The ship groaned under the weight of the sudden gale, its timbers creaking like a beast disturbed from sleep. Somewhere in the pitch-black, tankards clattered to the floor and boots shuffled in confusion.
Peter didn't move. His gaze stayed fixed ahead, unblinking, as if the darkness hadn't swallowed him whole but delivered him exactly where he wanted to be.
Then—her voice. Soft. Warm. Inside his ear without crossing the space between them.
A faint scrape of wood against wood, and she was there—sitting on the table before him, legs parted in a slow, deliberate invitation. Her head tilted forward until her cheek rested against the tabletop, a low, languid moan slipping into the darkness like honey.
Somewhere to their right, a hand groped blindly in the dark—landing on the soft swell of her breast.
"Hey, Captain," a crewman's voice grumbled, puzzled and oblivious, "our buns feel so squishy-soft… but I can't pick 'em up. It's like they're stuck to the table."
There was a pause—then a laugh—then the scrape of more boots on the planks as others stumbled closer.
"Oi, pass some this way!" one called out.
"Don't hog 'em, mate!" another barked, both hands joining the search in eager exploration.
In the dark, many hands unknowingly enjoyed the squeezing of those soft buns—passing them from one greedy grip to the next—each man convinced he'd found the warm bread from supper. The truth, however, was far more distracting.
Soon, the mischief turned into a contest. Each challenged the other to bite off that warm bun with the strange, chewy "raisin" on top. One overeager crewman leaned in, took the dare, and clamped down with his teeth—only to find the bun impossibly soft and the "raisin" far too warm to belong on any loaf. His muffled grunt of confusion sparked roaring laughter from the others, none the wiser.
Peter paid them no heed. His focus remained fixed on the oyster before him, savoring it as if the rest of the world had vanished.
She moaned loudly at the biting, squeezing, and—of course—serving the oyster between her thighs. Before the candles could flare back to life, she rose, shrugging off the cold, hard clenches on her breasts, and settled herself on Peter's lap.
Then, in a sudden flash, the candles blazed for a heartbeat. The crew caught sight of Peter, his mouth glistening—sticky and wet—but asked no questions. Instead, they scrambled to find those warm buns they'd so thoroughly enjoyed in the dark. To their disappointment, the buns weren't on the table at all… they were dangling in Peter's lap, his fingers brushing the curve of her hip, the heat of her skin stealing the breath from his lungs..
"No one can see me, My lord… only you," she purred, tracing her fingers lazily along the edge of the table. "That means the game is ours alone."
By the time the flames flickered out again, she got up and circled him slowly, hips brushing against his shoulder as she leaned in, her hair spilling like silk over his arm. "Tell me… would you rather eat, or taste something sweeter?"
He smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Tonight I'm in the mood only for oysters." His eyes dropped, deliberate, to where her body arched toward him. "One in particular."
Her lips curved into a wicked smile. "Then claim it before the tide changes."
"Come, my lord," she whispered, "I have a feast prepared that only you can touch."
And in the blackness, she led him toward the narrow stairs below deck.
The steps creaked under their weight, but no one turned. To the crew, Peter was descending the stairs alone, muttering to himself like a man halfway drunk.
But in reality, " His cutlass was in her grasp—warm, hard beneath her fingers, yet strangely soft at the edges.
Below deck, the smell of damp wood and salt surrounded them. Lantern light swayed with the ship's motion, shadows slipping along the walls like restless spirits.
She pushed him against a stack of barrels, pressing close enough for him to feel the heat of her body. "Here," she breathed, her voice a slow, honeyed trickle into his ear, "we have no captain, no crew, no rules."
Her fingers traced his jaw, sliding down his neck, her nails grazing his skin like whispers.
He caught her wrist before she could pull away, turning her into the barrels. "Danger's the only thing worth tasting," he murmured, his lips inches from hers.
She tilted her head back, lips parting, eyes glinting. "Then taste…"
The ship groaned as a wave struck the hull, making her stumble into him. Her bare skin met his chest, and the warmth of her body sent a sharp heat through him.
His cutlass was in her grasp—warm, hard beneath her fingers, yet strangely soft at the edges. Her hand moved with deliberate strokes, coaxing the steel as though it might surrender its power. When it finally did, a burst of heat marked her skin, and she let it trail down from her waist toward the treasure she guarded, teasing as if offering it to the sea's deepest secrets.
"Do you feel it, my lord? The danger of wanting me in the middle of my enemy's ship?" Her laughter was low and teasing as she let the tips of her hair brush his chest.
Before his lips could claim hers, she slipped from his grip with a playful twirl, the faintest shimmer of magic trailing behind her.
"Too easy, my lord," she purred, her voice seeming to come from everywhere at once.
Peter spun, catching a flicker of her form at the far end of the narrow passage. She was leaning against the doorframe of the storeroom, bare as moonlight, one hand lazily tracing her own hip.
"If you want me… come and take me."
He stepped toward her, and she vanished into the room. He followed, the scent of her wrapping around him like a lure, the dim lamplight catching the curve of her shoulder just before she slipped behind a stack of crates.
Every time he closed in, she darted just out of reach—brushing against him, letting her lips almost touch his, whispering wicked promises in his ear, then retreating again.
They moved like this through the storeroom, into the food hall, past barrels of rum and sacks of sugar, her laughter echoing soft and dangerous.
Finally, she stopped in front of a long table, leaning over it, arching her back just enough to make his pulse kick.
"No captain. No crew. Just you… and your oyster." She glanced over her shoulder with a wicked smile. "Still hungry?"