gave, Rose swallowed down like she was marooned on an island and I was the first drink of water in a week.
Despite my need to hold her gaze and memorize every second, my vision blurred, as if I were seeing the heavens themselves. I swear I praised her name, but it might have been incoherent ramblings for all I knew.
For just a moment, one tiny sliver of time, I was weightless. Devoid of damage or even purpose.
I was simply hers.
My grip in her hair tightened a fraction as she pulled away, and a rush of something dark ran through me. Fear. Like if she moved even an inch from her, I would lose her again. Did it matter if it was a symptom of obsession if I didn’t care anymore?
Refusing to release my hold on her, I watched as she stood, stepping into me and licking those swollen, perfect lips. There was nothing in the world that compared to her. No siren or mermaid that could even come close to her chaotic beauty. I’d kneel at her feet every damn day just for the chance to look at her.
“When you look at me like that, I feel like I might die,” she confessed.
Stepping into her, I cupped her cheek while she leaned into the touch, sighing contentedly. Her eyelids fluttered before she shut them and breathed in a deep breath, like she was savoring the moment.
“I would follow you into Davy Jones’ locker or hell and drag you back to the living,” I said, voice raspier than normal.
The truth was, this feeling that was breaking through my chest wall was foreign and terrifying. Facing a kraken would have been preferable to this. At least I could fight back, but this pain was a tsunami and all-encompassing. I was helpless against it, against her.
Green eyes like the forests of the north opened, and she was ferocity itself. Steely reserve in the set of her jaw. She was magnificent.
“I know you are ridiculous and think you aren’t capable of love, but you are wrong. You loved Billy. You love your ship and your crew. You want people to think you are cruel and like him, but I see you, Edward, you are good and kind. Whatever you inherited from him was lost beneath what your mother and Billy gave you. I don’t care that you can’t say it back because you refuse to acknowledge who you are— I am not going to stop telling you how I feel. I love you. I love you, and I have done terrible things to be able to tell you that. I would do them all again and more if it meant being able to tell you one more time. You are mine, and even if you never say it back, even if I die without hearing you say—”
“I love you.”
They came out as a rasping whisper barely audible, but they ripped through my chest and demanded to exist in the same world she did. If I allowed it, I could convince myself I was back in Newgate, delirious with dehydration and malnutrition, imagining all of this. As was her nature, Rosamund Bailey would not allow it.
Silver glittered at the bottom of her eyes, and her chest rose with a shaky breath that threatened to break the heart I’d only just grown.
Gripping my hand in hers, she stepped backwards toward the single bed at the center. Once she was seated at the edge, she released me and slowly began undoing the clasp of her cloak. It fell around her like midnight silk. Captivated within the pull of her orbit, I stood transfixed while she slowly undid the buttons of her blouse before pulling it over her head. My hand itched to touch her, but I was hers to command.
Even when my body lurched and rolled with need as she rid herself of the rest of her clothes, I waited. Denied myself the pleasure of her touch. Despite having just come, my cock was hard and eager to be embedded inside her.
I grit my teeth together, forcing down the need to possess her. I loved her wholeheartedly and unequivocally. Maybe I would never banish the dark parts of me that were made of the man I hated, but I would spend the rest of my life striving to be worthy of the sacrifice and love she bestowed upon me. This was the first step. Letting her lead. Letting her dictate how much I took.
“Shirt off, Captain,” she said, voice quivering despite the command.
I did as requested, even though it took longer than it should have, given that the shirt caught on my wooden arm and refused to give way. I pulled and grunted out a curse, hating what I’d become. Most men would have been grateful it was just an arm and not the life that I lost, but I wasn’t most men. I was a sailor. Life at sea was a two-armed sort of job, and where I once would have boasted being strong and capable, I was reduced to fighting with a goddamn shirt.
“Let me,” she ordered.
